Chase The Wild Pigeons

by John J. Gschwend

  Lillie ran to Zeke. “Oh, Zeke, I thought you were dead.”

  Zuey helped Peter and Fanny to the house. Good, Joe thought, they will be all right.

  “Marse, why them Yankees kill my Floy?” Seth put his fists to his eyes. “Why they do that?”

  “Seth, you hush now,” Lillie said. “The lead is just below the skin. I shall get it out.”

  “Why she ain’t talking to me?” Seth said, pouting.

  “Shut up, you foolish old man,” Floy whispered, and slowly opened her eyes.”

  Lillie called to Stepto, “Get Ben to help you, and you carry Aunt Floy to her bed. Come on now, and do be gentle.”

  The two young men gently picked her off the ground. They groaned under the weight. Seth followed them into the cabin like a worried bitch dog.

  Zeke picked Floy’s hickory stick from the ground. There was a bullet hole blasted in the side of it. “I reckon this slowed the ball just enough.”

  Lillie wrapped her arms around Zeke. “I thought they had killed you.”

  “No, but they killed the mare, shot in the head.

  Washington ran to Zeke. “Marse, they done got the stuff!”

  They all went to the springhouse. The hole had been discovered. Hay was scattered everywhere, and a few pieces of silverware were left scattered, along with a few other precious items where the Yankees had dropped them.

  “Damn this war!” Zeke said. “Damn it all.” He kicked at the hay and hit the springhouse with his fist.

  Fanny approached. She appeared lost as she picked up a small picture frame and wiped the dirt from it. She said nothing as she turned and went to the house.

  Joe felt a rage growing. It grew like fire being rushed with a bellows. He went back around the springhouse. The barn was almost down. The Negro women were crying. Their cabins had been robbed of the few possessions, and two cabins were set afire, but at least they had been saved. Joe stood as close to the barn as the heat would allow. The rage inside him grew hotter as the last wall caved in. Yankees had done this and for what? Was Fanny a Rebel? Was Uncle Zeke a Confederate? Was Aunt Floy a Secessionist? Joe pulled the kepi from his head and chucked it into the fire. He pulled his shirttail over the revolver. He didn’t want the family to see it and take it—may need it again.

  Chapter 1 3

  Pink and red-painted clouds covered the setting sun when Peter led the last milk cow to the barn. The new barn wasn’t much, just rough lumber and scraps, but it would do until a better one could be built; little hay was left to put in it anyway. Peter was proud of it even if it was shoddy—he had helped build it.

  He closed the door to the barn, thought about the day the Yankees came. He would always remember it, had to keep from hating them. He bowed his head and turned to the Lord once again. Be ye angry, and sin not: let not the sun go down upon your wrath: Neither give place to the devil.

  Peter still could not understand the Yankees. They were supposed to be fighting against slavery. Yet, they were no different from the Rebels. What difference did it make the color of the uniforms if they burned the citizens’s barns and even shot them? At least, Forrest had run them back to Memphis.

  Fanny sat on the porch swing with her baby, looked blankly across the fields; her black dress dusted the floor as she swung. She didn’t talk much anymore, and she smiled less. Poor girl, Peter thought. This war commanded a high price from many people—too many. He knew too well how Fanny felt. Time would ease the pain—time is magic that way, but the war goes on, and new pains can come, and they do come, over and over and over. Peter prayed God would ease Fanny’s suffering through this difficult time.

  The door to Floy’s cabin opened, and Joe stepped outside gnawing on a biscuit. Floy patted Joe on the top of his head and smiled. Then she saw Peter looking and quickly scowled at Joe. “Now you get outta here, Massuh Joe,” she said as she shoved him. “I ain’t got no time to be a fooling with the likes of you.” She reached inside, grabbed the hickory stick, and waved it in the air. Peter saw the bullet hole in it. She looked around to show she was still boss of the cabin, then went back in and slammed the door.

  “Want a bite?” Joe asked, molasses running down his chin.

  “No thank you. Floy would hit me with that stick if I ate part of your biscuit.”

  Joe turned back toward the closed door and smiled.

  “I’m sure happy that bullet didn’t do much harm,” Peter said.

