Billy Boy Page 5

  Harry slipped across the tent floor and disappeared beneath his blanket. Propped on his elbows, for several moments Billy stared at his long legs stretched out across the blanket. Wiggled his socked toes. Maybe things were going to be all right after all. Settling back down, he waited for sleep, for dawn, and for the troop train that would carry him far from home.

  Chapter 5

  Elijah was in a run for his life, and only his callused bare feet could save him. He ran hard over the rocky field with only the dim light of a quarter moon as his guide. Ol’ Joe said five miles west was the railroad, the steel rails north his path to freedom. Fear swelled in Elijah’s throat. At the edge of the field he ran into the forest, growing more anxious with every step that took him deeper into the darkness and his own uncertainty. His foot caught on a protruding root and he stumbled, collapsing on his hands and knees. He took long, deep breaths, gulping down air.

  Dawn was approaching. He knew he had little time to rest—only a fleeting moment to summon his will. He listened for his pursuers. The muffled hooting of a great horned owl was the only sound in the stillness of the night.

  With his short frame and wide, strapping shoulders, Elijah was growing up just like his pappy; that’s what the other slaves said. And, at the age of just sixteen, he was the strongest slave in the county. That’s why he was sold to Mastuh Fowler for fifteen hundred dollars.

  Elijah shook his head. That’s when things changed. The new mastuh owned a large tobacco plantation near Danville, Virginia, far away from his pappy on the Ramsey farm. Tears welled in Elijah’s eyes as he remembered hugging Pappy good-bye. Mastuh Fowler had yanked out his whip, cracked it in the air, and struck him hard across his back. “You’re my property now, nigger,” he had shouted. Wrenched from his pappy, Elijah had crawled into the back of the wagon, filled with loathing for his new mastuh. But Pappy ran up to him, and before Mastuh Fowler could push him away, he had whispered in his ear. “If he keep hurtin’ you, my boy, then you run. Run like the wind.” Three months later, Ol’ Joe, he told Elijah the same thing.

  Elijah startled.

  He waited. Listened to the darkness. There it was again! The distant, hoarse-ringing bay of bloodhounds.

  He prayed his pappy’s strength still ran through his veins. He needed it now to stay alive.

  He shot a glance in either direction and then ran to higher ground, low branches whipping his cheeks until they bled. A small open space at the top of the hill offered a view of the surrounding forest. Elijah studied the nearby ridge and the rocky ledges on the other side. The faint line of morning rose pink and yellow along the eastern horizon, reminding him of Ol’ Joe’s warning—Run by night, sleep by day. He needed to find a place to hide soon, safe from the bloodhounds. He ran deeper into the woods toward the nearby ridge, hoping its narrow ravine would offer shelter and a place to hide.

  His strength waned; bile rose in his throat as he ran across the forest floor, and he tried to ignore the sharp shooting pains from his feet, the calluses now raw and bleeding. He summoned God as he ran, mindlessly pleading for mercy if Mastuh and his bloodhounds found him alive. He reached the ridge and gasped with relief at the ravine below. He fled down the steep embankment.

  The bays of the bloodhounds echoed off the rocky ledges. Their fierce howls startled him, and he lost his footing. Half tumbling, half running, his body weightless, he tucked his shoulders and rolled, landing in a mass of ferns. He crawled on his hands and knees, cool stagnant water oozing between his fingers and toes. Bullfrogs croaked and clamored out of his way.

  Elijah struggled back to his feet and scanned the bog. A shallow stream ran through the middle of it. Barely a few feet wide, the water cut an easy path through the dense woods. The water was only up to his ankles as he stepped into the middle of the creek, grateful for the sandy bottom that soothed his stinging feet. He made his way downstream, not caring about his direction, his only thought to elude the slave catchers. He had heard stories of escaped slaves overtaken and torn to pieces by the bloodhounds. Only when it was safe would he think about the Blue Ridge Mountains and the rail lines north.

  He moved quietly down the stream until the sun poked a fiery head over the treetops. He stepped anxiously onto the muddy bank and scanned the dense thicket around him.

