Billy Boy

by Jean Mary Flahive

  “How far you run from?”

  “Other side of the Potomac—crossed it and came into these here woods.”

  “Why you run away no how?”

  “Wantin’ to go home is all. Ain’t we gonna be friends?”

  They stared at each other in awkward silence. Finally, Elijah turned away without answering. He paced a few steps, paced back, and turned away again. From the corner of his eye Elijah watched Billy walk to the creek, plop down on the bank, and cup his chin in his hands. Billy sat there, never once turning around for most of the long afternoon as Elijah stayed and tended the fire, staring vacantly, occasionally shaking his head in frustration. Finally, with a push of his hands on his knees, Elijah got up and walked to the bank.

  “Billy, suh?” Elijah sat down on the grass beside him.

  “Yeah?”

  “Elijah never had no white folk be his friend. Why you want this nigguh fo’ a friend?”

  “Needin’ one is all. Like my friend Harry. Thing is, I ain’t always sure what to do. Harry figured things out most times.”

  “Maybe Elijah try.”

  “Figurin’ things out and all?”

  “Yes, suh.”

  “Then you’ll be my friend?”

  “Only some.”

  “Why only some?”

  Elijah pointed a finger at his dark skin. “Elijah no white folk like this Harry. So Elijah only some.”

  A hint of a smile crept across his face.

  Billy grinned. Tension collapsed into relief, expressed in a fit of giggles, and he folded his arms across his stomach. Embarrassed, he erupted into another burst of explosive laughter.

  Elijah couldn’t remember a time when he’d ever heard someone laughing out loud like that. The sound was infectious; without warning, he found himself chuckling, too, even though he was in the middle of chewing his share of Billy’s beef. In seconds he was mimicking Billy’s laughter, heavy chortles exploding from his throat. Tears spilled down his cheeks, and he doubled over and hugged his belly. But then his laughter collapsed into a hacking cough; his eyes bulged as he gasped for air, and he fell onto his hands and knees.

  Elijah heard footsteps rushing toward him. Still coughing, he raised his head to the noise, but his watered eyes saw only a blurred figure moving quickly to his side, now looming over him. He saw only a hand arched as if to strike him. His scream echoed across the clearing.

  “No, suh! No, don’, don’, suh!”

  “You’re chokin’! Gonna slap your back is all.”

  But Elijah heard only the sharp cracks of the whip that had snapped against his back, one after another, each violent lash tearing open his flesh. He cried out, his body twitching at each imagined lash. He collapsed, falling limply to the ground.

  Elijah knew his head lay against the white man’s chest, but he lacked the strength to resist. He didn’t move as arms enfolded him, rocking him slowly, back and forth, before exhaustion crumpled him.

  Chapter 12

  “You ever been fishin’, Elijah?” Billy sat on the bank, warmed by the late October sun, elbows propped on his knees as he stared at the sluggish creek. The water was considerably lower than it had been the day before when it was swollen from the rain.

  “No, suh.” Elijah picked up a stone and tossed it into the creek.

  “Pa taught me. Thing is, I ain’t much good at it.” Billy glanced at Elijah. “We ain’t got nuthin’ to eat. One apple is all,” he said, wrinkling his brow. “Wish we had us a fishin’ pole.”

  “Mebbe we just catch ’em with our hands.” From his rocky perch Elijah leaned over and peered into the shallow water.

  “Too hard, I’m thinkin’.” Billy twisted to his side, leaned over, and picked up a branch. “Hey, I could whittle us a spear.” Excitedly, he pulled his knife from his trouser pocket and dug into the limb, furiously shaping its broken end into a fine, sharp point.

  “Look!” Billy exclaimed, overwhelmed with self-satisfaction as he held up the spear. “Learned me to whittle from Ethan.”

  Elijah let out a low whistle and grabbed the spear, touching its pointed end with the tip of his finger. “Ooh, suh, that be mighty sharp.”

  Within minutes Billy had carved another one, jumped to his feet, threw off his socks and boots, and waded into the water, striking his new weapon erratically at the air.

  “We’re needin’ to fish where the water ain’t movin’ so much,” he said, and led the way downstream until he found an eddy wide enough for the two them. He glanced up at a wide-trunked oak, its yellow leaves shadowing the water’s edge. “Pa says to always fish in the shade.”