  Joe stuffed the rest of the biscuit in his mouth. With his cheeks swelled like a chipmunk, he sputtered, “Me, too.”

  Charlie called to Peter. Charlie was sitting in his favorite spot under the big shade tree. Peter reckoned it didn’t matter to him if it cast a shade or not, certainly no shade in March.

  Peter sat in the chair across from him. “Yes, sir, can I do something for you?”

  “I was just sitting here thinking before I went into the house.” Charlie lit a cigar. “This here warm weather done got me to thinking about springtime, and that done got me to thinking about catfish.” Charlie rubbed his round belly. “Wouldn’t some catfish be first rate?”

  “Yes sir, that would be fine, indeed.”

  “Reckon you and the boy can go fetch us some from the river in the morning?”

  “I’m not that good at fishing, Uncle Charlie.”

  Charlie waved that off with his fat hand. Blowing smoke, he said, “Hog wash, boy. Anybody can catch a catfish, I’ll be bound. Just put something rotten on a hook and they’ll bite it. Joseph will show you how it’s done.”

  “Mr. Taylor says we have to get things done around here before plowing—”

  “Plowing can wait, mind you. There ain’t nothing more important that I know on than catching us a mess of catfish tomorrow. My people can tend to the work.”

  Peter didn’t want to upset Charlie, but Zeke would be angry if he didn’t work tomorrow. Peter sat there quietly for a time. He was between a rock and a hard place.

  Charlie saw his dilemma. “Oh bother, boy, I’ll talk to Zeke tonight. Now that settles the hash. You two shall get after them fish tomorrow.”

  ***

  Peter ate supper at the kitchen table with Zuey, watched as she chewed food and gave it to her baby. He felt so relaxed and comfortable.

  Zuey looked at him. “You best eat your food before it get cold.”

  “Who’s his father?” Peter was more surprised than Zuey at the question, but since it was out, he let it stand.

  Zuey looked at him as if he had pulled a gun.

  He would not take it back. He didn’t want to pry, but for some reason he didn’t understand, he wanted to know. But didn’t he already know?

  She looked down at the table. “It was a white man,” she whispered.

  Peter wanted to comfort her. He wanted to say he was sorry for even asking. After all, was it any of his business? He said nothing.

  “He was a hired man on the place,” she continued. “Marse thought a heap on ‘em.” She smashed a pea and put it in the little boy’s birdlike mouth. “He was like part of the family. He stay in the room you is now staying in. He all the time doing little things for me. A kind man—bout twenty-five I reckon. I believed he was purty. He say I was, too.” She pushed the food aside and rocked the baby. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve.

  Peter felt a hurt growing. It pulled at his heart and his soul. “Did you love him?” After he asked it, he realized he didn’t know if he could handle the answer.

  Her eyes met his. “I believed I did at the time.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Things went too far.” She looked down at the baby, then back to Peter. “When I got with child, Marse and Mistus was so upset. Oh my, it hurt now so much to remember. They got us together in the parlor and asked him what his intentions was. He say he fond of me, but that was all. Marse pitched all hell. He put the man in the road right then and there. Then Marse say he ought to sell me off and be rid of me. But Massuh Charlie say he would not sell none of his peoples f
or no reason. I knowed Marse was just upset and did not mean it.” She looked down at the baby again. “I reckon you can see for yourself the rest.”

  “I reckon I can.”

  She kissed her baby. “Lawd knows I wish it ain’t happen, but I loves my baby.”

  Peter caressed her arm. “And you are a very good mother.” Then he surprised himself. “I love you, Zuey.” It felt good to say it, like a dam had been breached and a flood finally released.

  Tears came so fast Zuey didn’t bother to wipe them. She sniffed. “You is good Peter. You is the best man I know.”

  She called him a man. He was only seventeen, but she called him a man. He was proud, and coming from her, it was capital. But slowly the pride faded like snow on warm ground. He realized she had not said she loved him, too.

  ***

  Fog floated on the lazy river like a blanket of smoke. “Why did we have to be here so early,” Peter asked. “It’s not even good daylight, yet.”

  Joe leaned his pole against a tree. “Is too.”

