Chase The Wild Pigeons

by John J. Gschwend

  Peter had gathered from the cursing and yelling that the men knew Albert. They were local men. This made less sense than the war. North against South was one thing, and it was horrible enough, but neighbor against neighbor was—well—worse than horrible.

  Peter began to think of the war as a kind of hell. There was always fire. From Arkansas to East Tennessee—fire. Biblical stories of war were not worse. It was cruel and hard to bear. Peter prayed more and more, and he hated to think it, but when would God intervene? How much longer would this war go on—forever?

  Was it not bad enough for Albert to be shot three times? Was it not bad enough that he and Gus, a cripple, to be alone with no help from neighbors? Why did they have to come and bludgeon him with a rifle? War brought out the devil in people. Why did Joe have to see all of this? Would he ever get over it?

  Peter heard a ruckus outside and looked enquiring at Gus. Gus shrugged. Peter went to the door, and for the first time in days, he laughed. Joe had roped one of the pigs. Joe was muddy and dirty from head to toe. The pig was cleaner.

  Joe laughed aloud. “I got one of ‘em.” He yanked the rope, but the pig didn’t budge. He yanked harder and the pig took to running. He ran past Joe and pulled him to the ground, but Joe held fast. “No, you don’t!” The pig skidded to a stop and had the rope stretched to the limit.

  Peter laughed. “Who has whom?”

  Joe looked at the pig at the end of the rope, then he looked at his dirty self. He grinned—his teeth seemed brilliant white in contrast with his nasty face. It touched Peter’s heart.

  ***

  The boys patched up the pigsty. They decided to catch one more. Peter saw no need penning up more than they could feed—more than Gus could feed when they left in a few days.

  When Joe was done with the pen, he peeled his clothes off and barreled off in the small pool in the stream. Peter laughed as he picked up Joe’s clothes.

  “I’ll wash these nasty things out for you,” Peter said.

  Joe splashed water on Peter. Peter dropped the clothes and reached down to throw water on Joe. Joe grabbed his arm and pulled him into the pool. Before Peter realized it, Joe was on his back.

  “Get up, mule!” Joe laughed as he hung on.

  Peter ran forward quickly, then stopped suddenly and bent forward. Joe flew over Peter’s back, his feet high in the air and his white butt flashing. Joe came up coughing and laughing at the same time. Joe dove under the water and pulled Peter’s legs from under him. Peter fanned with his arms, trying to keep his balance, but it was no use; he landed flat on his butt. Joe jumped him and they rolled in the water like alligators, tumbling, spinning, and splashing. Peter finally got his footing and grabbed Joe up over his head.

  “I’m the king of the pool. Do you doubt it, Joseph Taylor?”

  “Let me down and I’ll show the king!” Joe flailed, but it was no use; Peter had him tight. He held Joe up naked as a newborn, and Joe could do nothing about it.

  “Say ‘Hail to the king’ and I will let you down, my disloyal subject,” Peter said, laughing like a little kid. He didn’t get the best of Joe often, so he was going to milk it for all he could.

  Joe yelled back, “You’re not the king. I’m the k—”

  Peter was facing the cabin, smiling. He noticed Joe shut up quickly. He slowly turned, still holding Joe over his head. There was a wagon on the road with a lady and a girl of about twelve. The lady had covered her face and was trying to hide the girl’s face, but she was giggling and trying to see.

  “How do you do, Ma’am?” Peter said.

  “Peter, do you want to let me down?” Joe said. “I think they have about seen all that I have to show.”

  Peter eased Joe to the water. Joe slid around behind him.

  The lady composed herself after Joe hid his body from view. “My name is Mrs. Sawyer, and I have come to call on Mr. Stokes.”

  Peter realized he didn’t know Albert’s last name—surely it had to be Stokes.

  “Ma’am, he is in the cabin, but he is hurt pretty bad.”

  “Hurt?”

  Joe spoke, but didn’t even lean around Peter. “Yes, Ma’am. Some Lincolnites shot him, then came back and beat him darn near to death.”

  “Lincolnites?”

  “Partisans, Ma’am,” Peter said.

