Billy Boy
BILLY
BOY
THE SUNDAY SOLDIER OF
THE 17TH MAINE
Jean Mary Flahive
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These and other Maine books are available at:
www.islandportpress.com.
BILLY
BOY
THE SUNDAY SOLDIER OF
THE 17TH MAINE
Jean Mary Flahive
YARMOUTH • MAINE
Islandport Press
P.O. Box 10
Yarmouth, Maine 04096
www.islandportpress.com
207.846.3344
Copyright ©2007 by Jean Mary Flahive
Islandport Press edition September 2007, October 2013
ISBN: 978-1-939017-28-4
Library of Congress Card Number: 2007934609
Book cover design by Karen F. Hoots, Hoots Design
Book design by Michelle A. Lunt, Islandport Press, Inc.
To Billy Laird
who sleeps beside the Little River
and to Bill
for finding him
Sunday Soldier
(Civil War slang for a soldier of little merit)
A sudden death, a striking call
A warning voice—which speaks to all
To all to be prepared to die,
And meet our God who dwells on high
To meet our friends now gone before
—Epitaph on the gravestone of William H. Laird
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Afterword
About the Author
Acknowledgments
I first want to thank the handful of strangers who answered my queries and helped enormously with the many technical questions I asked about life in 1862: the National Railroad Historical Society folks for their information on the rail lines and stations; the Sandy Spring Museum staff in Sandy Spring, Maryland, for providing a historic glimpse of their community and the early Quaker settlers, also referenced in the Chronicles of Sandy Spring Friends Meeting and Environs; the director of reference services, Maryland State Archives; Maine State Archives, the archivists at the National Archives and Records Administration; and the William Still Foundation, particularly descendants Derrick and Clem, for giving me insight into their remarkable ancestor, William Still, and whose book, The Underground Railroad, was the source for Elijah’s interview.
A very special thanks to David Madden, novelist and Louisiana State University professor, for believing in me when I needed it most; Emily Staat, David’s assistant; Betsy Dorr for her insight on people with developmental disabilities; Jean Wilhelm, retired Goucher College professor, for her unflagging support; my literary mentor, Nancy Heiser, who read my first draft and inspired me to continue; Elizabeth Pierson, for her excellent copy editing of a very messy manuscript; Laurel Robinson, copy editor on a later draft; Fathers John Phelps and Paul Sullivan, my “Reverends Snow”; Pauli Caruncho, for cheering me on; Robert Stillings of Berwick for helping me research the historical facts and taking me to William Laird’s grave; Robert’s late brother Richard Stillings, who chronicled the veterans of Berwick, Maine; my sister, Judith Thyng, for painstakingly reading my early drafts, page by page; my stepson Billy and the late J.D. Ferguson, for helping me choose the title of this book; to my loving, supportive husband Bill, who, upon hearing about William Laird, knew he had found the story that would become my first book; and finally, to my late mother, Mary, whose spirit was in every word.
To the good people of Berwick, Maine: I have taken liberties beyond what we know of the facts about William Laird. I hope you will accept this story as just that.
Prologue
July 13, 1863
President Lincoln escorted the young mother and her child into the Grand Hallway, politely bade them farewell, and then beckoned John Nicolay to follow him into the Oval Office, smiling as he watched his loyal secretary leap from his swivel chair and scoop several papers into his hand.
“Nicolay,” said Lincoln as he riffled through the mass of papers scattered on his desk, “I was reading some correspondence before the last visitor arrived. There was another letter from a mother asking for a pardon for her son. Oh, yes, here it is.”
Picking up the letter, Lincoln placed his short-shanked gold spectacles low on his nose and began reading. “The lad is only twenty. From her description of him, he sounds quite ingenuous, simpleminded. Hmmm …”
Lincoln finished the letter in silence, folded it, and looked at his secretary. “His name is Billy Laird. A private in the Seventeenth Maine Regiment. The mother says he mustered to be with his friends, without a sense of what he was doing.”
Nicolay dropped his handful of papers onto the president’s desk and leafed meticulously through the stack, carefully pulling out a half-torn sheet. “And that is echoed by one of the private’s friends, Corporal Harry Warren,” said Nicolay. “His passionate plea caught my attention. I took the liberty of checking with the War Department about Warren’s record. From the regiment reports, he received a promotion on May 8, 1863, as well as the Kearney Medal of Honor following his acts of valor at Chancellorsville.”
“Tell me more of what you learned about this soldier, this friend of Billy Laird,” said Lincoln as he leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and rested his forearms on his chest.
“Apparently when the Federals were pulling back under heavy fire, a shell exploded beneath a caisson, wounding several men. There was heavy cross fire of artillery and musketry up and down the plank road, but Warren ran to the caisson and dragged the wounded to cover, firing and reloading each of their muskets.”
