Billy Boy Page 7

  “And get rid of that blasted hunk of wood.”

  Billy dropped his knife into his haversack and stared for several moments at the carving clutched in his hand. He let it slide between his fingers, watching it land in the tall grass before he kicked it wildly into the trees. Picking up his musket, he flung it over his shoulder and walked quickly across the clearing to the top of the knoll.

  He looked for the North Star, but a thick bank of clouds had moved across the moon and stars. Billy was alone and scared. A crash of thunder rolled across the sky; in minutes a drenching rain pelted him. His fear and the soaking cold kept him awake, his hands clutched tightly around his musket until his picket was over.

  Rolled in a soggy blanket, Billy was nudged awake in the still-dark morning.

  “What’s happening, Sergeant?” asked Harry as he rolled over in his blanket and saw the sergeant standing over Billy. “What do you want with Billy—Private Laird?”

  “He should be court-martialed for his miserable picket.”

  “Court-martialed? Why?”

  The sergeant grumbled, ignoring Harry’s questions. “Laird, this must be your lucky day,” he said sourly. “It seems there are other orders for you.”

  “Orders?” Billy stumbled to his feet.

  “You’re being dispatched to Livingston’s battery at Edward’s Ferry on the Potomac. In Maryland, to be precise.”

  “The one with them big guns, Sergeant?”

  “Why Livingston’s battery, Sergeant?” Harry rushed between them. Leighton and Josh bolted from their beds.

  “Artillery’s frightening the horses. The Dutchman’s been after the captain to transfer Laird. Thinks Laird can mind the horses.”

  “When’s he supposed to go, Sergeant?” asked Harry.

  “He’s to report to Sergeant Riley on October seventeenth.” Taking a step closer to Billy, the sergeant said, “You’ll be Riley’s problem soon enough, Laird. You’ll sooner wish you were court-martialed than face that hot-headed Irishman.”

  “I c-c-can’t—I can’t leave my friends!” Billy stumbled backward, nearly toppling Harry. Leighton let out a low whistle, his eyes wild with anger.

  “Sergeant—” Leighton and Harry said in unison, but the sergeant brushed them aside with a wave of his hand.

  Billy felt the wind knocked out of him. “I-I-I can’t go—you ain’t understandin’, Sergeant. Things is hard for me—fellas poke fun and—and when I ain’t knowin’ what to do, Harry—and Leighton—they watch out for me. I can’t …”

  Sergeant Noyes walked away.

  For the next several days, Billy hardly left Harry’s side. Harry pleaded once again with his superior officer to keep Billy in Company G, but the court-martial for Billy’s failed picket duty still posed a threat, and Harry had no better option than to comfort his friend.

  “Don’t you worry none,” Harry said on Billy’s last evening before his detachment. “Most likely Company G’s going to be right close to artillery once we start to fighting.”

  Leighton smacked Billy lightly on the back of his head. “If Livingston’s battery ain’t got no Awkward Squad, then they’ll have to send you back here, Billy Boy.”

  Throughout the long night, none of the assurances his friends offered brought Billy any comfort. In a few short hours, he would be truly alone for the first time in his life, and it terrified him. With dawn skulking over the eastern hills, Billy at last curled into the folds of his blanket. At first light, Corporal Leavitt would escort him to Livingston’s battery.

  Chapter 9

  Early in the evening Elijah followed railroad tracks through withered cornfields. Weak with hunger, he crawled on his hands and knees through the dry and crusty soil, hoping to find some forgotten ears of corn among the brown stalks. He had eaten little since running away from Fowler’s plantation; mostly he’d gathered berries or found remnants of crops cast off and left to rot in sun-bleached fields. Occasional orchards offered fallen fruit when he dared to walk among the scanty trees. Hugging the foothills of the western mountains, Elijah had followed the rail lines for several days. The ringing bays of the bloodhounds were long behind him, but he was careful just the same.

  In the sheen of starlight he spotted rooftops and the lofty spire of a church. He studied the landscape. West of the railroad town was dense forest that offered Elijah cover as he maneuvered around the town in an arc-shaped path. As in other towns along the railroad, he was hopeful of picking up the tracks at the northern end of town. He stepped away from the rail embankment and headed for the forest, staying low, moving stealthily through the thicket.

  Slowly he angled his way past the town, turning sharply east out of the forest after spotting the last light in a farmhouse window. There they were. Moonlight glinted off the rails, like a long straight line running beneath the North Star. He stopped suddenly. Laughter. He dropped down on his hands and knees. Clouds moved across the moon, darkness closed in around him. He saw the faint glow of cigarettes a short distance in front of him.

