Billy Boy

by Jean Mary Flahive

  “Naw. Thing is, most times I was with Elijah.” His face brightened, and flipping on his side, Billy leaned on his elbow, resting his face in his hands. “Did I tell you last night about them fellas chasing us?”

  Jamie bolted into a sitting position. “Tell me, tell me!” He listened as his brother described the chase through the woods, the men on horses close at their heels.

  “Then Elijah said we got to jump this here fence. We hunched down beside the cows—moved real quiet like ’til we got to the barn.”

  “And the horsemen chased you right to the barn?”

  “Yeah. Elijah said we was needin’ to hide.”

  Jamie clutched his pillow against his chest. “Where’d you hide—in the hay?”

  “Elijah said they’d find us in the hayloft, so he helped me get into one of them hogsheads. Put the lid right over me. Them fellas came runnin’ right into the barn.”

  Jamie burrowed under the quilt. “Did they look for you in the hogsheads?”

  “One of the fellas went and poked the hay with a pitchfork. Never once looked in them barrels. Elijah’s right smart.” Billy leaned back on the pillow, his arms clasped under his head. “Me and him like brothers, seems like.” Jamie made no response. Billy glanced at the lump under the quilt. There was no movement. He hesitated, then called out Jamie’s name, but his brother did not answer. Billy raised the comforter to see Jamie’s lips curled in a pout.

  “Aw, Jamie, I told Elijah ’bout you and all.”

  “Don’t care.”

  Billy reached under the quilt and with both hands pulled Jamie out and into his arms. “When Elijah comes to Maine, he can be your big brother, too.”

  “I don’t want another big brother!”

  “But Elijah ain’t got family.”

  Jamie clasped his arms around Billy’s neck. “You likin’ Elijah more’n me?”

  “It ain’t about likin’ someone more, I’m thinkin’. Reverend Snow says folks’ hearts don’t never fill up. Elijah bein’ like a brother don’t take nuthin’ away from how I feel about you.”

  The bedroom door flew open. “Well, there you are, Jamie. And here I was thinkin’ that you was doin’ chores!”

  Billy reveled in the grin on Pa’s face.

  “I’m goin’, Pa, but I ain’t doin’ Billy’s.”

  Tossing the covers aside, Jamie hopped out of bed and raced to his room across the hall.

  “I ain’t mindin’ chores, Pa.” Billy glanced in his closet and saw his old clothes: a winter jacket, a few pairs of worn trousers, and a handful of flannel shirts hung neatly on the wooden pegs. “Besides, I’m wantin’ to be in my own clothes again.”

  “Hardly recognized you—what with you all dressed like one of them Quakers. Well, hurry on up. Your ma’s fixing pancakes.” Pa turned to walk away, hesitated, turned back, and grinned. “Still got us some maple syrup, Billy Boy.”

  Billy watched Pa head down the narrow staircase. The cold air penetrated his nightshirt, and he hurried to the dresser and grabbed a wool sweater. He glanced at the pipe lying on top of the dresser. It was the only thing he had of Grandfather Ephraim’s, and the old man had carved it himself. Now he could whittle as well as his grandfather had. He was eager to begin a fish for Elijah and a three-masted schooner for Jamie.

  Later that day, after Billy had helped Ma gather eggs, she told him to go find his father. “Pa’s wanting to talk to you. He’s out gathering the herd—near milking time.”

  He heard the clanging of harness bells before spotting the small dairy herd inching lazily across the field. It had been a long time since he’d last milked the cows with Pa. As the cows plodded slowly over the rise, he watched Pa behind them, swatting and goading them with a long stick. Billy called out to Pa and raced across the field.

  Pa turned to Billy, a stern look on his face. “There’s something I’m needing to tell you, son.”

  “Pa?”

  “This business with the army ain’t over.” Pa rested his hands on his hips and looked out across the pasture, watching the cows move slowly to the barn. “It’s likely the army will find out you’re here.”

  “You gonna tell them, Pa?”

  “No, I ain’t telling the army, or nobody, Billy. But Lord knows it’s gonna be plum hard keeping this secret—and make no mistake—they’ll come looking for you.”

  Pa took a few steps forward, hesitated, and then started walking again. “Harry wrote us what you done.”