Lincoln lowered his head and sighed. “Undaunted bravery,” he said in a low tone. “You have this letter from Warren?”
Nicolay held the torn paper in his hand and cleared his throat. “It is dated June twenty-third, 1863.
Dear President Lincoln:
I’m a soldier who’s honored to serve in the Army of the Potomac. I don’t know if I’ve a right to ask you this, sir, but I hear talk
that you sometimes pardon a soldier who has violated the Articles of War. Well, Mr. President, my friend, Private Billy Laird, is facing a court-martial back in Maine for desertion. My superior officer said that Billy is almost certain to face a firing squad.
Mr. President, Billy Laird never belonged in this great army. I’ve known Billy most all my life and I’m going to be plain honest with you about him: Billy never learned to read or write or understand even the simplest things, like playing checkers. I know he only mustered in the army to be with me, most likely because I’ve always watched out for him, protected him. Now, what he has done falls heavy on my shoulders. In my heart I believe that Billy would still be at my side, carrying his musket, had he not been sent to another unit.
Mr. President, if God permitted, I would change places with my friend. But failing that, I pledge to fight under our flag as if two souls breathed in me. His picket duty is my duty. His musket is my musket. He stands before the enemy as I stand.
Billy is no stranger to battle. He’s struggled his whole life to be like the rest of us, and he just can’t understand why God chose him to be different. But I believe God also chose me to watch over Billy and to fight his battles. And in that, I will not fail my friend, or you, Mr. President.
Your humble servant,
Corporal Harry Warren
17th Regiment, Company G, Maine Volunteers
Deep lines cut across Lincoln’s brow, and a heavy sadness fell across his face. He raised himself slowly from his chair and pushed it aside with his foot. Hands fisted behind his back, he walked to the long-paned window, gazing out at the summer garden. He spoke haltingly in a near whisper.
“Sleep eludes me on many nights, Nicolay. In my mind’s eye I see so many boys—young boys, lying dead or wounded in trampled fields stained red with blood. I hear their mournful wails and I bear a mother’s agony. I am haunted by such images …”
Lincoln stared silently for several moments and slowly turned back to his desk, glancing at Nicolay and the letter he held in his hand.
“It seems by his valiant actions our young corporal honors his pledge.” Lincoln paused and looked over his spectacles. “There are mitigating circumstances here, and I find no justice served in executing Billy Laird. What do we know of his trial?”
“The War Department reports he was tried over a week ago and found guilty. He’s being held at Fort Preble in Maine and is to be executed in three days’ time, on July fifteenth,” said Nicolay.
With a shake of his head and a sigh, Lincoln said, “Then we must move quickly. Have the commander of Fort Preble telegraphed at once.”
He reached into a pigeonhole in his desk and withdrew a slip of paper. Dipping his pen in the inkwell, he scratched several lines and handed the note to his secretary. “Take this to the War Department. It should be enough to grant a pardon on such short notice.”
“A compassionate act, Mr. President.”
Lincoln looked over his spectacles, his eyes calm, his voice unwavering.
“See that this young boy goes home—where he belongs.”
Chapter 1
The hot sun beat down on Billy’s shoulders as he turned the grass in large forkfuls and made his way across the rocky pasture. He was mad clear through. Mad at his pa, mostly. Harry Warren and his other friends had wanted him to go swimming at Frog Pond, but Pa said he had to finish turning the hay. Said the grass was needing to dry before gathering it for the barn. Haying season in New England was short, after all—shorter than ever on their Maine farm, his Pa reminded him—and there was no time for tarrying.
Sweat poured down Billy’s neck. As he tossed hay in the muggy, late-July air, he thought of his friends, most of them nearly twenty years old like him, splashing in the deep, cool water. He paused, pulled out his handkerchief, and wiped his dusty face.
“Ain’t fair I didn’t get to go swimmin’,” he mumbled to himself. Then he remembered that Harry had told him they were all meeting up at the store after their swim. There was some big news, Harry had said, and now Billy was going to miss out on that, too.
Shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun, Billy gazed at the graying rows of unturned grass. Tossing his pitchfork against the boulder, Billy defiantly crossed the field to the road. His mood was stormy as he kicked up the yellow dust with his boots, and he sneezed when it settled in his sandy brown hair.
When he reached the bridge over Little River, Billy took off his boots and rolled his trousers high up on his long legs, choosing to wade across the shallow stream. He’d get a tanning for sure, going to Blaisdell’s Store before all the hay was turned, but he didn’t care.