  Slave catchers? He flattened his body on the ground, fearful the heavy beating of his heart would echo in the night. He could hear voices. There had been a battle nearby—in the fields. Bull Run. Manassas. Yanks, he heard them laugh, “crushed, pushed north to Washington.” White folk soldiers would give Elijah to the slave catchers!

  How close was he to Sandy Spring? He raised his head. In the distance he could see hundreds of campfires and the haunting outlines of tents, endless rows of tents. He had nearly walked right into the soldiers’ camp. There was nowhere else to go except to double back. He remembered crossing another rail line a while ago, but it was heading west, not toward the Drinking Gourd. Crouched low, he tiptoed backward, back to the forest, where he stopped and listened. A southerly breeze rustled the grass, carrying the voices away from him. He knew the soldiers were close, only now he couldn’t hear them. Every few feet he stopped and listened for the voices, breathing more easily when he reached the forest edge. He picked up his pace and ran until he found the rails running west. He stepped over the tracks onto the wooden ties, not daring to look back.

  It terrified Elijah to follow the rails west, but he had no other choice. The tracks would keep him from getting lost, and as soon as he could find a path north, he would leave the rails and follow the star. Desperately lonely for Pappy and Ol’ Joe, his strength diminishing, he walked the rail ties through the long night.

  Dawn was breaking. He would have to find a place to hide soon. Which way to go? Should he hide close to the tracks or turn into the forest, following the star? The North Star was quickly fading in the early morning light. It would be hard to follow it under the thick cover of trees. And he might get lost, even die in the forest. Unsure of what to do, he continued along the tracks, talking out loud to the Lord, pleading once more to show him the way. The rail lines sloped gently downward through the wooded ravine, and on lower ground he saw a gray stone bridge a short distance ahead. His heart pumped with excitement. Creek flowing the way of the star! That gave him a path through the woods!

  But Ol’ Joe’s words haunted him, reminding him to follow the railroad north, not a creek. Tired and hungry, he sat down on the cool steel, not knowing whether he should follow the creek or the westerly rail.

  The sun spilled over his bare shoulders, the welcome warmth also providing a burst of awareness that he was out of time. He slid down the bank, the voices in his head talking, urging him on. Lord showed me the creek, he sayin’ go that way. Follow the Lord’s path, not the railroad.

  As he turned his back to the familiar tracks and Ol’ Joe’s warnings, Elijah hoped his friend would forgive him.

  He slept most of the day. The sky was overcast, threatening rain. Hunger gnawed at him, and he scavenged the forest floor for berries. Finding nothing, he stayed close to the creek, the water his only nourishment. He slept again, and when he awoke he felt weak and light-headed. When it grew dark, the rain fell, bouncing noisily off the leaves and splattering cold dro
plets down his back.

  Elijah stumbled over root stumps, and branches scratched him as he made his way along the bank of the creek. Dizziness blurred his vision, and he finally lay down on a patch of moss, deciding to sleep until dawn, praying he would feel stronger in the morning.

  He opened his eyes to the chatter of birds above his head. Sunlight filtered through the trees. He sat up, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and leaned over the stony bank for a drink of cool water. He stood up, relieved his dizziness was gone, although his legs were still weak. He walked along the creek for what seemed like hours, scouting the landscape for an orchard or a cornfield. Each step grew heavier; exhaustion filled every extremity of his body.

  Dizziness again. He pressed the palms of his hands against his temples. The forest spun in circles, blurring flashes of green and black; his legs buckled, and he felt himself falling. He reached for a low branch, but it snapped and sent him crashing, facedown on the ground.

  He awoke just after sunset. Using his arms for leverage, he tried to get on his feet, but he was too weak and he crashed back down. He wondered if the bloodhounds would find him like this. He crawled back closer to the bank and lay under some low-hanging branches. He thought about his pappy, sitting outside their log hut on a summer’s eve smoking his corncob pipe, telling stories as crickets chirped in the warm fields. He thought about Sundays, when the preacher came. Under the cool shade of the willow oak, Elijah would sit with the other slaves and listen to his comforting words, grateful for such rare and peaceful moments. Sometimes in the evenings, the slaves sang songs around a fire. His favorite was the song where everyone clapped their hands and stomped their feet in measured beats. It was the only time he could remember when everyone smiled.

