Chase The Wild Pigeons

by John J. Gschwend

  Joe and Bill pulled along side Peter.

  “What are you doing on that mule?” Joe said.

  What a foolish thing to say. He knew well what he was doing there.

  Before Peter could say a word, Green galloped up. “Boy, you need to leave my nigger alone.”

  Joe wheeled in the saddle. “Peter is a free man, and if you are holding him against his will, you are a thief and a scoundrel.”

  Bill’s eyes got big, and Peter saw he was looking for a quick get-away, but with so many black prisoners passing, it would be best to stay right there atop that horse.

  Green spurred his horse toward Joe. Just as he got to Joe, Joe jumped from the horse, and like a shot, he was under Green’s horse. Green’s horse reared, and he tumbled off.

  Joe turned to Peter. “Come on, Peter; jump on my horse!”

  Peter leaped from the mule and was on the horse in an instant. He reached for Joe, but Green grabbed Joe from behind and pulled him to the ground. Peter started down from the horse. Green pulled his revolver with a free hand and pointed it at him. He could do nothing, but stay on the animal.

  “Massuh Green, don’t harm the boy,” Peter said.

  Green started to say something to Peter.

  Joe drew back and popped Green in the face with his fist. He groaned and let go of Joe for an instant. That was all Joe needed. He ran, jumped for the horse.

  Green fired the revolver at Joe. The horse began bucking and stomping.

  Peter couldn’t believe it. It happened so fast. He couldn’t see Joe under the horse, but heard him yelling.

  Peter leaped from his horse and pulled the bucking beast away from Joe.

  Joe was rolling around, moaning.

  “Joe! Where are you hit? Where are you hit?” Peter rolled him over. He was holding his left leg.

  A soldier pulled Peter aside and looked at Joe’s leg.

  Peter saw it was an officer.

  “Son, where are you injured?”

  Joe tried to answer, but he could only moan and hold his leg.

  “General, he was trying to steal my servant,” Green said.

  At that instant, Peter knew it was General Forrest.

  Joe moaned, and through gritted teeth, he said, “That man is a liar and a thief. Peter is not his servant. He is not even a slave. He is a free man, and he is with me. That man stole him, and I aim to get him back.”

  Forrest looked at Green. Green’s nose was bleeding where Joe had hit him. “Corporal, I believe this boy is telling the truth.”

  Green opened his mouth, but thought better of it.

  “Son, are you shot?” Forrest asked.

  “No, sir, the horse stepped on my leg.”

  Forrest took Joe’s arm; Peter quickly grabbed the other arm.

  Joe moaned. He couldn’t stand on the leg, so he leaned on Peter.

  Forrest had the surgeon look at it. It was just badly bruised.

  “Do you live around here?” Forrest asked.

  “We are headed to the Shenandoah Valley. We just got caught here in this battle,” Joe said.

  Forrest looked at Peter. Forrest was a tall man and intimidating. Peter was frightened just being in his presence. “You going with this boy to Virginia?”

  “Yes, sir,” Peter said. “He has family there. His uncle died in Arkansas, so now we are going to Virginia. His father is fighting in General Lee’s army”

  Peter had a pain in his gut. Even though this was true, it was misleading because Joe also had family in Mississippi. He hoped that General Forrest would not see through it.

  Forrest stared into Peter’s eyes. Peter felt his knees get weak. Then Forrest looked at Joe gritting his teeth and leaning on Peter. He slowly nodded. Peter didn’t know what it meant.

  “Corporal,” Forrest called out.

  Green ran to Forrest. “Sir?”

  Forrest looked at Green for a long minute. “I would hit you myself, but it looks as if the boy has fetched enough blood from you.”

  Green said nothing and Peter saw he was frightened and embarrassed with the blood still running from his nose.

  Forrest looked past Green to a train of mules. “Someone bring me one of those mules.”

  An officer with Forrest started one that way.

  “No—we must have the poorest beast,” Forrest said. “We need the strong ones for the army.”

