From the porch railing, John Laird stared down at him, his eyes hard and piercing.
“Mistah Laird?”
“Who are you?”
“Elijah, Mistah Laird.”
“Elijah? Billy’s—I’ll be damned!” Calling out to his wife, John Laird nearly stumbled as he hurried down the steps.
“Never thought—Elijah—well, I’m mighty glad to see you,” John said, extending his hand. “You come all this way—from Canada?”
“Yes, suh. Elijah keep his promise to Billy, suh.”
The smile vanished from John’s face.
Nothing was as Elijah expected. And where was Billy?
Then the missus came down the steps and smiled. “I’m Billy’s ma. It’s good to finally meet you, Elijah,” she said. “Come, sit with us.” Elijah turned to Billy’s pa, relieved to see him nod and motion him up the steps. But Jamie darted past him and out of sight, disappearing behind a pile of wood stacked on the porch.
“Don’t pay no mind to Jamie—he ain’t doing so good right now,” John Laird said as he reached for a matchbox from his shirt pocket. With a trembling hand he lit the match against the heel of his boot. “Thing is, we’re all having a hard time right now. Elijah, have a seat.”
Elijah sat down on a rocker and stirred nervously while Billy’s pa took a long draw on his pipe.
“Billy’s gone from us,” said John Laird, his voice cracking.
“Gone, Mistah Laird?”
“Army shot him—near a month ago.”
“Oh, no, suh!” Elijah leaped from the rocker, stumbled across the porch, and ran down the steps. Instinct told him to run, but fear and shock overcame him, and he found himself unable to move. Bile churned in his stomach. He didn’t know how long he stood there, his mind blurring with images of Billy. Finally he pressed his fingertips hard against his temples.
Elijah felt an arm across his back, and he knew it was Billy’s ma. He felt her softness as she pulled him close. He stiffened but did not pull away.
“Billy talked about you often, Elijah. Said you would come here someday.” Martha Laird patted him gently on his back before she released her hold and stared into his face. “Come, let me show you something.”
Unsure of what to do or say, yet warmed by her softness, Elijah followed Billy’s ma across the barnyard. Stopping at the fence, she pointed to the sweeping meadow beyond. Elijah stared at the field sprinkled with patches of clover. What was it she wanted him to see?
“On clear nights Billy would lie down on his back, even on the snow, and stare up at those stars—near an hour sometimes. Said that was his way of talking to you.”
Elijah swallowed hard and stared at the empty meadow. He turned his head and looked at Billy’s ma. Grief was etched in deep lines across her otherwise pretty face.
“When night come, Elijah go into the fields, missus. Just like Billy, suh. Elijah talk to him just the same.”
She offered a wan smile, and he thought he saw a sparkle in the paleness of her blue eyes. Billy’s eyes. “He my friend, missus.”
“I’m not sure Billy could have made it home if he hadn’t met up with you. Billy thought you was mighty special.”
“He first white folk ever nice to Elijah.”
The sun dipped behind a bank of clouds and painted the meadowland black, mirroring the darkness Elijah felt in his soul as he stepped back onto the porch and sat on the edge of the rocking chair. He glanced up at Billy’s pa as he started telling Elijah what had happened to Billy.
“We wrote to President Lincoln while Billy was in jail, asking for a pardon—well, what with Billy’s learning problems …,” said Martha Laird.
“Oh, Billy, suh, he act more like a chile sometime, yes, missus. Elijah have to tell him what to do after a while.”
Billy’s ma nodded. “His friend Harry also wrote a letter to Mr. Lincoln,” she said, clutching her chest. “We hear that Mr. Lincoln granted Billy a pardon, only word didn’t arrive in time to save him.”
“Why that, missus?”
“We understand the Irish rioted in New York against the draft—seized all the telegraph lines. Nothing got through,” said John Laird as he leaned over in his rocker and tapped his pipe against the railing. “Riots only lasted three days, but they cost my son his life.”
Elijah leaned his elbows on his knees, rested his head in his hands, and let out a huge sigh. “Mistah Still, he say Billy wear the badge of honor—from the colored folks. And now he dead.”
“Whatever do you mean?” asked Martha Laird with a puzzled look.