  Billy studied Pa’s grim face.

  “He wrote that they’d sent you on to another unit. Said he didn’t think you would have deserted if you’d been able to stay with him.” He took a deep breath and looked down at his son. “Is that why you run off, Billy?”

  “You sore at me?”

  “Billy, listen—”

  “They gonna shoot me, Pa, for what I done? Leighton says they shoot fellas who run off.”

  “Don’t you be talking like that—especially around your ma!” Pa broke in sharply. “We just need to figure things out—figure a way to keep the army and the folks around here from finding you.”

  “Pa,” Billy said, his voice cracking. “These privates went and—”

  “It was wrong that you run, Billy, but what’s done is done. Folks in town all know you deserted. Most folks been real kind. Henry Kinsley, though—well, his two oldest boys are fighting, and he about took a fit when he heard you run off.”

  “I can’t go back, Pa. Sergeant Noyes, he—”

  Pa grabbed Billy by the shoulders, pressed his fingers firmly into his jacket. “You ain’t going back. I never should have let you go from the start. I let that fool recruiting officer take you without a fight. Too late for that. I’m wanting to let you know right now, Billy, that some folks ain’t to be trusted. It’s important you understand what I’m telling you. You hear me?”

  Billy nodded.

  “Can’t even let you ride Daisy ’til all this is settled, until we figure out what to do with you or where to send you.”

  “I got to go away again, Pa? I don’t—”

  “I don’t know, Billy. There’s a lot to think about. For now, you got to stay plum out of sight when folks come around here.” He looked at Billy. “Your ma’s talked to Jamie about this. He ain’t to say nothing to his teacher at the schoolhouse, or to his friends.”

  “You think the army’s gonna come lookin’?”

  “Reckon I can’t answer that.” Pa spit on the ground. Leaning over, he picked up a stick and drove the herd across the field.

  The days rolled quickly into December. Except for helping Pa in the barn, Billy spent most of his hours by the parlor window, whittling and watching for Jamie to come down the lane, grateful the school day was finally over. In the half-light of the evening, he and Jamie would cross the pastures to the edge of the forest, gathering branches of hemlock, pine, birch, maple, and oak. Billy chose the white birch for Elijah’s fish and the harder red oak for the spear. On the nights Billy carved, Jamie rarely left his side, delighted when at last the fish, perfectly arced, its belly pierced with a long thin spear, was placed in his hands. Promising its safekeeping for Elijah, Jamie begged Billy to let him keep it in his room.

  One evening Billy asked Ma to write a letter for him, handing her the crumpled slip of paper Anna had given him at the station. With a curious smile, Ma sat at the table and penned Billy’s words to the young Quaker woman.

  “The Seventeenth Regiment’s camped in Fredericksburg,” said Pa as he peered at his family over the top of the newspaper. “Says they’re readying for their first engagement since going south.”

  “Harry still writin’ you?”

  “Harry writes us when he can,” answered Ma. Pa looked over and nodded at her. “Billy,” she said in a quavering voice, “Jeb Hall took a fever some weeks back—got left behind at sick call while the rest of the regiment marched on to Richmond.” She hesitated.

  “They send him on home?”

  “No. Jeb … well, he didn’t ma
ke it, Billy. Jeb’s gone to the Lord.”

  Billy laid his head on his arms.

  “His folks took the train down to Virginia. They’re wanting to bring his body back, bury him on the farm,” Pa added.

  Eager to be alone, Billy grabbed his jacket from the kitchen hallway and left the house. He ran behind the barn, out of view of the farmhouse, never stopping until he reached the middle of the pasture. A thin layer of fresh snow dusted the ground. For a long while he stood, staring at nothing and shaking his head in disbelief. “Why did Jeb have to die?” he said out loud. “He never hurt anyone.”

  Billy stomped the snow around him and kicked the drifts that piled against the fence posts. Finally he made his way to the barn, still angry.

  Daisy’s stall was in the far corner, but when he lit the lantern and called out to her, the old mare nickered in response. Holding the lantern in front of him, he watched Daisy stretch her long neck over the stall. He raised an arm and stroked her dappled face, his voice only a whisper as he bared his soul to his old friend. It felt good to talk to her as he rubbed his hands in the thick winter fur of her neck. Daisy nuzzled against his chest and, still nickering, moved her mouth up and down the front of his jacket.