  Eventually one of the soldiers led a swayback to the general. It was a funny looking animal with a big “US” branded on its rump.

  Forrest bent down to Joe. “Son, my man brought you harm. He stole your Negro, and I want to make it right. I don’t know how long that leg will bother you so I’m going to give you a mule, such as it is.”

  Joe smiled through the pain.

  Forrest got Joe and Peter’s names. He walked to one of his aids, retrieved some paper, and wrote something. He came back and handed it to Peter.

  “Peter, I see you are watching out for the boy. I also see that he is watching out for you, but I believe you are the best one to hold on to this. It is a pass that will let you get through our lines. I can’t speak for the Yankees.”

  Peter remembered his free papers. “General, Sir, that man has my free papers.”

  Green quickly dug them from his bag and handed them to Peter.

  Forrest mounted his horse and turned to one of his officers. “Now let us see if we can put a stop to the citizens stealing from my wagons.” He turned back to Joe. “Oh, boy, I’m happy to see you no longer have that Yankee cap you had on in New Albany.”

  Joe looked surprised. Peter remembered Joe telling him he saw General Forrest at New Albany.

  When Forrest galloped away, the army kept moving south.

  Peter felt they were fortunate. General Forrest was upset about things being stolen from the captured wagons, yet gave them a mule. They could have all been killed instead. He put Joe on the mule, then mounted the horse Bill was holding.

  “Bill, can you show us a road that will carry us east?” Peter asked.

  Through gritted teeth, Joe said, “Good idea, Peter.”

  “I knows the way,” Bill said. “Get up, hoss. Lay some hoofs.”

  Chapter 1 6

  The ragged shelter wasn’t much protection against the swarm of mosquitoes, so Lucius sat by the small fire drinking coffee made from stolen Yankee coffee beans, hoping the smoke would keep the bugs away.

  The eastern sky glowed pink above the Mississippi River as wood ducks whistled overhead. Oh, if he could get his hands on one of those ducks it would be a satisfying meal, indeed.

  Right on time, he heard the Yankees beating the morning drums in town. The damn Yankees were no different from any other white people. They were comfortable in town and had plenty to eat, didn’t give a damn about the Negroes. One white was like the next.

  Lucius looked at his small rickety shelter, about like the rest in the freedom camp, made of scrapped boards, sticks, cloth, and anything else he could find to throw together. White people’s dogs had it better. It was no way for anyone to live.

  He stood up and looked over the camp. It was a nasty sight, simply a garbage dump. He heard more ducks overhead, was a wonder he heard them at all because of the coughing. He couldn’t really tell one cough from another. There were so many—they made one song and it echoed every morning, a song he was tired of hearing. Other people were coming out of their holes, mostly women. They would start their morning ritual cooking breakfast. They would stew up whatever the good white folks had allowed them, or whatever rat or critter they had found.

  Some had gone north and some had gone to work on the government farms. But to Lucius that was no better than being a slave all over again. He would die first. He would never—never serve another master. He was his own master now. He owned his body and his soul. His direction was of his choosing.

  Now he was beginning to think he had chosen poorly. He should have let the doctor live. If he had, he would be comfortable now and well fed. He must learn from this m
istake, must be willing to bow down, but only for what is necessary and as long as necessary.

  He placed a chunk of wood on the fire, then sat on the piece of chair he had found and stared into the small blaze. The fire popped and crackled. He remembered the store fire from almost a year ago. That was not in his plans. The store was not supposed to burn. He had figured someone would acquire the store after the good doctor was found dead. That someone would surely keep him on because he was a good worker. That was his backup plan, anyhow. That damn white-headed boy was to blame. If he ever got his hands on that boy, he would pay for all of the suffering Lucius had endured—before and after the store burned. And if that nigger, Peter, stood in the way, he would pay the price. All niggers that cuddled up to white folks had it coming anyhow.

  He bent forward and held his hands close to the fire, studied his hands; they were big and strong. He made two fists; they were like cannonballs. They were strong weapons and nothing could stand up under a pounding from them. Men had died from blows of the weapons, black and white. The most prized trophy— or victim—was his old master.