  “Boy, I know what Lincolnites are!” She gave Peter a hard stare that cut, and he wished he had not opened his mouth.

  She picked up the reins and gave the boys a contemptuous glare. She shook the reins. “Get up, Jack.” The horse started forward. The girl looked back over the seat as they rode toward the cabin. The lady scolded her and made her turn in her seat.

  Joe grabbed his clothes when the two females went into the cabin. “Well, I have no secrets from those two ladies.”

  Peter looked at Joe. He saw Joe wasn’t embarrassed at all. In fact, he was grinning. Peter thought it was funny, too, now that the females were gone.

  “Joe, you know something about East Tennessee; there are some pretty views here.”

  “Funny, Peter—you are so very funny.”

  “Not only are there big, green mountains, there are small white mounds, too.”

  Joe picked up a crawfish hill at the edge of the water and flung it at Peter. Peter ducked as the hill went by, but a crawfish ejected from it and landed squarely in his hair. Peter hopped in the water, frantically raking at his hair. The crawfish flopped to the water. This frightened Peter more than he cared for Joe to know. He looked around, and Joe was on is knees at the edge of the water holding his side, laughing. Dang it, Joe had the last laugh again. Peter realized how funny he must have looked raking at the crawfish and dancing in the water. He laughed, too.

  Chapter 1 8

  Joe eased open the cabin door, but didn’t go in—Mrs. Sawyer might bite. She was tending to Albert and muttering something about worthless people. The girl was getting things from a black bag—a doctor’s bag it appeared—and handing them to her mother. Gus stood at the foot of the bed wringing his hands; he looked like a big toad.

  Peter pushed past Joe. “Ma’am, can we help in any way?”

  She turned on Peter. “Help?” She threw a cloth on the bed she had been using to tend Albert’s wounds. “If you cared to help, you would have been in here and not in that pond playing like a pair of otters.”

  “But Ma’am—”

  “You listen here, darky, don’t you talk back to me. I’ll have you shot!” She moved toward Peter—he stepped back. “We are fighting this war to free you people and you frolic around like an animal while a white man is fighting for his life. You didn’t even care enough to go for a doctor. Now get out of this house and take that piece of white trash with you.”

  Peter lowered his head and slunk out of the cabin like a whipped dog.

  Joe watched Peter go. He would have rather the woman scolded him than Peter—Peter couldn’t handle such things. He was soft, way too soft. Joe stepped inside and slammed the door.

  The woman immediately jumped him. “I told you to—”

  “No, Ma’am!” Joe planted his feet squarely. “Didn’t we find this man shot and a laying on the roadside? Didn’t we fetch him here to this cabin? Didn’t we catch a couple of his hogs for him to have something to eat? Didn’t we risk our lives when the bushwhackers come a calling?” Joe took a step forward. The woman stepped back. “Yes, Ma’am, we did. We are a couple of wayfarers. We don’t know nothing about this country. I reckon we got our own broke wagon, and here you are a blaming us for his. Ma’am, you’re bound to get my Irish up talking to Peter in that fashion. You had no call, and I reckon I won’t stand for it.”

  The girl went to her mother and put her arms around her as if she believed Joe meant them harm. Though Joe was furious, he still noticed she was a pretty girl.

  Albert moaned; Mrs. Sawyer turned to examine him.

  Joe still felt the fire, but let it go and stormed from the cabin. He found Peter loading the mule. That was good. The sooner
they got on the road the better. Try to help strangers and what happens? You get blamed for everything under the sun. The quicker they got shed of Tennessee the better.

  “That lady is right,” Peter said, as he checked the mule’s shoe.

  Why did Peter always have to think that everyone else was right and they were wrong?

  “We didn’t even go for a doctor,” Peter said. He turned to Joe. “Now why didn’t we go for a doctor?”

  Joe saw Peter had an overpowering weight on him. However, the question hung there because Joe didn’t know the answer.