  Holding the spears above their heads, they positioned themselves at opposite ends of the eddy, each poised to strike the first trout. At each imagined movement, Billy repeatedly jabbed his spear beneath the surface, stirring mud and gravel from the creek bed. “Them fish just skedaddlin’.”

  Elijah shook his head. “You just scarin’ them fishes away. Let Elijah do the fishin’.” Billy lifted his spear out of the water, uttered his dismay at the flattened tip, and waded out of the eddy.

  “Bad luck is all,” he groused as he stepped onto the red bank of mud under the oak, tossing his ruined spear to the ground.

  “Billy, suh, you be listenin’ and watchin’ them woods while Elijah fish.”

  “You mean like picket duty?”

  Elijah shook his head. “Don’t know nuthin’ about this picket duty. Maybe you just whittle sumthin’ for Elijah.”

  Billy’s spirits immediately brightened. He turned and studied the oak tree and snapped off a low branch, its decaying leaves crumbling in his hands. “I’ll whittle a fish. Don’t worry none, Elijah. I’ll watch them woods, too.”

  Elijah shook his head. Sometime this white boy act just like a child. As Elijah stood quietly in the eddy, his spear arched above his head, Billy stretched his long legs over the bank and began stripping the bark.

  Elijah stood unmoving in the shallow water. Suddenly Billy heard a small splash as Elijah’s spear shot through the water. Billy looked up as Elijah raised the spear, its tip piercing the gills of a brown trout.

  Elijah swung the spear over the bank and shook the fish off the tip. The fish flopped for a few seconds and then lay still on the sand. Billy clapped his hands.

  The long afternoon passed before Elijah speared another fish and waded back onto the bank. He started a small fire, careful to use only dry twigs to lessen the smoke. Billy scooped up both fish and set them on the flattened surface of a large rock, wiping his blade against his trousers.

  “Pa and Harry always cleaned ’em, but I seen them do it.” He sliced off the heads and slit the bellies, using his fingers to pull out the tangle of guts. Then he ran to the bank and on his knees leaned over and rinsed the fish, removing the last of the innards. As he set the fish back onto the outcrop, he hesitated, not sure how to remove the spine and its network of fine bones. He jabbed his knife against the spine, tearing chunks of raw meat before he sighed and dropped the fish onto the flat rock. “Needin’ to cook the fish with them bones, I’m thinkin’.”

  “Elijah do the cookin’,” Elijah said as he folded the spliced bellies over a twig and held them over the fire. The oily fish dripped and sizzled over the coals.

  Billy plopped to the ground and, resting his chin in his hands, studied Elijah’s naked back hunched over the fire. His skin was ragged; seams of red bumpy ridges ran from his neck and disappeared into the band on his trousers. “Elijah,” Billy asked quietly, “how come your back’s all tore up?”

  “Whuppin’s, Billy, suh.”

  “Who done that to you?”

  “Mastuh and the overseer.”

  “Why’d they go and tan you so hard like that?”

  “All slaves get whupped,” he said, not turning around. “Mastuh Ramsey, though—he Elijah’s first mastuh—he treat my pappy and me good most time, but we worked hard. We work in the fields all the time, every day. But sometime on Sundays, Mastuh let the slaves have
a preacher come and we sing by the fire.” Elijah paused and poked a finger at the soft underbellies of the fish.

  “Then who’s Master Fowler?” Billy asked.

  “Mastuh Ramsey go on and sell me to Mastuh Fowler. He bad. He whup me for no reason. Elijah don’t do nuthin’. Then his overseer, Buckra, he whup Elijah with a rawhide strap most days.” Elijah winced. “Ol’ Joe, he tell me Mastuh gon’ sell me at the auction block. That night Elijah run away, like Pappy and Ol’ Joe say.”

  “Ain’t right, hurtin’ people like that,” Billy said, shaking his head. “You ever gonna see your pa again, you thinkin’?”

  Elijah lowered his head. “‘No, suh, Elijah don’ think so.”

  “Then you got no place to go?”

  “Ol’ Joe, he tell Elijah, go to Canada and be a free man. He say follow the North Star.” Elijah turned a blackened twig away from the fire.