  As he thought about his master, his hands went to his shoulders. He felt the scars even through his shirt. They crossed his back like a spider web. He didn’t get them all at one time—oh, no. They grew slowly—a few whelps today, a few more tomorrow, and still a few more next week until it looked like the web of a garden spider. As he touched them, he remembered the pain—not from the whippings, but from the salt that was rubbed in.

  He remembered the shame from hanging from his tied wrists without any clothes on, still remembered the dogs licking him as he hung there, and him too weak to run them away. They licked him all over, even down below. Everyone could see, but nothing could be done. But his master paid. Lucius smiled.

  Now one of the Negro women approached Lucius. “Let me have just a small stick of wood.”

  Lucius shot to his feet so fast the chair flipped out behind him.

  “No! I told y’all to never come near my camp.”

  “I’s got to cook for my children. They is—”

  “No!”

  She retreated, looking back over her shoulder like a scared dog.

  Lucius set the chair close to the fire and stared into it again. The coals glowed bright, then dim, then bright again. It reminded him of something flying—bright, dim, bright, dim—like wings—up, down, up, down.

  His mind went where it always went when there was idle time to think—his mother’s story of the African birds.

  ***

  “Your father was a black African; he was a chief,” she had said as she plucked the feathers from a chicken. “He didn’t talk no American at first. He only talked that African talk.”

  Lucius wished he could have known him, wished he could have seen him.

  “What did he look like?” he asked as he put the feathers in a sack.

  “Lawd sakes, he was black. He was blacker’n any darky on the place, but he was a purty man and a brave man. When they first brung him here, he had bracelets on his wrists made up of lion claws.”

  “Did he kill them lions?”

  “Sho he did.” She flipped the chicken over and went to work on the other side. “He had a tiger skin wrapped around him, and he killed that, too.”

  Lucius smiled, and his mother smiled back.

  “But the thing I remembers the most is the hoodoo charm he had around his neck. The chain was made a real gold, and birds hung from it—African birds.”

  “Tell me more ‘bout them birds.” Lucius’s young eyes were wide, now.

  She had plucked the chicken clean and had cut a hole in it to get to the guts. She smiled. “Now let me see. Well now, them birds was in a yellow ring like the sun and they had red eyes of fire. They was gold birds. I reckon I remember that ‘bout right.”

  “What happened to the charm?”

  “Well, when Massuh sold your pa, the charm was still around his neck.”

  “Why didn’t they take the charm from him like they take everything else?”

  “Heaven sake, boy, that was a hoodoo charm—African magic. They couldn’t take it from him lessen he was dead, no ways. It had powers, and them white folk knowed it.” She smiled bigger and cut her eyes. “Oh, they knowed your pa was wild, so Massuh sold him to a trader a going to the frontier. I specs he done crossed the Mississippi into Arkansas or there ‘bouts.”

  “How far is it to Arkansas?”

  “Child, I don’t know.” She pulled a long gut from the chicken. “Let me see. We is in Georgia. The next state bees Alabama, then Mississippi, then you is got the Mississippi River. Lawd be, child, I don’t know. It that way some place.”

  “Reckon that charm make me a king?”

  She stopped pulling guts and sadly looked at him. She studied so long, Lucius wondered if she was going to answer. “I spec you find that charm, you be a king,” she said softly.

  Lucius grinned. “I’s going to find them African birds some day. I’s going to be a king. I’s going to kill tigers and lions.”

  His mother started to speak, but the words didn’t come. She looked down at the chicken, but looked through it. Then she slowly started pulling the guts again.

  Lucius sensed something wrong. “You all right, Mammy?”

  “Son, you knows peoples tells stories sometimes. Now bout them African birds—”

  Lucius slapped his leg and spun around. “I’s going to find them African birds. I is—I is! I is going to be king.”