  “Sure enough, Daisy, I got me some candy.” Billy reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of candied ginger and, laying it flat in his palm, smiled as Daisy curled her lips around it. He patted her neck again and then sat down on the barn floor in front of the stall.

  His anger diminished, he was left with a profound sadness—for Jeb. For Harry, Leighton, Charlie, and Josh somewhere south, in a place called Fredericksburg. Shootin’ them Johnnies, like Harry had said. He thought of the long drills along the Potomac in the blazing heat—loading muskets—fixing bayonets—charging and firing. A voice echoed in his ear. Leighton’s voice. In the tent at Camp King. Truth is, we ain’t all comin’ back, Billy Boy.

  Billy turned and rolled over on his knees in the soft straw, bowed his head, and prayed for his friends.

  Chapter 25

  In the foggy predawn, the sharp crack of musketry startled Leighton from his sleep. He glanced at Harry, Josh, and Charlie, already awake and listening as nearly two hundred cannons belched forth deadly fire across the Rappahannock River.

  “The pontoons must’ve arrived.” Harry said. “Three weeks of sitting in sleet and snow waiting for them pontoons. We’re finally moving on Fredericksburg.”

  “I hope some rations arrived with them. Been nearly starved for three weeks,” Leighton mumbled.

  The four privates scrambled from their tent. By roll call the cannonading was a ceaseless roar. Throughout the day muzzles flashed from cobbled streets and riverfront houses as Confederate sharpshooters thwarted the Federal army’s attempts to complete the pontoon bridges and secure their crossing.

  “I can’t even see the city for all this smoke in the air,” said Josh. “Don’t even know what’s going on!”

  “Don’t think I wanna know,” said Leighton as he scratched his back against the trunk of a white pine.

  Hoping for a sight of the battle, Harry was perched high in a pine above Leighton and Josh. Along the riverbank trees were filled with hundreds of other men from the regiment, all clamoring for a better view.

  Through the dense smoke, they could see chimneys and entire brick buildings crumbling to the ground. The city was burning. Suddenly, the faint sound of cheers erupted from the distant Federal ranks. “No guns. We must’ve crossed the river!” shouted Harry.

  “Sure enough. Look-a-here! I can see the ol’ Stars and Stripes flying above the town,” said Charlie as he climbed higher up the tree.

  “Did we win? That mean we ain’t gotta fight?” Josh squinted and peered up the wide trunk of the knotty pine. The overly laden branches swayed from the weight of the soldiers, who were busy echoing the cheers of their victorious comrades, their blue caps waving wildly in the air.

  “Can’t say,” Harry called down. “Gonna be dark soon. Reckon there won’t be any more fighting today, leastways.” He leaned his body over the branch and cupped his hands. “Climb on up, Josh, and take a look.”

  At sunset the regiment moved downriver and bivouacked in a stand of pine. Under the dark canopy of trees, the ground was still sprinkled with patches of snow. Feeling the cold and with their nerves frayed, Harry, Leighton, Charlie, and Josh gathered pine boughs to cushion themselves from the snow before they spread their bedrolls under the starry December sky.

  “We ain’t heard one thing since morning,” said Charlie angrily. “Why’d they march us two miles down the river?”

  “Harry,” asked Leighton, as he unrolled his blanket, “you think we’ll see fightin’ tomorrow?”

  “Seems like. Not sure what to expect, though. We’re way south of the city now. Maybe the Rebs are planning on moving this way come morning.”

  “I’m gonna fight and all, but I ain’t got much stomach for this. I’m just plumb scared.” Leighton stomped his boots to shake off the snow and walked back to the small fire. “Gonna warm my feet and make some coffee. Can’t sleep.”

  “Make me a cup, too,” said Josh, his blanket wrapped tightly around him. “If this is gonna be my last night on earth, then I ain’t sleeping yet neither.”

  Harry let out a deep sigh. “Josh, we’re all scared ’cause we ain’t seen our first battle yet. That don’t mean we’re gonna die. Someday we’ll all be sitting at Frog Pond again, remembering this night and laughing—you’ll see.”

  Charlie rolled over and pushed the damp, sticky needles off his blanket. “Hope that means Billy, too,” he said quietly.