  The sound of fast-moving water caught his attention. Not far ahead, the stream emptied into a wider river, big enough that the bloodhounds would lose his scent. Too frightened to cross the deep water, Elijah hugged the banks, walking ankle-deep, grasping at branches hanging low over the water. Before long he spotted an uprooted oak half submerged, its wide trunk and gnarled roots sprawled across a sandy beach. Sunlight blinded him. It was time to hide. Dropping to his hands and knees, Elijah crawled beneath the tangle of tree roots and burrowed in the damp sand.

  He wondered how far away he was from the Fowler plantation, surely the biggest farm he had ever seen. Ol’ Joe said Mastuh owned nearly a hundred slaves. His old mastuh used to work in the fields beside the slaves, but not Mastuh Fowler. His three sons rode their horses up and down between the tobacco rows, watching, taunting the slaves, and snitching to Buckra, the overseer. Suddenly Buckra’s beady dark eyes flashed in front of Elijah’s face. He winced, trying to muffle the low moan rising in his throat.

  Right off, things had been bad with Buckra. Ol’ Joe said the overseer feared Elijah’s strength, unusual for someone so young, and worried that Elijah might cause trouble. That’s why Buckra tried to break him like a wild horse. Elijah shook his head to scatter the horrifying images that raced through his mind. He couldn’t let the slave catchers find him. If the bloodhounds didn’t tear him apart, Buckra would.

  Ol’ Joe had saved Elijah’s life last night. It was only a few hours ago now. Elijah was asleep when a hand fell over his mouth.

  “Hush now, boy, and listen up,” Ol’ Joe whispered to him. “You be in trouble. Mastuh and Buckra be in the curin’ barn tonight. Mastuh say he sell you at the auction block. Now Buckra all worried Mastuh Fowler see what he done to you. Ain’t no white folk pay money fo’ you now. So Buckra, he gon’ come after you tonight. He evil, boy. He do sumthin’ bad so Mastuh don’t see what he done.”

  Elijah asked the old man what to do.

  “You gotta run, boy.”

  “Where to?” he had asked.

  “Run to them Blue Ridge Mountains in the west, ’til you come to the railroad goin’ north. That be the way of the Drinkin’ Gourd. Git yo’self to Maryland, place called Sandy Spring. Quaker folks there help you git to Canada. Then you be a free man. Hide in the day and run by night. Go on now.”

  Elijah ran.

  Huddled now in the upturned trunk, he prayed the bloodhounds had lost his scent. He needed to sleep, to escape from his thoughts. He stretched his legs, rolled onto his back, and settled down in the sand. In an instant, pain shot up and down his spine like bolts of lightning.

  He screamed.

  Granules of sand had penetrated the flesh of his lacerated back. Wincing, he rolled onto his belly and buried his head in his arms. Pain overwhelmed him, and in seconds, everything went black.

  Elijah wakened several hours later, the burning in his back lessened to a dull throb. Hunger gnawed at him. Crawling out from his hiding place, he inched across the sand, cupped his hands, and drank from the river. Fearful the slave catchers would search up and down the river, he no longer felt safe at its edge. He needed to run west, to the Blue Ridge Mountains, and find that railroad going north. He turned from the river, raised his face, and studied the landscape where the sun dipped behind the distant hills. He hurried up the grassy bank and ran; ran like the wind.

  Chapter 6

  In the gray and humid September dawn, Billy gazed out across the Potomac River. The bivouac at Fort Dupont, high on the Anacostia ridge, offered quite a view. All of Washington lay below. As he buttoned his flannel shirt, he heard his friends talking about some soldiers who had disappeared from the fort during the night.

  “De
serters,” Leighton grumbled under his breath. He took a huge gulp of air, sucked in his stomach, and squeezed into his light blue trousers.

  Balancing on one leg, Josh hopped across the grass and slipped his socked foot into his boot. “Them two privates ain’t got no clothes ’cept these uniforms. Army’s gonna catch them for sure.”

  “Naw, they’ll steal some other clothes. Head for the woods.” Leaning over to tighten his boots, Leighton cursed loudly when a button popped from his trousers. “Ought to be getting skinny with the rations they feed us,” he added.

  “Why they goin’ in the woods?” Billy asked.

  “Hidin’ out, so the army don’t catch ’em,” said Leighton.

  “But ain’t they just cuttin’ out for home?”

