“Billy, suh, don’t you go and talk like this no mo’!”
“Ain’t you gonna promise?”
“How I gon’ be a big brother? He white folk chile!”
“No matter. Jamie, he’s a right good boy—besides, you can learn him things.” He bit down on his lower lip, crossed his arms in a defiant stare. “You’re needin’ to promise.”
“Billy, suh—”
“Friends gotta have promises.”
“All right, Billy, suh, Elijah promise.”
Billy turned his head at the sound of footsteps in the stairwell. Anna and William Still stood in the entryway, their faces somber. Billy did not want to believe it was time to go. “We needin’ to go now, Miss Anna?” he asked in a halting voice.
She nodded.
Billy shot a glance at Elijah. No one spoke or moved.
Finally Anna walked over to Elijah. “Thee will be able to go to school and learn to read the letters that I write thee.”
“Yes, missus,” he said.
“And Billy,” William Still said as he stepped forward and extended his hand, “I pray for your safety—for a just and fair ending to this unfortunate matter with the army.”
Timidly Billy reached for Still’s hand.
“In spite of your troubles, you were a soldier of freedom,” Still said with a firm shake of his hand. “It is as if Elijah is your badge of honor—you saved his life and helped him find his way here. No matter what happens, may you always remember that, Billy.”
Billy swallowed, but his throat felt dry. “Them’s nice words, Mr. Still.”
“Words you have earned, Billy.”
Billy spun around and threw his arms around Elijah, holding him tight.
“Good-bye, Billy, suh,” Elijah whispered.
On the train station platform, Anna repeated the instructions to Billy once again, and then passed him a folded piece of paper with travel instructions. “If thee is confused, ask a station agent to read this. And as I have said, thee has more than enough money for the train and steamer fares and food. I put some bread and cheese in your haversack. Thee should be in Boston in two days’ time.”
Anna pressed her hand against her bonnet to keep it from lifting in the wind. “My address is written on this paper. Thee can ask thy mother to write me and let me know how thee is doing. Does thee remember everything I have told thee?”
“Reckon,” he said nodding his head.
“I do not know what train leaves from Boston—”
“Miss Anna,” Billy said, “I ain’t afeared. If I can’t find the right train and all, I can walk home most like.” For the moment he felt strong, pleased to see her breathe deeply and smile at him.
“Then thee must follow the rail bed north.”
Over the hiss of steam and screeching wheels, the conductor shouted for final boarding.
Placing a hand under Anna’s elbow, Billy gently turned her around. Her eyes were watery. Awkwardly, he pressed his face close to hers.
Anna leaned her head against his chest. “I will miss thee, Billy Laird. Go now; my heart is gladdened, knowing thee is going home,” she said. He turned away from her, fearful that Anna would see him cry again. Words dissolved on his tongue. He looked at the car. The conductor caught his glance and waved him forward.
“Needin’ to go. ’Bye, now, Miss Anna. And thanks for all you done for Elijah and me.”
“Godspeed, Billy.”
Anna pressed the Bible into his hand. Holding it against his chest, he turned and ran as the car pulled from the station. He found an empty seat near the back, peered out the window, and spotted her, standing on the platform, bonneted head bowed against her chest. He wondered if she was sheltering her head from the cold wind or whispering a prayer. He tapped on the window, pressed his face against the glass, and waved. But Anna never raised her head. Still, he kept waving until the station platform at last faded behind him and city streets turned to empty meadows and gray, leafless forests.
Settling back in his seat, the Bible clutched tightly in his hand, Billy stared dreamily at the changing landscape that was bringing him closer to home. Soon he would see his folks. And sleep in his own bed. He smiled to himself, remembering how Jamie liked to sneak across the hall and crawl in beside him. He would wait through the long winter in eager anticipation for spring, the sap run, and the sugaring house filling with the sweet scent of boiling maple sugar. Then soon after it would be summertime—and Elijah would come. And maybe the war would be over and Harry, Leighton, and the others would all come home.
