Joe had never heard such a roar, and it was building. He looked at Peter. Joe saw he wasn’t the only one concerned.
“Look!” Peter pointed over the trees again.
Joe turned, saw a giant black cloud approaching.
“It’s more wild pigeons!” Peter yelled.
As the pigeons closed the distance, Joe guessed it to be millions. He had seen large flocks before that had stretched for miles, but he had never been in their path when they were so low. It was a sight, indeed, as they came over just above the treetops. The trees began to sway as if blown by a gale. It grew darker and darker as the birds covered the entire sky. The sound was overwhelming, like a locomotive in a tunnel.
Joe felt something tugging at his shirt. It was Peter. He was saying something, but the noise was so loud, Joe had to move close to hear.
“I’ve never been right under a big flock like this!” Peter yelled.
Suddenly it began to hail. No—it was pigeon shit. Joe covered his head with his arms, but it was no use. The ground was turning nasty white, like shitty snow.
He remembered the hollow tree and dashed for it. He dove in. Peter flew in behind him. Joe looked out from the cover of the tree. The leaves and sticks swirled above the ground as if moved by a cyclone.
Pigeons began landing everywhere: on the ground, on stumps, in the trees. Soon there was little room for another bird, but they kept coming, reminded Joe of ants. Large limbs moaned, cracked, then fell under their weight. A big one from the sycamore crashed to the ground killing scores of pigeons, yet they kept coming.
They pecked at the ground, walking around and over each other, fed as if they had never eaten before. They pecked at bugs and seeds and nuts and anything else they saw, turning over leaves and sticks. Joe and Peter shooed them away as they tried to come inside the hollow. It was a nightmare outside the hollow tree, but at the same time, it was a wonder of nature.
The pigeons were long and sleek with long tails, built for speed, not like Mrs. Donner’s tame pigeons. These blue, chestnut and gray birds were beautiful.
Joe heard a faint popping noise. He barely heard it over the pigeons. “What’s that?”
Peter listened. The popping sounds came again. “Sounds like gun shots.”
Joe believed Peter was probably right. He looked at Peter and laughed.
“What is the matter with you?” Peter asked.
“You’re covered in pigeon poop.”
Peter looked at his arms, then back at Joe. He laughed, too. “Look at yourself.”
Joe examined his own arms, laughed harder.
Joe shooed another pigeon from the opening. “Peter, why do they do like this?”
“I’m not sure, but I think they flock together to fly north. I’ve seen them way up in Pennsylvania.”
Joe remembered his pa telling him how they used to kill them at the roost by the thousands. Joe now understood how that would not be a problem.
“How you reckon they know how to find their way north?” Joe asked.
“God gave them the wisdom,” Peter said. “All of God’s creatures have their special ways.”
Joe believed that was probably true. He also believed there were more wild pigeons than any other creature on earth, and most of them were right there in front of him.
Peter said something Joe could not understand.
“What did you say?”
“I just said, ‘Going north.’”
“What are you talking about?”
“All of these birds, at least the live ones, are headed north. They will take to the wing and be there in no time. So I reckon all we have to do is follow these wild pigeons and they will show us the way like the Star of Bethlehem.” Everything was related to the Bible where Peter was concerned.
“The problem with that is they ain’t going to wait on us like the star waited on the Wise Men,” Joe said.
Suddenly all the pigeons rose from the ground with a deafening roar. The action was like a giant leapfrog or great wheel, as they rolled over the woods. Then more birds down the river rolled out, too. As the birds cleaned the food from the ground, they moved on. They left nothing but destruction. As suddenly as they appeared, they were gone.
Joe and Peter crawled from the tree. The pigeons were gone, except for the scores of dead and dying birds scattered across the ground, enough barely alive and twitching to give the ground a singular crawling appearance.
“A cyclone couldn’t have done worse,” Peter said.
That is exactly what it looked like to Joe. Limbs lay on the ground everywhere, even a few large trees were broken over. No one could have convinced him that birds were capable of doing such destruction. Just minutes before, the area was pretty and alive like any other woods in the area. Now it looked as if a war had been fought there—a war of bombs and pigeon shit.