  ***

  The wind changed direction now and blew the smoke on Lucius. He fanned it away and stood up. He had found Arkansas. He had also found the charm. What else could it be? As he had gotten older, he had begun to believe it was just a story his mammy had made up, and maybe some of it was, but now it was different. He had found the birds. The Taylor necklace was the charm. It had to be. Now what was he going to do about it? How long was he going to stay at this camp like a hog?

  He kicked dirt into the fire and went into his shelter. He swept dirt from some hidden floorboards, raised them up, and pulled two bottles labeled laudanum from a hole. He next pulled a smaller bottle that contained a white powder. He placed them in a ragged haversack, then he pulled a long knife from the hole and stuck it in his boot. He went outside, thought about telling the woman she could have all of the firewood, but instead he turned and started for Helena.

  ***

  Helena made Lucius sick. He hated to see the Negroes begging for work. Hell, if they had to beg, why didn’t they just go back to their masters? The Yankees were the masters now. What was the difference? At least the Southern masters took care that their property stayed healthy like they did their animals. He despised the Negro soldiers, too. They fooled they selves if they thought they were like the white Yankees.

  Lucius walked past the place where the Taylor store had stood. Someone had cleaned the lot. He looked in the storage shed. It was empty.

  “What you looking for, darky?”

  Lucius turned to see a Yankee standing there.

  “Lawd sakes, Massuh, I’s looking for Massuh Theo. Is you done seen ‘em?”

  The Yankee studied his feet. Lucius saw he was trying to remember the name. The Yankee looked up suddenly and snapped his fingers. “That fat man that worked in the store.”

  “Yessuh.” Lucius grinned a big toothy grin. “He bees round.”

  “I don’t know what you want with that piece.” The Yankee shook his head. “But you will find him down by the wharf.”

  “He working there?”

  “Working? Drinking and begging is his lot now.”

  ***

  The wharf was busy as an anthill. Steamboats were always coming and going. Cotton was stacked everywhere, and the Negroes were doing most of the work. Lucius could plainly see these Yankees were not interested in a Negro’s freedom. They were only interested in the cotton. They traded for it or stole it.

  “Hey, boy, you want work,” a sailor called from a ramp.


  “No, suh, I’s got a heap a work,” Lucius said. “I’s looking for my massuh.”

  The sailor shook his head and started up the gangway.

  Lucius found Theo huddled next to a bale of cotton. He was asleep and had pulled loose cotton over him for a blanket. His clothes were rags and he had lost weight, but he was still fat. He reminded Lucius of a dog. “Why, Massuh Theo, you is a right sad sight,” Lucius said.

  Theo jumped and his bloodshot eyes flashed open.

  “Good, good, I was feared you had done gone up,” Lucius said.

  “Damn you, Lucius. You gave me a start. Now go way and stop meddling me.”

  Lucius could think of nothing better than placing his boot across Theo’s neck. Instead, he pulled a tin cup from his bag and poured some laudanum into it.

  “What you got there, boy?”

  “Boy” cut like a knife, but Lucius knew he had to let it go for now.

  “This here make you feel a heap better, Massuh Theo. Yessuh, a heap better.”

  “What is it?”

  “It a good tonic.”

  “I don’t want none of your nigger potions.”

  “Just sniff it Massuh. You change your mind, by and by.”

  Theo took the cup, ran it under his nose, and gulped it. He wobbled to his feet. “Give me the rest of that.”

  “I will give you more later,” Lucius said.

  Theo reached for it, and Lucius easily pushed him away. Theo started yelling something about a nigger, but Lucius hit him with one of his cannonballs, and Theo crumpled like a shot hog. Lucius slung him over his shoulder and headed for a hiding spot by the river he had found earlier. He walked by a white man and two Negroes heading toward the wharf. “Massuh done had way too much licker.”

  The white man looked at Theo’s face, recognized him. “You need to keep your master away from down here before somebody cuts his begging throat.”

  “Yessuh, Massuh, sho will—sho will.”

  Lucius made his way to the cottonwood and willow tangle he had found earlier, dumped Theo on the ground. He hit the ground hard, jarred him awake.