  “Billy Boy, I told you. You can’t go home just ’cause you don’t like the army. Remember, three years unless sooner discharged?” Leighton picked the button up off the ground and tucked it in his pocket. “Come on, let’s get to the cookhouse before the grub’s all gone.”

  Grabbing his knapsack and jacket, Billy hurried down the trail, following Leighton down the trampled path. “Josh says them fellas gonna get caught,” he said.

  “Yeah, well, if they do, the army’s gonna shoot them.”

  “Shoot them?”

  “Articles of War, Billy Boy.”

  “Them articles shoot fellas who run off?”

  “Sure enough. It’s wrong what they done.”

  As they walked through the wooded hillside, Billy patted his coat pocket, reached inside, and wrapped his fingers around a hunk of wood, pleased that he had remembered to bring it along. After drills, in the evenings while his friends played cards, he drifted throughout the encampment, lonely and frustrated that he couldn’t share in a game of dice or a hand of poker. The fellas tried to teach him, but Billy just couldn’t remember the rules. So Billy spent most of his evenings just feeling homesick. Sometimes he would stare at the Potomac and imagine it was the Little River, pretending that he and Pa and Jamie were fishing along its banks. One evening he stopped to watch Ethan, an older private, whittle a corncob pipe. For several nights Billy watched in quiet fascination as Ethan skillfully carved the bowl of the pipe out of a corncob. Finally, the gray-haired private encouraged him to try it, showing him how to do the same thing with the right piece of wood, peeling its bark and shaping it into another life.

  Billy ran his forefinger along his carving. He had finished it the night before and was anxious to show it to his friends. He glanced up as Leighton rushed off the beaten trail and ducked into the peach orchard. “Sergeant says we ain’t to steal from the farmers,” he shouted, even though Leighton was already out of sight.

  Billy waited for several minutes, glancing nervously in either direction. One branch snapped, then another. Breathing heavily, Leighton at last emerged from the orchard, arms filled with plump, ripened peaches. “Last of the season,” he said with a grin. “Let’s go get our breakfast.”

  Holding his tray of food and a mug of steaming coffee, Billy sat on the ground beside Harry, Charlie, Josh, and Jeb. Leighton plopped down behind him and carefully lifted the peaches from inside his buttoned jacket. In spite of the muggy air, Billy sipped his coffee, welcoming the bitter taste. He reached into his knapsack and pulled out his whittling. Feeling shy, he fingered the carving, his gaze lowered to the ground.

  “You ain’t no card player, but you sure can whittle!” Charlie reached for the carving, turning it over and over in his hands.

  “Say, that’s a mighty fine piece,” said Harry as he snatched it from Charlie’s hands. “I didn’t know you could whittle.”

  “Been watching Ethan.”

  “Whittled you a regulation soldier, all right,” said Charlie.

  “Well, not quite.” Harry pointed to the soldier’s frock coat. “You need two more buttons here.”

  “No matter,” Billy said with assurance. “Leighton ain’t got all his buttons.” A soft thud landed on his neck—liquid, mushy, and warm, trickling down his back.

  “Been meaning to give you one of these overripe peaches, Billy Boy.” Leighton said, leaning over to ruffle Billy’s hair. Taking the good-natured joshing in stride, Billy laughed, and using the back of his hand, wiped the juice from his neck.

  “Been here more’n a month and seems like garrison duty’s only good for drills, poker, whittling, and stealing peaches,” said Harry.

  “Yeah, well, I ain’t complaining,” said Charlie. “Not sixty miles west of here sits Lee’s army. Think about the Twentieth Maine that got the call to strike tents and march four days ago. I reckon they’re just about on top of those Confederate boys by now.” Chewing on a lump of tobacco, he stretched his legs and leaned his back against an elm. “We may be bored and all, but this ridge ain’t such a bad place.”

  A distant rumble of artillery jolted their early morning calm. Booms thundered down the river. Billy flinched.

  Harry leaped to his feet. “That’s cannonading—from the west! Battle’s going on for sure.”

  A bugle sounded, and the boys hastily responded to the call.

  “A battle is under way this morning, men, at Sharpsburg, Maryland, near Antietam Creek,” said Sergeant Noyes. “General Robert E. Lee has led his Army of Northern Virginia into Union territory for the first time. We have eighty-seven thousand troops there under Major General McClellan’s command—enough to drive the Confederates back into Virginia.