They washed as much of the pigeon mess from them as they could, but the river ran nasty. They grabbed up the fish and made a drag for the turtle.
***
They walked down the road to home, saw a wagon coming.
“It’s Mr. Taylor,” Peter said.
Immediately, Joe thought they were in trouble for something.
Ten of the youngest field hands were in the wagon. Zeke stopped the wagon along side Joe and Peter. “You two have a good mess of fish, and that’s a nice turtle,” Zeke said.
“Yes, sir,” Joe said. “We have more than enough for supper.”
“You got caught under the pigeons, didn’t you?” Zeke said.
The darkies in the wagon laughed.
Peter was embarrassed, but Joe wanted to whop them in the head with a catfish.
“It was like a storm,” Peter said.
“Yes, we saw it. We killed as many as we could as they flew over the south field. We’re headed to gather them now.”
“I knew we heard shots,” Peter said.
“There are hundreds of dead pigeons along the river, Uncle Zeke,” Joe said, pointing back the way they had come.
“We’re going to gather as many as we can draw and hang today,” Zeke said. “Seth and some boys are bringing the hogs up to turn loose on the rest.”
The thought of the hogs eating the dead pigeons made Joe’s belly turn.
“There won’t be much work in the fields today, but we can’t let this opportunity for all this meat slip away,” Zeke said. “We’ll work the fields tomorrow.”
Now that Joe had thought about it, he wanted to see the hogs eat some of those pigeons. “We’ll help gather some of them birds.” Joe started for the wagon.
“No Joe, you need to clean those fish. Take that big turtle to Aunt Floy. She knows how to get it out of the shell and makes the best turtle soup.” Zeke thought for a moment. “Don’t tell your Aunt Lillie I said that.”
***
When Joe and Peter approached Floy’s cabin, Joe yelled, “Aunt Floy, come see what we got.” The door sprung open and she waddled out.
Washington and the rest of the troops soon appeared from nowhere, like worrisome gnats.
“Lawd, that a big snapper,” Floy said.
“Uncle Zeke said for me to fetch it to you.”
“He all time dumping stuff off on me. What if I ain’t got no notion to fool with it?”
Washington hit the turtle’s tail with an ax handle.
“Get away from that turtle, you monkey!” Floy yelled.
The children backed away.
“Uncle Zeke said you were the best when it comes to cooking turtle.”
Floy wiped here hands on her apron. “Well, I spect I can hull that turtle out right fast enough. We ain’t had no turtle soup in a spell, and these niggers likes turtle soup, that fo sho.”
Joe liked it, too. “Reckon I can get some of that soup when you get it made?”
“Marse say I ain’t got to feed no white folk.” She looked past Joe. “What you gonna do with that big old gar?”
Joe nudged it with his shoe. “You have to ask Peter—he caught it.
”
She turned on Peter. “Well, boy, what is you gonna do with it?”
Peter stepped back when she barked at him. Joe laughed.
“I was going to clean if for supper,” Peter said after he composed himself.
“You is got a long rope full of catfish, ain’t ya?”
Joe whispered, “Give it to her, Peter.”
Peter looked down at the fish and back to the big woman. “Would you like this gar, Aunt Floy?”
“Ain’t I got enough to do hulling out this turtle? You bad as white folk thinking you can just throw any critter at me.” She kicked the gar over to the turtle. “Leave him there. I clean ‘em both by and by.” She turned to the children. “You chilluns touch nary one of ‘em, and I’ll brain you with my stick.”
She labored back up the steps and into her cabin while the children stood over the turtle, trying to get the courage to mess with it.
“Come on, Peter. Let us go show off our fish to Aunt Lillie.”
“Maybe she won’t be so nice like Aunt Floy,” Peter said as he picked up his end of the line.
Chapter 1 4
The smell of the freshly broken ground was pleasant to Peter, reminded him of Mam’s garden back home. He had always turned the ground for her in the spring.