  “I’ll tell you why,” Peter said. “Because we are children. We have set out on a march across this war-torn country and we are still children. We can’t even take care of ourselves. How are we supposed to take care of someone else? How am I supposed to take care of...” Peter turned back toward the mule without finishing the sentence. Joe knew how it ended, though. But Joe was thirteen now and that was not exactly a child’s age, and Peter was seventeen, almost a man.

  The door of the cabin squeaked open. The girl flowed out onto the porch. The sunlight hit her right, and Joe forgot all about Peter and being angry. She had soft blue eyes—they were dreamy eyes—and her hair was gold as wheat.

  “Hello,” she said.

  Her voice surprised him. It was a high-pitched voice, but not high and squeaky, but high and birdlike, like a sweet songbird. “My name is Mary.”

  Joe said nothing. She was much shorter than she appeared in the buggy, but it suited her.

  “Mary Sawyer.”

  Like a china doll, she seemed fragile—like she might break if she was to fall.

  “Do you have a name?” she asked. She smiled.

  “Joe.” It came automatically, without any help from him.

  Her hair was long and it flowed all the way to her butt.

  “Joe what?”

  She was barefoot; she had small feet. He wouldn’t have been able to see them for the long dress if she had not been rocking, making the dress come and go across her toes.

  She noticed Joe looking. “Joe with no last name, I have shoes, but they are back at home.”

  Joe suddenly remembered himself and said, “Taylor.”

  Mary laughed. Peter laughed, too. Joe felt his face glow.

  Joe glared at Peter, but he only laughed more. At least he wasn’t still upset.

  “You were pretty angry at Mother, weren’t you?”

  Joe stuck his hands in his pockets, not knowing what to do with them. “I reckon I was. She had no call to jump me and Peter in that fashion.”

  Mary sat on the edge of the porch. Joe leaned against the post.

  “She’s not really angry with you,” Mary said. She’s angry with herself.”

  Peter leaned against the other side of the post. “Why is she mad at herself?”

  Mary looked toward the door, then lowering her voice. “We are Union people. She feels responsible for what happened here.”

  “She didn’t do this,” Peter said.

  “I know, but we knew that something like this might happen.”

  Joe could hear Albert moan loudly. They all turned toward the window.

  “Mary!” Mrs. Sawyer called, and Mary brushed herself off and ran inside.

  “I reckon we should probably wait until morning before we strike out,” Peter said.

  Joe nodded. His mind was on something else.

  “I’m going to see if I can find something to fix for supper,” Peter said. “There are a few more things in the garden.” He took the pack back off the mule and led him around the cabin.

  Joe went back into the cabin; no one noticed. Albert was jerking violently on the bed. Mary and Mrs. Sawyer were putting cool rags over his body. Gus poured water from the bucket into a pan, but spilled as much as went into the pan. Albert called out names, but Joe could barely make them out—maybe family members or something. Joe grabbed the empty bucket to refill at the stream. Mrs. Sawyer’s eyes met his. There was a faint smile. He believed the smile also said, “I’m sorry.”

  ***

  Joe lowered the bucket into the stream and his mind wandered. Was the world going upside down? These people were neighbors and they were killing each other. Neighbors were supposed to help each other. That’s what they did in the Shenandoah Valley. Well, Mrs. Sawyer was helping Albert, but she said she was Union.

  Joe heard the cabin door shut and saw Mary coming. He hoped she didn’t slip on something; she would surely break. “Nice of you to fetch the water, Joe.” Here voice was like a song. She smiled and Joe felt a tingle in his chest. She took one side of the rope handle. “I will help you carry it.”

  “I reckon I can manage.”

  “To be sure, but I just like to help.”

  Joe felt his face warming. He had never felt like this—never. He wanted to say something, but he felt he would make a fool of himself.

  They carried the bucket to the porch and set it down.

  “Mother thinks Mr. Stokes will pull out of the fever.” Mary sat down on the porch.

  “Is your ma a doctor?” It came out sounding arrogant and Joe wished he hadn’t said it.

  “My father was.” She smiled up at Joe.

  He sat beside her and studied his shoes.

  “Mother assisted him all the time.”

  “Your father off fighting?”

  “He was killed by bushwhackers because he didn’t support the South.”