He never left the farm much anymore, what with the teasing and all. And only now, figuring that Harry would be there, was he willing to go to Blaisdell’s alone. Fellas in town most always poked fun, calling him names. Doc Stillings said Billy’s mind just worked a little slower, but that didn’t give folks cause to be hurtful. Even Mr. Blaisdell yanked all the coins from his hand one time, counting each one, loud as a braying mule. Folks in the store were laughing because Billy couldn’t make change. Leastways Harry changed that. He’d sooner fight anyone who poked fun at Billy. Back on dry ground, Billy jingled the coins in his pocket. He reckoned there was enough to buy some candied ginger. After Mr. Blaisdell’s poking fun, Harry showed Billy how many pennies he needed to buy the candy. He went and took one of Billy’s hands and laid a penny on each finger. Said Billy would have enough to buy him a whole bag.
When Billy reached the top of Pine Hill he stopped to catch his breath. Scattered farms worked the hillsides, and in the valley below, he could see the small villages of Berwick, Maine, and Somersworth, New Hampshire, separated by the Salmon Falls River. A gray cluster of woolen and cotton mills flanked the riverbanks.
Blaisdell’s Store, a large white clapboard building on the corner of Milk and Berwick streets, was the local gathering place in Berwick. Even with his pocket full of change, Billy felt uneasy as he went into the store to wait for Harry. Inside he smelled the store’s familiar but peculiar aromatic blend of salt codfish, West India spices, and tobacco. He stood quietly to the side in the cluttered old establishment, nervously fingering the colorful bolts of cloth, watching curiously as Mr. Blaisdell scribbled several lines on a square of slate and set it prominently in the storefront window. Then Mr. Blaisdell unrolled a large parchment on the countertop and smoothed it with the palm of his hand before he nailed it to the rafter above the unfired woodstove. Billy was glad Mr. Blaisdell never once glanced his way.
Map of Berwick, circa 1872 from “ The Old Maps York County, Maine in 1972.” Courtesy of Maine Historical Society Collection.
He sighed, wishing Harry would hurry along. When Mr. Blaisdell at last disappeared behind the stacks of canned goods, Billy hurried across the floor and glanced up at the poster, frustrated that he could not read its bold print. It reminded him of the day Miss Dame had walked him home from the schoolhouse and talked to his folks. He was just eight, but he never went back to school again. Ma said there were things enough to learn at the farm. That’s when Pa started teaching him to work the horses. Pa said he had a way with animals. Like that time at the Hall farm, when Mr. Hall wanted to shoot a year-old colt—said he was born mean, always biting and kicking. But Billy walked right up to the frightened colt, stroked his neck, talked nice, and sure enough, the little fella calmed down. Even followed Billy clear across the pen, right over his shoulder. Mr. Hall said he’d never seen anyone soothe a horse like Billy had done.
Billy studied the ink drawing at the top of the paper, a bald eagle with its talons gripping a long white banner. Creases furrowed his brow as he ran his finger along the eagle’s outstretched wings. Suddenly shouts erupted outside, and he spun around to see Harry, Leighton Tasker, and Josh Ricker pointing wildly at the slate in the storefront window. Seconds later, Harry and Josh rushed through the door, feverishly glancing around the store.
“It’s over there—tacked on the beam!” Josh shou
ted. He and Harry raced across the store, and behind them biscuit crates toppled as the ungainly Leighton lumbered over the uneven floor, his immense size filling the narrow aisles.
“Hey, Billy.” Harry grinned and, taking a deep breath, turned an anxious glance to the poster as he ran his fingers through his damp black hair. His gray eyes flashed in excitement. “Says here we get a hundred and sixty acres of land after the war! Free!”
“And seventy-five dollars!” shouted Josh as he ducked his small, wiry body under Harry’s arm and scooted in front of him. “Don’t that beat all.”
Billy tugged at Harry’s shirtsleeve. “What’s it mean?”
“It’s a recruiting poster, Billy. That’s the news we’ve been waiting for. Army’s forming the Seventeenth Maine Regiment, and they’re looking for able-bodied men right here in Berwick. You know, for the war.”
“War? We’re fightin’ a war here—in Berwick?”
“Billy, this here’s President Lincoln’s war. Fighting’s going on down south mostly. The whole country’s been at war for over a year now—since last April. Us Northern folks against them Southerners—you know, them boys I call Johnnies.”
“Why are we fightin’ them Johnnies?” Billy asked.
Reaching up to place both hands on Billy’s tall, thin shoulders, Harry said, “President Lincoln says we got to keep this country together and free the slaves, and well, down south, some folks don’t think the coloreds got a right to be free.”
Billy nodded. He remembered Reverend Snow talked about the slaves not being free and all.
“So, Billy Boy, Leighton and Josh and I are thinking about going in the army.”