“Elijah running from the slave catchers a long time. Then Elijah can’t run no mo’. God almost take Elijah home. But Billy, suh, he come along. Elijah think he a slave catcher and fall in the creek. But Billy, suh, he save me, and then he go and build a fire and keep Elijah warm. Elijah wake and find Billy, suh’s, jacket over him.”
Billy’s pa leaned forward in his chair. “He did tell us he took care of you.” Elijah nodded. “Billy, suh, he take care of me good.” He heard a low cry from behind the woodpile and turned as Jamie crept into sight.
Martha Laird buried her face in her hands.
“Well, now, Elijah,” said John Laird as he stared vacantly into the sky. “I guess you just made us mighty proud today.” Leaning over in his chair, he glanced at Jamie. “Son, did you hear what your big brother done?”
With a quick nod, Jamie stole a glance at Elijah before he plopped to the floor, turned his head, and began rocking back and forth.
“Elijah,” said Billy’s ma, “would you like to see where he’s buried?”
“Yes, missus. Elijah want to see where Billy, suh, sleep now.” Rising from the chair he walked slowly toward Jamie and, bending down, hands on his knees, spoke in a near whisper.
“Jamie, suh, want to go with Elijah?”
For an instant Jamie stilled, this time studying Elijah’s face with curious innocence. Elijah could almost hear the questions rising in the child’s throat and, feeling encouraged, waited for a response. But none came.
“Mebbe Elijah come and talk later.”
The garden was still lush with late summer flowers sprouting among the dry stalks of earlier blooms, their pods withered and empty of seeds. Elijah watched the missus pick only a single red-and-white flower. As if reading his mind, she turned to him and smiled. “Sweet William. Billy always liked this flower.”
“Elijah thinkin’ he gone an’ upset Jamie, suh,” he said finally, out of sight of the child.
“No, Elijah,” responded Billy’s pa. “Jamie ain’t been right since Billy died. Ain’t said but a dozen words this past month. Doc says we got to be patient. Says he’ll come around when he’s ready.”
“Jamie loved his big brother,” said Martha Laird, twirling the Sweet William in her hand. “They had so much fun together. Like you said, Billy was more like a child at times. Then, when I hear you tell about what happened at the creek, I know there was a grown man inside him, too.”
At the crest of the hill, they walked into a grove of birch trees that arched like a green-and-white canopy bed over a mound of earth. Billy’s grave was marked with a wooden cross.
Raising the hem of her skirt and bending down to her knees, Billy’s ma gently placed the sprig of Sweet William on the grave. Twigs scattered by the wind littered the site, and leaning over, John Laird gathered them and tossed them aside. Then he turned back, straightened the cross, and patted the earth.
“Elijah, son, you stay here long as you please,” he said. “I’m needing to take a walk now, along the riverbank, before we head on back to the farm.”
He fidgeted at his pocket for his pipe. “Mrs. Laird will be fixing a good supper before long. We’d both be right pleased if you’d stay on at the farm for a while. It’s what Billy would have wanted.” Looping a hand through his wife’s arm, John Laird helped her to her feet. “You think on it, Elijah.”
Elijah nodded and offered a slight smile before he sat down on the ground beside
the grave. Under the birches, finally, he cried. Oh, Billy, suh. Here we be by a river again. Elijah don’t know what to do, Billy, suh. Elijah wanted to stay with you for a time, and maybe Elijah think you come to Canada with him. Now what Elijah do? Through the long winter and spring of his new life, Elijah had longed for summer, so he could go to Maine and find Billy, and maybe, just maybe, become part of a family. Never had he wanted anything more. Now he was all alone again.
He sat unmoving by the grave through the rest of the afternoon, watching the fields turn pink and yellow as the sun lowered. Perhaps he would stay for supper. Finally, he raised himself from the ground and stretched. He stared at the grave one last time. His head bowed, he uttered a simple prayer and whispered good-bye. He decided to walk to the river.
Maidenhair ferns flanked the riverbank. Picking up a stone, he tossed it into the middle, lost in his memories.
“What’d you do that for?” A child’s voice called out behind him.