  “It’s time,” Noyes continued, pacing back and forth, his hands behind his back, “for Company G to be trained in the engines of war. I’ve sent for an artillery instructor from Livingston’s battery to teach you how to use the big guns—howitzers and mortars. You’ll be practicing on them today, so move your lazy hides to the clearing behind the ridge!”

  Flashing a wide grin, Harry glanced at Billy as they approached the target field. “We ain’t likely to be bored today,” he said. “Look at those twelve-pound howitzers! Must be what’s firing at Antietam.”

  “Ain’t likin’ them big guns. Only like my musket is all,” said Billy.

  They hurried past the tethered horses and moved closer to the howitzers, mingling with the other privates as they circled the large guns. Finally Sergeant Noyes called the company to attention and introduced the artillery instructor, a tall, thin man with thick yellow hair and a jutting chin.

  “The Dutchman,” whispered Harry. “Heard one of the privates say he was a miserable ol’ skunk.”

  The Dutchman ran his hand over the howitzer and stared intently at the anxious men. He cleared his throat, hesitating before he spoke.

  “Firing a smoothbore cannon is a team effort. It requires as much precision as your drills. Experienced gunners should be able to load and fire a fieldpiece every thirty seconds.” His eyes were cold. “If you can’t, well,” he paused, lowering his voice, “you can be sure the Rebs will see you in Hell.

  “The corporal is the gunner—the one who does the aiming.” The Dutchman leaned over and picked up the long sponge and rammer. “On the command ‘Load,’ crewman number one sponges the bore—like this,” he said as he rammed it into the cannon. “You men, two and three,” he said, pointing his finger at Billy and the soldier next to him, “for the next two rounds, you will be the load crewmen. Two passes to three, three to four. Four,” he continued as he picked another private for the team, “you will receive the round from three—four places it in the muzzle and ignites the charge …”

  The Dutchman helped the load crewmen issue the first round. The smoothbore cannon fired, and the projectile belched from the muzzle and shot across the field, exploding in a grove of pine and snapping branches, scattering them in a haze of white smoke.

  Billy clapped his hands over his ears. Horses whinnied, pumped their hooves backward over the ground, straining their reins against the posts. Over his shoulder, Billy glanced at the frightened animals.

  The Dutchman stepped back and shouted to the load crewman to begin the next round. Billy turn
ed around, nervous, uncertain what to do. He froze. One of the privates shoved him into the gun carriage.

  “Pick up the projectile, you blasted fool,” the private whispered. “Hurry! Pass it off.”

  Billy placed his hands on the projectile and hesitated. Sweat trickled beneath his shirt and ran down the back of his legs.

  “Private! Are you daft?” The Dutchman stepped forward, eyes flared with anger. “I said a round goes off every thirty seconds, not thirty minutes.”

  “Ain’t sure is all.” Billy swallowed hard.

  “Oh, you ain’t sure? You pick up the projectile and hand it off! Lunkhead,” he muttered, loud enough for the others to hear.

  Billy tried to ignore the muffled laughter as he lifted the projectile from the gun carriage and handed it off. Moments later the cannon fired. Billy felt the earth shake beneath his feet.

  Suddenly one of the horses reared, snapping the leather reins from the post, and bolted across the stony field, the limber and ammunition caisson still hitched to its back. Soldiers scattered in all directions as the ammunition crate bounced loose from the caisson and tumbled onto the ground, tossing shells into the air.

  “Watch out for the caisson!”

  “Look out! It’s gonna hit that boulder!”

  “Shoot the blasted horse!”

  “She’s wild!”

  The frantic horse ran straight at Billy. Darting to the side, his gaze steadfast on the horse, Billy recognized her white-eyed fear.

  “Don’t shoot her!” he screamed. “She’s just scared is all.”

  The sorrel mare angled past the boulder, but the caisson smashed against the rocky outcrop and overturned, throwing her to the ground. Pinned, with the limber pushed against her side, the spooked horse thrashed her legs wildly in the air.

  Outraged, the instructor pushed through the crowd of soldiers.

  “Corporal, shoot the damn horse. She’s useless to us.”