Chapter 23
Billy raced down the gangway and stood on the pier at Fall River, Massachusetts. He had slept little on the overnight run from New York harbor, having lain on a hard bench in the noisy, smoke-filled lower deck of the steamer. As soon as the Bay State was docked, he remembered Miss Anna’s advice. He sought out the steward and inquired about the train to Boston. The steward scratched his stubbled chin. He told Billy the “boat train” was just across the street from the pier. Now, scanning the dock overcrowded with hordes of seamen and harried travelers, Billy spotted a man standing off to one side, holding a large straw basket and shouting “Meat pies for sale!”
Billy pushed his way through the throngs of people and stopped in front of the dark-haired man, his mouth watering at the sight of pies tucked in the folds of a red-and-white-checkered cloth. The coins jingled heavily in his trouser pocket. Unable to resist the pie, he decided to save the last of the bread and cheese Anna had put in his haversack. The pie man looked at Billy and held out an empty hand. Without a word, Billy handed him all of his change and anxiously watched as the pie man silently counted each coin.
“How many pies will you be wantin’, kid?” the man grunted, his eyes still fixed on the handful of coins.
“One is all—if I got me enough money. You thinkin’ them’s enough coins for a pie?”
The pie man raised his eyebrows and gave Billy a long, curious stare from head to toe, and then chuckling under his breath, he quickly stashed the money into a leather pouch and handed Billy a pie.
“Sure, kid—just enough for one. Now git yourself out of here,” he said.
Billy tucked the pie under his arm and hurried across the street to find the boat train. The rail car was filling quickly. He spotted an empty seat by the window, scooted in front of an elderly man, greeted him with a nod, and sat down. He bit hungrily into the golden-brown crust, enjoying the thick chunks of boiled meat covered in salty gravy.
Beside him, the elderly gentleman tapped him on the shoulder and, leaning over, pointed to the massive, iron-spanned bridge rising above the fast-flowing waterway.
“Slade’s Ferry Bridge,” the old man said. “Carries the southern-bound trains over the Taunton River.” Moments later he pointed to the large granite mills dominating the riverbank. It was all so much like home.
Wiping his hands on the sides of his pants, Billy jingled his trouser pocket, heard not a single coin, and shook his head when he only now recalled that he had given the pie man all of his money. He had no money left for the next fare. I’ll just hafta walk home, he thought. He would follow the rail bed north, like Miss Anna had said. And he was sure the rail tracks would take him to Portsmouth. From there he would cross the river into Maine. It didn’t seem so far now. He wouldn’t even have to go into a store and ask for directions. Billy yawned, and leaning his head against the window, drifted into a light sleep.
When the Old Colony Railroad train pulled into the Boston station, Billy felt a rush of renewed excitement. He leaped down the platform steps and stared at the massive rail yard. The mid-morning sun glinted off the steel roadways. Then it hit him. The rail yard’s endless tracks ran in every direction. Which way north? He combed the platform, hoping to spot the friendly old man who had sat next to him, but the cars were emptied. Weary travelers rushed into and out of the station, but the old man was nowhere to be found.
Frustrated, Billy shaded his eyes with the palm of his han
d and looked toward the street, finally spotting the old man heading down the brick sidewalk. He hurried after him. The old man told him to head for the harbor and follow the rail lines along the waterfront, all the while pointing his arm in a northerly direction. Feeling certain he had his bearings, Billy thanked the old man and hurried down a narrow cobbled street heading straight to the sea.
Hands in his pockets, his gaze down on the rails, his thoughts drifted to last summer and the 17th Maine, marching through the narrow streets across Boston in the stifling heat, suffocating in their new woolen uniforms and full packs. It was a happier time, laughing and joshing with his friends on that hot August day. This time the city was bitter cold, and he was alone.
The railroad tracks took him right into the inner harbor and a seemingly endless parade of tall ships, square-rigged brigs, sloops, and schooners all tethered to pilings that stretched far out into the bay.
Billy stepped off the tracks and hesitated, staring in fascination as he watched ships’ crews slather pine tar over the standing riggings. Line after line of deckhands hauled sails, bolts of canvas, and coils of rigging up the gangway onto the ships. Billy watched until the cold penetrated his clothes. To stop his shivering, he walked briskly beside the tracks while gulls circled overhead.