  “North Star! My Pa says our farm’s right under the North Star. Thing is, I’m followin’ her home.” Billy jumped to his feet and, walking away from the fire’s reflection, searched the sky. “Needin’ to find the Big Dipper first,” he said, pointing his index finger low in the northern sky. “It’s got a big handle on it—like a soup ladle.”

  “You be lookin’ for the same as the Drinkin’ Gourd,” Elijah said. “Billy, suh, be goin’ to Canada?”

  “Naw, Berwick. That’s in the state of Maine. About near as far, I’m thinkin’.”

  Elijah slid the fish onto a rock. “All cooked.” He peeled the hot skin and picked at the flakes of meat. “Fish taste real good. Ol’ Joe, he say go to Sandy Spring, Maryland. Quaker folk there put me on the Underground Railroad to Canada.”

  “Maryland? I know where that is; it’s just across the river.”

  “Elijah get all the way to Maryland?” His eyes flashed wide. “Just like Ol’ Joe say?”

  Wiping his greasy fingers against his trousers, Billy smacked his lips as he devoured the last of his fish and settled down on his earthen bed. “We’ll leave in the mornin’. Needin’ to steal us some food.”

  “No, suh. Elijah don’t steal nuthin’.”

  “It ain’t stealin’. Them fellas in the army do it all the time. Leighton don’t get in trouble for it.”

  Elijah offered no response as he tossed the last of the branches onto the fire and watched the flames spiral higher. Finally he lay down beside Billy. “Buckra whup a little nigguh gal with a hickory stick. Whupped her so bad she nearly die. Just ’cause she go and steal a potato, she so hungry. No, suh, Elijah don’t steal nuthin’.”

  “All right, then. I’ll do it. Besides, Leighton says if you desert you got to steal some other clothes. Army will catch me right quick if they see me in these clothes.”

  Billy thought some more about what lay ahead. He knew Elijah would be scared to cross the Potomac, to step into a river far wider and stronger than Goose Creek.

  “Elijah?”

  “Yes, suh?”

  Somethin’ I’m needin’ to tell you.”

  “What that be?”

  “That river, the Potomac? Like I already told you, I crossed it before. It’s pretty big and all. You ain’t gonna be scared, is you?”

  Elijah sighed deeply. “Elijah gonna cross this river—this river make Elijah a free man.”

  Daylight dawned gray and heavy, a fine mist hanging in the air. Anxious to make the crossing before the rain, Billy woke Elijah, telling him they needed to hurry. As they emerged from the forest onto the open fields, Billy pointed to the Maryland countryside on the other side, to the distant army encampment at Edward’s Ferry, before rushing into the safety of the tall grass. Wind whipped against a darkening sky as they climbed a sweep of rolling hills and turned away from the river.

  “Need to find me some clothes right off,” Billy said. Haystacks dotted the harvested fields, and a sharp longing for home went through him when he spotted a farmer gathering forkfuls of hay. He felt a nudge against his ribs.

  “Clothes over there,” Elijah said, pointing to a farmyard in the other direction. Clothes were hanging to dry from a line strung across the yard.

  Billy nodded, and dropping to his hands and knees, followed Elijah through the overgrown field. As they inched closer to the farmyard, Billy poked his head up over the grass, spotting nothing but dairy cows grazing behind a fence near the barn. Heavy with laundry, the clothesline sagged almost to the ground.

  “Stay here and keep a-lookin’,” Billy whispered. “You see somethin’, whistle is all.” He crawled slowly through the thicket, stopped, and turned his head to Elijah. “I ain’t never stole nuthin’ before neither.”

  “Mebbe, Billy, suh, you can get me a shirt,” Elijah said with a wry grin on his face.

  Billy nodded, and in seconds disappeared in the dense undergrowth, staying low until he reached the rain barrel at one end of the clothesline. Hearing no whistle from Elijah, he sprang from his hiding place and, running the length of the line, grabbed handfuls of clothes as pins snapped and dropped to the ground. He scanned the farmyard, spotting only an orange-striped cat rolling in the dirt. Clutching the damp clothing, he raced across the open yard and leaped into the cover of the tall grass, dropping onto his hands and knees. Elijah grinned. Without speaking, they moved quickly down the field, finding shelter in a stand of oaks.

  “No matter if these don’t fit good,” Billy said, examining the bundle of clothes in a heap on the ground. He held up flannel shirts, trousers, and a woman’s skirt. He tossed the skirt to the ground and handed Elijah a shirt.