Elijah froze, wondered if he should turn around, afraid that the skittish child might retreat from him. He hesitated, then leaned over, and without glancing over his shoulder, picked up another stone and fingered it in his hands.
“See how far it go,” he finally answered.
Moments passed in awkward silence.
“I can throw one far as I want.”
Elijah stood still and from the corner of his eye, noticed the child’s arms held behind his back, hiding something. He hesitated, then rolled back his arm and hurled the stone, listening to the hollow thump as it landed on a log floating in the middle of the river.
“Ain’t so far,” Jamie said. “I can throw one clear across.”
“That so?”
“Yeah.”
Elijah offered a slight glance and a nod of his head. “Mebbe you show Elijah how far you throw.” He reached for a stone on the forest floor, turned, and held it out to him.
“Ain’t wantin’ to right now.”
Elijah nodded, all the while rolling the stone in his palm.
“Billy could throw it clear across the river and then some,” said Jamie. “I seen him do it. Threw it so far it went right through them trees and clear past that stone wall.”
“Yes, suh, that be far, all right.” Elijah let the stone fall through his fingers and drop to the ground, and then he placed his hands in his pockets. He stepped closer to the riverbank and hesitated. “Billy, suh, he talk a lot about you. He say Jamie, suh, right smart.”
He heard the child take a step forward. A twig snapped beneath his feet.
“Billy said that?”
Jamie came up beside him and, placing a hand firmly on his trouser leg, squeezed the cloth. “What else did my brother say?”
“Billy, suh, he tell Elijah lots of things, like you playin’ checkers. He say one time you go and turn all the hay for him when he run off to town. He say Jamie, suh, do his chores from time to time so he don’t get no whuppin’.”
Jamie’s lips curled into a smile. “Yeah, I remember.” He turned an eager face to Elijah. “Pa says you’re stayin’ for supper.”
“Oh, now, Jamie, suh, Elijah just don’t know.” He shrugged his shoulders.
“Ma’s fixin’ a place for you.”
“You want Elijah to stay?”
Jamie fixed his gaze to the ground. “Reckon. You like carrots?”
Elijah only nodded.
“Not me. Cooked ones that is. Billy liked ’em, so I used to sneak my carrots to him when Ma wasn’t looking.”
“Mebbe your ma be fixin’ carrots today?” said Elijah.
“Yeah.” Jamie kicked the golden needles, scattering them in heaps along the bank.
“Mebbe Jamie, suh, sneak his carrots to Elijah. But don’t you be gettin’ Elijah in trouble with the missus.”
“I won’t, I won’t!” A streak of color flushed Jamie’s cheeks and he ran to the water’s edge, peering into the water. “Hey, did you really spear a fish?”
“Oh, Elijah done spear two fish—one for Billy, suh, and one for Elijah.”
“How come you went and speared a fish for Billy?”
“Oh, Billy, suh, he didn’t spear so good—he, well—he go and tell Elijah how to do it. But he sure move real good in the water.”
Jamie shot a dogged glance, his eyes resolute. “My brother can swim better’n anyone.”
“Yes, suh. Billy, suh, he swim real good. Mebbe you want to fish with Elijah and we use the spear only?” He winked at Jamie, but the child seemed not to have heard him.
A bird chirped overhead and swooped low over the river, landing on the stone wall. Hands clasped behind his back, Elijah stared at the dull brown bird as it pecked its way along the top of the wall. Suddenly something sharp jabbed his palm. Startled, he spun around.
Jamie had thrust the whittling into his hand.
“Billy made this for you. This here’s the spear you caught them fish with.”
“Yes, suh, it look just like that,” he said as he turned the carving over and over and fingered the smooth wood. “This real nice whittlin’. But you keep it if you want.”
Jamie’s head shook back and forth. “Unh-unh. Billy wanted you to have it. He was gonna make me a three-masted schooner before he—” Suddenly Jamie plopped to the ground and stuck his thumb in his mouth. The child began to rock back and forth.
Elijah panicked.
“Billy, suh, he say you learn me checkers.”
“Billy said that?”
“Oh, yes, suh.”
“Me and Billy, we was always playing checkers,” he said.
Elijah dropped down on his knees. He pressed both hands gently on Jamie’s shoulders but the rocking continued.