He walked along the harbor for most of the morning, grateful when at last the procession of ships diminished from view and the landscape opened onto an endless stretch of coastal plains. He found himself on a strip of raised earth just wide enough to carry the rail bed across the gray, wet expanse.
The distant clacking of a train startled Billy, and he leaped from the rail bed onto the frozen marsh. He clapped his hands over his ears as the train roared past him, the ground shaking beneath his feet. In its wake the train left a deep silence, filling him with loneliness. He shuddered as the wind sliced through his wool suit coat. He climbed back onto the raised rail bed and hurried his pace to the northern side of the marsh and the distant forest, a welcome barrier against the wind.
Billy crossed a marsh as the last of the light disappeared behind the tall pines, and found a place to sleep not far from the tracks. He fumbled in the darkness for scraps of wood and lit a fire as the blackness engulfed him. He was scared, and he missed Elijah. He was also hungry again, but wanted to save the last of Miss Anna’s bread and cheese. He lay down on the freezing ground to sleep.
When Billy awoke, the morning was raw and biting. Pain shot through his hips and shoulders as he sat up, and his hands stung from the cold. He quickly tucked them in his armpits for warmth as he stood and stretched his legs. He walked over to the tracks and combed the dull, gray landscape. Picking up his haversack, he struck out along the rails.
Later that morning, Billy stood beneath the twin towers of a white clapboard church atop a steep rise overlooking the bay. He shook his head at the boundless view of towering ship masts, the clustered timbers more like a leafless forest. This must be Gloucester. Reverend Snow once said the ships in Gloucester filled the harbor from end to end—like a long wooden bridge. Along the hillside, the cupolas of grand colonials towered above sprawling horse chestnut trees.
Billy followed the tracks down a gradual slope and through the bustling port city. Not wanting to face the gathering throngs of shoppers or rugged seamen loitering near tavern doors, he pulled the wide-brimmed hat low over his forehead and hastened along the tracks.
Billy walked tirelessly for the rest of the day. He had spoken to no one, and no one had spoken to him. When it got dark, he made his meager camp and settled in for the night. The wind howled through the trees, sharp and unfriendly, and he hurried to build his fire.
He wasn’t sure what woke him later that night. The fire had dwindled to a pile of low-burning coals. Shivering, he got to his tired feet and scavenged in the dark for more wood. Away from the fire’s faint glow, he gazed at the sky, its moon and stars brilliant in the clear night. He spotted the North Star low in the northern sky. Billy rekindled the fire and lay down just far enough away to stay warm and still keep his sights on the North Star. Comforted by the thought that Elijah might be looking at it and thinking of him, too, he fell at last into a soothing sleep, as if his friend were there beside him.
There was no wind the next morning, and it was eerily quiet as Billy lay on his back listening to the waves breaking. Frost blanketed the ground, and although he struggled to rebuild his fire, he was unsuccessful. Frustrated, Billy stalked off toward the rail bed, deciding to get an early start. Opening his canteen for a drink, he found that the water had frozen solid, and the last remnants of his bread and cheese crumbled in his hands. He pulled the wide-brimmed hat close to his ears, raised the collar on his coat, and started off, still hoping he was close to Portsmouth. He could smell the snow before it started to fall. The wind returned and blew heavy flakes sideways, stinging his face. He took a mouthful of snow to quench his thirst. Afraid of losing his way, he hunched his shoulders against the snow, searching with each careful step for the tracks beneath his feet. His hands froze as he gripped his hat, and snow ran down the sleeves of his coat, sending cold, wet shivers through his body.
Suddenly all was still. Without slowing in its intensity, the blowing snow just vanished, and a hazy sun slowly emerged. While walking in the blinding snow, Billy had lost all sense of time and distance, and now he wondered how far he had walked. Ahead he saw a church spire towering above the treetops, and spiraling tufts of smoke.