April was a magic month. The dogwoods were in bloom and the birds had come back up from the South; their sweet songs filled the air. Things were either green or turning green, and the smell in the air was fresh—new. Even the hum of the many bees was pleasant. And the temperature was nice, too. Katie Bea had said April was the month of beginnings. It really was.
Peter led one of the block-headed mules from the makeshift barn.
Beginnings were a good thing for sure. Peter was hoping for a new beginning some day in Pennsylvania, but when that beginning would happen, he didn’t know. And would that beginning be a lonely one? He didn’t know the answer to that, yet. Joe wanted to head north now, as Peter had promised him they would, and it was all but impossible to convince the boy to wait for the war to be over. Joe just didn’t realize how dangerous it would be to go to Virginia now. Well, maybe he did. It was obvious the boy wasn’t worried about a war or anything else. However, Peter knew the dangers, and he would stay where it was safe as long as possible.
“Peter, you ain’t hitched those mules to the wagon, yet?” Charlie said. He rubbed one of the mules between the ears as Peter backed the other to the wagon.
“I’ll be ready in just a minute, Mr. Charlie.”
“I’m just spouting. There ain’t no rush. We shall get to town by and by, I’ll be bound.”
Peter was happy Charlie had picked him to go along to New Albany. Peter didn’t know why, but Charlie had taken a shine to him—Zuey had said so. He liked Charlie, too. How could someone not like the old man? He was gentle and always treated every soul kindly. That was a rare thing in these hard times.
***
The road to town was rougher than the last time Peter had taken it. No matter; it was still an enjoyable ride. The evidence of spring was everywhere. The smell of blossoms floated on the air.
“It is a lovely time of the year, I tell you,” Charlie said. He sniffed and took in the scenery.
“Yes, sir.”
“Just smell that air,” Charlie said, taking a deep breath. Then he suddenly stopped sniffing and curled his nose. “Whoo.”
Peter smelled it, too. He laughed.
“Peter, my boy, don’t my people grow the feed for these beasts? Don’t my people take care of them? Ain’t they treated good, suh?
“I would say so Mr. Charlie.”
“Then why pray would they put a heap of stink on me in that fashion?” Charlie fanned his hat.
Peter continued laughing. The mules’ heads bobbed as they walked, and it appeared to Peter they were laughing. They sure didn’t deliver delightful spring smells.
***
Things were quiet when they rolled into town. Peter saw where the Yankees had done more damage when they came back through in February, but life went on.
How did these people keep going after such devastation? They would build back, and the Yankees destroyed it again.
“Pull up in front that there shed,” Charlie said, pointing to a shed used for a store. Roberts took a load of cotton to Memphis for me, and he’s got the goods inside there.”
Peter browsed while Charlie visited with two other men in the store. The owner eyed him, but didn’t say anything. He knew he was one of Charlie’s people.
Peter discovered a blue bonnet. It had white ruffles and dainty blue ribbons dangling from it. They would make a pretty bow under Zuey’s chin. It would be perfect for her, but he had no money with him. He smiled. He could see her with it on when she went to the white folk’s church with the Taylors. Oh, she would be a prize, yes indeed.
“What you studying on there, Peter?” Charlie had come up behind him.
“Nothing, Mr. Charlie.” Peter felt as if he had been caught doing something wrong.
“Well now, you like that fashion, do you?” Charlie said, admiring the bonnet.
Peter admired it again. “It is a very pretty bonnet for sure.”
“Indeed it is.” Charlie rubbed his chin, smiled. “I fancy it would look handsome atop a pretty little duck back on the place, I’ll be bound.”
Peter felt his face grow hot. “I reckon it would look pretty on most girls.”
“Fiddlesticks, boy, that there bonnet has Zuey’s name all over it.” He squeezed Peter’s shoulder.
“Charlie, you ready to load now?” Roberts asked.
“I am, suh, and charge me for that bonnet.”
Peter quickly looked at Charlie. He didn’t know what to say.
“Ain’t nobody got to know how you come about that parcel.”
Peter smiled. “Yes, sir, Mr. Charlie.”