  Two wood ducks zipped above the foggy water and flared when they saw the two boys on the riverbank. They squealed their eerie call as they disappeared through the trees.

  “See that?” Joe said.

  Before Peter could answer, a wild turkey gobbled down the river, echoing through the woods like a yodeler.

  Peter turned to Joe and smiled. This is a perfect morning, Joe thought. The air is cool and crisp, and the animals are active—maybe the fish, too.

  A big swirl broke the surface of the river, leaving wave rings that grew like a bull’s eye.

  The river wasn’t wide—Joe could easily chuck a rock across it and wade it most places, but there were fish in it sure enough.

  He didn’t know why Peter wanted to go fishing—just wasn’t like Peter. Peter didn’t even know what to use for bait, but Joe took care of that. Aunt Floy had given him scrap meat and chicken guts. Peter knew nothing about catfish, but Joe knew plenty. Peter had said Uncle Zeke gave them permission to stay as long as they wanted, said he didn’t care what they did. He had been acting strange lately.

  Joe crammed a piece of meat on his hook and found a stump by the river’s edge, a ready-made seat. He plopped his line into the water, knew any minute a big ole catfish would be tugging. He looked around and saw Peter trying to put chicken guts on his hook. He had his nose curled, holding the hook and guts at arm’s length.

  “Nation, Peter, just joog the hook in it.”

  Peter finally attached the guts. “Nothing to it.” He went to the riverbank and flung the line toward the water. The guts fell off before the line hit the water.

  Joe laughed. “You’re wasting all the guts.”

  Joe felt a tug on his line. He snatched the pole. The fish was strong, wouldn’t come up. “I got a big one—I got a big one!”

  Peter dropped his own pole and ran to Joe. “Pull it out!”

  “It’s too big. It must weigh a hundred pounds.”

  Peter grabbed the pole with Joe, and they tugged together. Finally, a head grew out of the water.

  “Pshaw, it’s just a big ole loggerhead turtle.”

  “We can have turtle soup,” Peter said.

  “Nation, I didn’t think of that.”

  Peter could always make chicken soup outta chicken shit.

  They pulled and fought with the turtle for what seemed like hours to Joe—though it was only minutes—before they finally got it close to the bank. The big snapper dug its claws into the mud and would come no closer. It roared a loud hiss; startled both boys. Joe laughed.

  “Hold the pole, Peter.” Joe let go and jerked the tomahawk from his belt. He attacked the turtle’s head, and in short order and a few whacks, the struggle was over.

  “That is one huge turtle,” Peter said, laying the pole down. “He pulled like so many mules.”

  “I’d say so,” Joe said as he washed the tomahawk in the river. “He’s big as a tub.”

  They dragged the big turtle up the bank, then went back to the fishing poles. Soon Peter got the hang of baiting the hook, and both boys managed to catch a few catfish. They tied them on a long line and agreed they would head home with their catch when the line was full.

  “Hey, Joe, come here.” Pointing, Peter asked, “What is that large fish floating just under the water?”

  Joe set his pole down and went to investigate. “That’s a big ole gar.” More floated just under the surface like submerged logs. “I’m going to make me a spear and stick me a couple of ‘em.”

  Joe found a bitter pecan sapling and went to work on it with his tomahawk. He honed a barbed, pointed end to it. On the other end, he made a notch to tie a line so he could retrieve it. He went to the edge of the water with the stick. “See one?”

  Peter pointed. “Right there.”

  “I see it.” Joe launched the spear toward the fish. Missed. “Pshaw!”

  “There’s another one, Joe; he’s even bigger!”

  Joe threw the spear again, and once again, missed.

  Peter laughed. “I see now why you and Curtis never came back with fish when you went spear fishing.”

  “It ain’t as easy as it looks.” Joe pulled the spear back in with the line and threw it to the ground.

  “Let me have a go at it,” Peter said, picking up the stick.

  “Pray, do try your hand at it,” Joe said, as he swept his hand and bowed.

  “There’s one right there.” Peter flung the spear.

  The water exploded with a swirl and a splash.

  “You got it, Peter—you got it!” Joe jumped up and down. “Grab the line—grab the line!”