  “I’m gon’ wear this shirt all the time. Ain’t nobody see this back again. Ain’t nobody.”

  Billy’s clothes hung loosely on his thin frame, and taking the long lace from one of his boots, he tied it around his waist to keep the trousers from sliding off his hips. Except for his short sack coat, which he wanted for its warmth, he shed his army clothing, and stuffing it all under a bush, he covered the discarded clothing with dried leaves and dirt. Sadness rushed through him. It was the last connection to his friends and a reminder he was leaving them behind. He thought long and hard about Harry. Worried if he would ever see him again. He glanced over at Elijah, ever grateful for his new companionship, and his promise to figure things out for him like Harry had done.

  They followed the river upstream, watchful for army encampments or soldiers on picket along the Maryland shore. They made their way slowly, shadowing among the trees and studying the landscape before darting across open fields. By late afternoon Billy had found White’s Ford, and pointing his finger, explained to Elijah how they would work their way across the river after dark.

  “Thinkin’ I’ll get us some food.” Billy said, tugging at Elijah’s elbow. “There’s a farm way over there.”

  Elijah nodded. “We both go this time, Billy, suh.”

  They spotted a nearly vacant garden behind the large red barn. The farmhouse sat farther down the lane, almost out of view. Crawling beside Elijah, Billy watched as his friend dug his fingers into the dark soil and pulled out a handful of forgotten potatoes.

  A low growl pierced the air, followed by barking.

  Startled, Billy looked at Elijah and saw the terror streak across his dark face. “Let’s go.”

  “Lord, don’t let that be bloodhounds.” Elijah scooped up the potatoes and darted into the cover of the thicket, Billy close at his heels.

  Shouts erupted from the farmyard. “Asa! Get over here!”

  Billy turned to look. Halfway across the garden, a yellow retriever stopped, turned its head to his master’s voice, and then turned back to Billy, unleashing earsplitting barks.

  “Asa? That skunk’s gonna get you again! Get back here.” His master’s voice was firm. Whimpering, the dog retreated.

  Billy and Elijah sprinted across the field to the river, sliding at last down the embankment to an overhang at its edge. They each downed a potato.

  Elijah raised his face to the three-quarter moon disappearing through the thickening clouds. It
had started to rain. “Billy, suh, we need to cross now, and you gon’ have to help me,” Elijah said. “Take off your shirt and wrap your things in it.”

  Billy nodded. Tucking the shirt and belongings under one arm, he turned to Elijah as he waded into the shallow water. “Take my hand—if I stop, then don’t you move neither.”

  “Billy, suh, you sure we can cross the river like this?” Elijah whistled under his breath and reached out to grab Billy’s hand.

  “It ain’t so bad.” Billy stepped into the dark waters and, planting his boots heavily on the shale-covered bottom, tested his balance before urging Elijah forward. With each step, Billy moved slowly, cautiously, pausing every few feet as Elijah inched his way behind him. As the river deepened, the current made them even more unsteady in their wobbly footholds. The cold water swirling around their chests swelled and slapped their faces as the wind funneled down the river, turning the Potomac into a torrent of white-capped waves.

  A crack of thunder echoed against the steep banks. The sky was black.

  Elijah’s fingernails dug into Billy’s clenched hand. The sudden pain startled Billy, and he slipped on the shale, jerking Elijah off his feet.

  “Elijah, dig in, dig in!”

  Fear and adrenaline drove Elijah’s bare feet into the gravelly bottom. Billy tried to do the same, frantically searching for a foothold. For an instant his boot felt secure, and then suddenly he felt himself sinking into the river bottom.

  “Don’t step no farther, Elijah. Got a boot stuck.”

  Billy pulled and tugged to free himself, but his boot sank deeper and deeper. Clutching his shirt-wrapped belongings tighter to his chest, the fingers on his other hand locked with Elijah’s, Billy heaved his weight forward, wresting Elijah off his feet. Elijah yelled as the current lifted him, hurling him against Billy’s shoulder. The impact spiraled Billy off his feet. He felt his foot sliding from the boot.

  “Hang on, Elijah!” Wrapping one arm around Elijah’s waist, Billy frantically clawed the water. I can’t lose my boot! he thought.