Billy broke into a run. He followed the tracks over the last tract of marsh, not stopping until he had reached a muddied road that curved around a ragged, rocky shore and spilled onto a working harbor of canneries and fishing vessels. He headed inland, toward the center of the town, where a bumpy cobbled street ran into the town square. It looked familiar … the square … the redbrick church. It’s Market Square, I’m thinkin’! It’s Portsmouth—it is, it is!
He spun around in the middle of the square, looking for the street that led to the inner harbor and the bridge to Kittery, Maine. Crossing Market Square, he headed for the winding street that ran downhill toward the river, and then followed it to the stone bridge that spanned the Piscataquis River separating New Hampshire from Maine. He was fairly sure he knew the rest of the way home; he’d driven Ma back and forth to the big market a number of times over the years and if he hurried, he thought he might just make it to Cranberry Meadow Road that night.
Chapter 24
Much later, in the dimming light, Billy spotted Jamie walking toward the barn carrying a bucket. He cupped his hands. “Jamie! It’s me! It’s me—Billy!”
Jamie turned, dropped his bucket, and stood motionless in the middle of the barnyard. His head darted back and forth as he scanned the field.
Billy shouted again, “Jamie! Jamie!” He waved his arms over his head. This time he was sure Jamie saw him.
“Billeeeeee!” Screaming at the top of his lungs, Jamie raced through the gate and into the field, stumbling, tripping in the darkness until he jumped up into his brother’s outstretched arms.
“Billy, it’s really you!” Jamie’s thin legs wrapped tightly around Billy’s waist as he hugged him long and hard. When Billy at last lowered Jamie to the ground, Jamie still had his arms wrapped around Billy’s waist, refusing to let go. Laughing, Billy just picked him up and carried him across the field.
The barn door flew open and Pa came out. “Billy—Lord, it’s my son—” he said in a halting voice. His eyes filled with tears.
“I come home, Pa.” Billy eased Jamie from his arms and stepped hesitantly toward his father. “I’m sorry, Pa. I know I done wrong to run.” He lowered his head against his chest. “You sore at me?”
“It’s all right, my boy,” Pa said, pulling him close in a strong embrace. “Lord Almighty, after your ma and I heard what you done, I never expected I’d see you again.” Pa sighed and offered a faint smile as he removed the wide-brimmed hat from Billy’s head and ran his hand through the matted hair. “By the God, how did you find your
way?”
“I remembered what you learned me, Pa.” Billy raised his face to the sky, spun around, and pointed a finger. “The North Star …”
“Well, I’ll be. I never—come, let’s find your ma.”
“Ma’s in the kitchen,” Jamie chimed in. “C’mon!” Pushing himself off Billy, he ran ahead to the farmhouse.
Ma’s back was to the door, hands dusted with flour as she turned dough on the tabletop. The door opened and slammed shut.
“Ma …”
For a moment Ma did not move, and then she turned and stared, blinked her soft blue eyes, and calmly wiped her floured hands on her apron.
“Billy!” Hands clutched across her bosom, she took a step forward and fainted.
The old rooster crowed from his lofty barnyard perch, startling Billy from his peaceful sleep. Tossing his quilt aside, he stretched his arms and, yawning himself awake, rolled over on his back. With eyes half-closed, he glanced sleepily at the window. And then it hit him. He was home. In his own bed. He heard the bedroom door creak open and bare feet padding across the floorboards. He pretended to be asleep as Jamie tiptoed into his bed. Jamie scrambled beneath the covers, inched his way across the sheets, and burrowed against him.
“I ain’t doin’ your chores no more, Billy,” said the tiny voice beside him.
“You’re needin’ to do all the chores, I’m thinkin’,” Billy said, mocking the tone of the recruiting officer from months ago. He pulled his pillow out from under him, raised it above his shoulders, and with driving force smacked it against Jamie’s head.
“Am not!”
“Are too!”
Jamie flipped over and armed himself with another pillow before Billy could whack him again. Arms and pillows dueled across the bed, mingling with shouts and hoots of laughter. Finally Jamie collapsed in defeat. “Billy, was you scared in the woods?” he asked, catching his breath as he dropped down on his back.
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