  Joe felt awful. He was so busy thinking about the Tories and Lincolnites being killers, he had forgotten that killing had no bounds. “I’m sorry.”

  “Where you from, Joe?” she asked, smiling with a face too pretty to be real.

  Joe watched her eyes. They danced and seemed to be unable to stay still.

  “I’m from Virginia, the Shenandoah Valley, near a town called Dayton.”

  “What are you doing in Tennessee?”

  She placed her soft hand on his arm.

  He had to take a deep breath. There was no place on earth he would rather be than right there on that porch, but at the same time, he felt like a tied coon. He couldn’t breathe.

  “Hey, Joe, come here,” Peter called from around the cabin.

  Joe jumped from the porch. “I need to see what Peter wants.”

  She smiled and slowly picked herself from the porch. When Joe was cornering the cabin, he saw her struggling through the door with the bucket.

  Why did he want to get away from her so fast when he wanted to be close to her?

  Peter was standing by the corncrib. “Look what’s inside.”

  Joe looked in. A big possum was grinning and staring back.

  “Supper,” Peter said, smiling.

  Joe smiled back. Mary left his thoughts. He stepped inside and with one quick blow from the tomahawk, the possum knotted up. Joe grabbed him by the tail and brought him out. “Reckon you can find enough in that garden to make possum stew?” Joe said, holding the dead animal in front of him.

  “I believe I saw some carrots over among those weeds,” Peter said.

  The mule was munching in the weeds, and Peter pushed him out of the way. The boys raked around in the weeds with their feet.

  “There are some!” Joe said pointing with the dead possum.

  Suddenly, the possum came back to life. He hissed and tried to reach around at Joe. Joe yelled and flung the possum in the air. He went head over end and landed at the base of the mule’s tail. The mule went crazy, braying and kicking. The possum fell off and started for the weeds. While on the run, Joe pulled the tomahawk from his belt. He jumped the possum again, and with five blows from the ax, took the head clean off.

  He looked up, saw Peter chasing the mule. Joe struck out behind him. He had never seen an animal so unstrung. For heaven’s sake, it was just an ole possum. The mule hit the stream and fell, but quickly jumped back up. Peter grabbed for the lead, but the mule jerked his head and Peter fell into the water. Joe ran for the mule and grabbed the rope. The mule smelled the possum b
lood on Joe’s hand and started kicking and braying again. Joe danced around trying to hold the animal. Joe fell over Peter and back into the water. The mule took off up the valley road.

  The boys dragged themselves from the water. Joe looked at Peter and laughed. Peter laughed, too. They started back toward the cabin, saw Mrs. Sawyer and Mary standing on the porch laughing. Gus was standing in the door laughing, too. They must have heard the ruckus and came out to watch the show.

  “You boys really like that stream, don’t you?” Mrs. Sawyer said.

  She seemed a different person. He now knew where Mary got her handsome face.

  Gus went around the cabin and fetched the possum. They had seen more than Joe had thought.

  “I will cook that animal if you boys will skin it,” Mrs. Sawyer said.

  They would catch that stupid mule later. No one would steal the old swayback anyhow. Possum stew, now that sounded fine.

  After supper, Mrs. Sawyer said she would be back in a couple of days to check on Albert. Joe hated to see them go.

  Mrs. Sawyer wasn’t so bad, just a little testy, but Joe could handle that. It was a small price to see Mary again.

  ***

  Joe and Peter pulled weeds in the garden after Mary and Mrs. Sawyer left. Joe figured they should stay a few more days. They needed to be sure that Albert was going to be all right. He reckoned they could help Gus get lined up to take care of things. Peter had found some seeds, so they may as well plant that late garden, maybe something would make it, and Mrs. Sawyer said she had collards and things to plant in the late garden, too. She said Mary liked working in the garden. Joe believed working in the garden wouldn’t be too bad when she returned.

  The sun sank behind the west mountain and crickets began their serenade. Two owls called back and forth in the distance. “You know, I’ve always liked this time of day,” Peter said, leaning on the hoe and looking toward the mountains. “Not really day, but not night yet, either.”