  “I’m gonna keep thinkin’ that Billy Boy will be with us at the pond,” Leighton said as he leaned over and handed Josh a tin mug of boiled coffee. “Where in tarnation could he be all this time? We woulda heard if he’d been caught.”

  “Still hiding in the woods, I reckon. I just hope the good Lord’s watching over him,” answered Harry. “Just as well he ain’t here. I reckon Billy wouldn’t fire off his musket even if some Reb was on him like fleas on a dog.”

  “Leastways, we don’t have to worry about that now,” Leighton said, sipping his coffee. He sat back and grinned at Josh. “We don’t have to worry about Josh, neither. He’s so puny, Rebs ain’t even gonna see him out there on the battlefield.”

  “Let’s try and get some sleep, fellas,” said Harry wearily.

  “Yeah, well, somethin’ happens to me, you fellas get my fat bones back to Maine.” Shifting his weight onto the ground, Leighton quickly buried his head in the sparse comfort of his blanket. Seeking warmth, Josh settled on the pine boughs, his back curled against Leighton.

  The regiment turned out at 4:00 A.M. and waited impatiently throughout an agonizing day; no word to move was given. From what they could tell, there had been no advances or organized attack all day. By darkness, General Birney had moved the division to a new camp, nearly a mile from the river. Although small campfires were allowed, orders came down to make as little noise as possible. At last, word spread quickly that the enemy was close by.

  Anxious troops awakened early to bitter cold and the welcome surprise of salt pork sizzling on the fires. By mid-morning, under a lifting fog, they heard the call to arms. “This is it, fellas,” said Harry as he slung his knapsack over his shoulder. “We’re marching to the Rappahannock.”

  A frightening scene greeted them. Across the river, the Army of the Potomac’s left wing, under the command of General Franklin, was heavily engaged with the enemy on the old stage road to Richmond. “By the God! I heard the corps pushed the Confederates back into hills,” said a stunned Charlie.

  “Look at all them Rebel reserves! They keep running right out of those woods. We’re outnumbered,” said Harry, his eyes darting back and forth in every direction.

  “They’re slamming into the Federal lines.”

  “Looks like the Thirteenth Pennsylvania is falling back.”

  “No wonder! They must be nearly out of
ammo, fighting all morning.”

  “Seventeenth! Across the bridge! Advance!” Under a curtain of fire, they rushed across the swaying plank bridges and scrambled up the riverbank.

  “Form your lines across the road! Fix bayonets!” shouted company officers. The 17th unslung their knapsacks, adrenaline surging as they fixed their bayonets and formed their columns.

  “Return fire!”

  The guns of the 17th Maine exploded, volley upon volley; the air thickened with billowing, white sulfurous smoke. Cross showers of shot and shell pierced the air, and mingled with the shrill yells of the Rebels in a dramatic charge across the plowed fields.

  “Advance your columns! Charge!” shouted Colonel Roberts to regiment commanders as he galloped down the lines. “Charge!”

  The 17th Maine, over six hundred strong and larger than many battle-tested brigades, rushed down the turnpike, tearing huge gaps in the Rebel ranks. The Georgia regiment, in the forefront, dropped like flies as the barrage of shells blazed through its lines, quelling their offensive. The Union batteries unleashed a relentless siege, and the Rebels withdrew into the hills.

  “A gallant job, men,” praised General Berry, commander of the 1st Division.

  “We did it! By thunder, we did it!” screamed a jubilant Leighton, wiping the sweat on his face against the sleeve of his sack coat.

  “We showed them Johnnies that two can play this charging game.” Harry smacked his big friend on the shoulder and turned around. “Hey, you okay, Josh?”

  “Weren’t nothing,” he answered in a hollow voice, nearly collapsing to the ground. “Guess it’s just my knees still shaking.”

  Suddenly artillery shells rained over the hundreds of cheering soldiers as they stood openly in the middle of the old stage road.

  “Lie down, men! Lie down!” roared General Berry as he paced back and forth in the rear of the line. “Stay out of range!”

  Harry dropped quickly into the mud, pulling Leighton down with him. The road exploded in front of them, splattering mud into the air. A shell fragment ripped Harry’s pants, just barely grazing his leg.