“One time Billy, suh, hold Elijah and we rock just like you. He hold me until Elijah stop. Just like Elijah gon’ do for you, Jamie, suh. Then Elijah let go.”
Jamie rocked for a long time, all the while feeling the pressure of Elijah’s hands resting firmly on his shoulders. Finally, he yanked his thumb from his mouth and rubbed it dry against his trousers.
“I guess I can learn you checkers.”
“Elijah like that.” Slipping his arm from Jamie’s shoulder, he reached for his hand. Small fingers wrapped tightly around his. Elijah eased them both up from the ground. “We go eat them carrots now, Jamie, suh.”
Jamie giggled. Pointing the way, one hand clutched tightly in Elijah’s, he led him along the river path until it turned abruptly away and into the forest.
“Billy, suh, he tell Elijah he got to use them black checkers.”
“Them black checkers is mine. My brother didn’t know how to play checkers so good.” He turned to Elijah. “Billy thought it was them red checkers is why he couldn’t win a game.”
Elijah smiled in understanding, finding comfort in the child’s uncanny likeness to Billy.
“Elijah?”
“Yes, Jamie, suh?”
“Billy said you was like his big brother.”
“He say that?”
“Yeah.” Jamie squeezed Elijah’s hand. “You thinkin’ maybe you would be my big brother now?”
A sharp ache passed through Elijah’s chest. He stopped and squatted on the ground, cupping his hand under Jamie’s lowered chin, raising his face until fragile blue eyes met brown.
“Elijah be wantin’ that too—oh, yes, suh.”
The path opened to the farm fields beyond, and Elijah turned his gaze to the top of the rise and the forest’s edge where Billy lay.
Oh, Billy, suh, Elijah keep his promise. Look like Elijah go and help Jamie, suh, eat his carrots.
A breeze had come up and Elijah turned his back to it, tucking the child close. His eyes watered, and using his free arm, he rubbed his moistened lids against his shirtsleeve. He raised his face to the river, his blurred vision catching a flower, withered red and white, lifting by him in the wind.
Elijah tapped a fisted hand against his chest as the sprig of Sweet William swirled past him into the lofty pines and drifted qu
ietly into the river.
Afterword
In 1996, my husband, Bill, attended the funeral of one of his former U.S. Army Reserve commanders, Colonel Richard Stillings, a World War II veteran from Berwick, Maine. At the funeral Bill learned that Stillings had chronicled all of the town’s veterans and during the course of his research, came across the unusual story of William H. “Billy” Laird, a private who served briefly in the 17th Regiment Infantry, Maine Volunteers, during the U.S. Civil War. My husband, who knows of my love of history and the U.S. Civil War, guessed correctly that this story would become my first book.
Over the next two years, I worked to uncover Billy’s story. Intending at first to write a nonfiction account of his life, I conducted research and interviews in Maine, at the National Archives in Washington, D.C., and in Maryland. It soon became clear, however, that the only facts I could find about Billy’s story were just the beginning and the end of it. I then set out to write a fictional account, while striving to keep it as factual as possible.
Here are the facts.
Billy Laird mustered with 1,370 other men in the 17th Regiment Infantry, Maine Volunteers, on August 18, 1862, at Camp King in Cape Elizabeth, Maine, according to Regimental Histories, Maine State Archives. For the next two months, Private Laird served with Company G along the Potomac River and then, according to his military service records held at the National Archives, he was reassigned to Livingston’s Battery in Edward’s Ferry, Maryland. Historian William B. Jordan Jr., in his book, The Red Diamond Regiment, states that Laird “had been enlisted ‘lacking in common intelligence’ and illiterate.” Berwick historians, including Robert Stillings (the brother of the late Colonel Stillings), say it was likely that Laird, found intellectually unfit for infantry, would be sent instead to work with horses. While Jordan cites that Laird was unhappy with his transfer, articles written about Laird by the late Colonel Stillings state that he was unhappy largely as a result of ridicule and his being the constant butt of jokes.
Private Laird deserted on October 15, 1862, two days after his transfer to Livingston’s Battery. There the facts of this story come to an end until Laird is captured and arrested in Berwick, Maine, sometime on or about May 23, 1863.
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