***
Joe hurled a stick at the purple martins fluttering around the box. The swallows dived and shrieked at the bothersome boy. He had no intention of hitting one of the birds, but it tickled him when they dove at him and pulled up at the last second. But, even that grew old.
He wanted to go to town with Peter and Uncle Charlie, but he was being punished for tying the rooster’s legs together. It wasn’t that big a deal, but Aunt Lillie thought it was. She had said it was cruel. Nation, nobody got hurt—just a blamed old rooster. He shouldn’t have flogged Joe anyhow.
He grabbed a spear he had whittled and headed to the river. Maybe he could stick one of those big gars floating around. As he walked toward the woods, he threw the spear ahead and ran after it. He would try to throw it farther each time. He wasn’t as good with it as Peter had turned out to be.
The people were planting cotton. It seemed a big deal to everyone that it be planted before the next rain. Seth had disagreed with Zeke on planting so early. “It much too early to plant now. Marse, know that there,” Seth had said.
Zeke had been sharpening a plow. “It’s not too early for me.” He never looked up.
“But Marse, you can still see through the pecan trees. Ever nigger on the place know you has to wait til the leaves done gone and filled out. The ground too cold.”
Zeke ignored him and scraped the file down the plow.
Joe, sharpening his spear, stood behind Seth. He saw Zeke’s mind seemed a thousand miles away. He sensed Seth noticed it, too. Zeke was strange since the Yankees had been to the farm. In fact, no one on the place was the same. Everybody was quieter. Laughing seemed out of place. When someone did manage a chuckle, it was like a sour note on a piano. And someone was always looking down the lane, as if they expected the Yankees back any moment.
Poor Fanny was in the worst shape. She seemed to Joe to be lost. All she ever did was talk to her baby. She never looked down the road, though. She expected nothing to come and seemed not to care if anything ever did. She would answer Joe if he spoke to her, but she never began a conversation, and her pretty smile had been put out as sure as you would pinc
h the flame from a candle.
Peter and Zuey, that was another matter. They were always giggling and smiling, but only when they weren’t in the company of the white folks—they were sneaky that way. They took long walks in the evening after all of the work was finished. Joe would follow sometimes at first, but he quickly got bored. All that kissy stuff made him feel sick.
Now that the planting had started, things were somewhat back to normal. Maybe it was because everyone was so busy. Maybe that’s why Zeke wanted to get to planting so early. It would get idle minds back to a task.
Well, Joe’s task now was to stick a gar with his spear. He was in luck. As soon as he reached the river, he saw one of the biggest fish he had ever seen. Maybe it wasn’t luck, always gars at that spot. This gar was even bigger than the one Peter had killed. It floated under the surface; the fin on its back barely above the water. Joe took careful aim, launched the spear. It was a perfect shot. He hit the fish dead center. The gar shot out across the water with the spear dancing through the water like the mast of a ship. The pole danced from side to side, as the current rolled against it. Joe ran to the edge of the river. The pole suddenly disappeared under the water.
Ten minutes later the spear had not surfaced. Joe fell to his knees in disgust. It had all happened so fast. His luck was good. The fish was there as soon as he had arrived at the river. He had hit the fish. The spear stayed in the fish, but now the fish was gone, and with his spear, too. He had forgotten to tie a string to it.
Joe leaped to his feet. “Nation!” he yelled, and pulled the tomahawk from his belt. He quickly looked around and spotted the hollow sycamore they had hid in when the pigeons were there earlier. He threw the ax at the tree—hit it. That let off some of his steam. In fact, it was kind of funny how the gar stole his spear. The joke was on Joe. He was laughing by the time he pulled the tomahawk from the tree.
Placing the tomahawk back into his belt, he peered into the hollow tree. It was inviting, seemed like a good place to hide. After all, it had been a safe place when all of those pigeons were here. He climbed inside. From inside, the opening looked like a door—no a window, and as he looked out he felt comfortable inside the big tree, like a warm house on a rainy day. He laughed again at the disappearing spear. Maybe he would go back in a while and see if he could spot it, but not now. Now the hollow tree felt comfortable—safe, better than being in the cotton fields.
Chase The Wild Pigeons Page 21