  Peter was so surprised that he just stood looking, but Joe’s yelling made him realize to grab the fast disappearing line at his feet. The line burned at first as it cut threw his hands, but he soon planted his feet and held fast. When Peter stopped the escaping line, the huge fish came plumb out of the water.

  Joe ran up and down the bank. “Nation, it’s a whale. That’s it, Peter; wrap the line around your hand. Don’t let him get away. It’s a whale Peter—a whale!”

  Peter wrapped the line around his fist, turned, and pulled like a mule. The gar gave way as Peter marched up the bank.

  When the fish drew up at the water’s edge, Joe pounced on it. It was a scary thing with its rows of teeth, but Joe wasn’t about to let it get away now that Peter had pulled it this far. He bear hugged the fish with all he had, wrapping his arms and legs around the wiggling, bucking creature. Uncle Charlie would be proud of this one.

  Peter slid down the muddy bank and pulled Joe and the fish up on dry ground.

  Joe let go of the flopping fish. “You did good, Peter—real good.”

  “That is the biggest fish I’ve ever caught,” Peter said, smiling. Peter hefting the dying fish. “What do you reckon he weighs, Joe?”

  “Twenty pounds, depend on it,” Joe said.

  “Twenty pounds,” Peter whispered.

  ***

  Joe smacked on the chicken Lillie had packed and watched Peter. Peter ate, too, but couldn’t take his eyes off the line that held the many fish, smiling like a little child.

  “Mr. Taylor will sure be happy with the catch, won’t he, Joe?”

  “I suspect so.” Joe had never seen Peter so excited, and it was important to him that Zeke be happy. If Uncle Zeke is happy—fine, Joe thought; if not—tough. He hadn’t been happy since the Yankee’s had come to the place.

  Joe watched Peter; he was big and strong, but he was soft. What would become of him if Joe weren’t there to look after him? If someone tried to make a slave of him, it would do him in. Well, it was no need thinking on it. Joe knew he would have to take care of him; that was the tall and short of it.

  “We should try gigging more gars after we finish eating,” Peter said.

  “You think you can get lucky again?” Joe asked, sucking on the chicken leg.

  “Perhaps.”

  “I reckon I ain’t no good with that s
pear.” Joe threw the chicken bone toward the water. “I’m handy at throwing my tomahawk, though.”

  “You can’t throw that at fish; you will lose it.”

  He doesn’t think I’m that stupid, does he, Joe thought.

  Joe stood and brushed the crumbs from his slimy pants. “Let me show you how I can fling this thing.” He pulled the tomahawk from his belt. “See that hollow tree over there?” He pointed to a big sycamore with a large opening at the base.

  “I see it. That’s about twenty yards from here.”

  “Yeah. You see that knot on the side of it?”

  “I see—”

  Before Peter could finish his sentence, the ax was on its way. It hit about an inch from the knot with a loud whack that echoed from the hollow tree.

  “That’s very good, but can you do it again?”

  Joe knew he bragged about many things he couldn’t pull off, but this wasn’t one of them. He yanked the tomahawk from the tree, stepped it off, and hurled it again. This time it hit dead center.

  “How did you learn to throw like that?”

  “Me and Curtis got to chucking it back at Helena, and it just came natural like.”

  “Let me try.” Peter pulled the tomahawk from the tree, went to the same spot from where Joe had thrown. He heaved the tomahawk; it landed inside the hollow.

  Joe laughed and ran after it. When he reached inside the tree, he saw the hollow was huge—like a small cave. He could lie down inside if he had a mind to.

  “Let me try it again,” Peter said.

  Joe started back toward Peter. Peter was good with the spear or maybe just lucky, but he was no good with the tomahawk.

  Joe stopped, heard a roaring in the distance. He looked toward the sound, but saw nothing.

  “What is that?” Peter asked.

  It sounded like a train or something, but the nearest train was many miles away. Joe looked the sky over. It was perfectly sunny—wasn’t thunder.

  Peter pointed toward the south. “Whatever it is, it has frightened those wild pigeons.”

  Joe looked to where Peter was pointing and saw a small flock of passenger pigeons coming over the trees.

  The noise grew like a big storm approaching.