  Hold your light, brother Robert

  Hold your light on Canaan’s shore

  What makes ol’ Satan for follow me so?

  Satan ain’t got nuthin’ for to do with me

  Hold your light, hold your light

  Hold your light on Canaan’s shore

  He tried to say the words out loud, or hum the melodic beat, but he was too weak to move his lips. So he played it over and over in his mind.

  Elijah hold the light.

  The spiritual gave him hope, and in a half-whisper, he uttered a small prayer. “Lord say he help the little folk. Lord, you take care of Elijah now.”

  Chapter 10

  Billy was despondent. As he dogged the corporal’s steady footsteps across the Virginia countryside, he could hardly believe he was on his way to a new company. He was afraid of what would happen to him without Harry and Leighton. He would sooner face a court-martial than be in Livingston’s battery. He hated those smoothbore cannons, needing all them fellas to load the projectiles and fire her. Awash in despair, he walked in silence throughout the long morning, watching the sun climb higher in the cloudless sky.

  By the time they reached the crest of a steep hill, Billy’s heart was racing and his head throbbed. A cool wind brushed across his face, refreshing him. Beside him, the corporal squinted in the sunlight, scanning the wide river below them.

  “See that small creek that spills into the Potomac?” said the corporal as he pointed his finger toward the distant hills. Glumly, Billy glanced his way, shrugged his shoulders, and said nothing.

  “That’s Goose Creek. And across the river from her—see that small clearing on the other side? That’s Edward’s Ferry, Livingston’s bivouac.” He glanced expectantly at Billy.

  “We swimmin’ across?” Billy asked, suddenly a little curious.

  “Just about,” laughed the corporal. “We’ll walk farther up this side of the river and cross at White’s Ford. It’s shallow there; water won’t be much above our waists.”

  Fingering his cap, Billy took a deep breath and swallowed hard. “Corporal,” he asked timidly, “you thinkin’ the sergeant’s gonna let me go back to my company and my friends?”

  The corporal placed his hands on his hips and blew the air from his cheeks. His answer was sharp and biting. “You ask Sergeant Riley that question, Private, and you’ll be real sorry you did.”

  Billy sighed. He turned his gaze away from the corporal to stare vacantly across the river, only half aware of the hand suddenly resting on his shoulder.

  “Look, you’ll make new friends soon enough. It don’t matter much what company you end up in.” The corporal started a hurried stride down the hill. “Things will work out.” Billy followed, kicking aimlessly at the tall grass.

  Crossing the river had been uneventful, and by the time Billy and the corporal reached the carriage path to Edward’s Ferry, their uniforms were almost dry. The shady path at last opened onto a clearing. They went directly to the sergeant’s tent and, finding it empty, headed across the field toward the long row of caissons at its edge. Over the corporal’s shoulder Billy spotted the sergeant, a stocky, broad-shouldered man with a tangled mass of curly reddish-gray hair spilling from his cap.

  “What the bejesus?” shouted the sergeant as he dropped a tow hook on the caisson. He reached into the opened crate and pulled out a handful of surgical knives and crude saws, turning an angry face to the corporal. “Do these look like shells to you, Corporal Leavitt?” Tossing the instruments back into the box, the sergeant spit a wad of tobacco and wrenched the tow hook under another lid.

  The corporal tried to keep a stern face. “Guess you’ll be doing surgery on the Rebs, Sergeant.”

  “No doubt the docs have my ammo.” Sergeant Riley peered into the crate. He slammed the lid shut.

  Turning his attention away from the caisson, the sergeant walked over to Billy, standing just inches from his face. His eyes bore down on him; the veins on his thick neck bulged red. Billy shied backward, shifting his weight back and forth and staring at the ground.

  “Sergeant,” said Corporal Leavitt. “Private Laird, Company G—”

  “You as good with horses as the Dutchman claims, lad?” the sergeant interrupted, leaning over and pushing a finger into Billy’s chest. “I’ve no use for a plodding farmhand, mind you.”

  “Yes, sir—sir, I was wonderin’ if I-I-I could go back—” He raised his face, twitched as the sergeant’s eyes, black as a ferret’s, narrowed.

  “What is it, Private?” His breath was hot, and smelled faintly of stale coffee.

  “I-I-I, well, Harry, my f-f-friends—”

  “Ah, Sergeant Riley.” Corporal Leavitt pushed in front of Billy. “Private Laird needs to feed the horses—so, ah, I’ll take him over to the corral now. We’ve not much time left before the last drill.”

  Sergeant Riley turned back to the wagon. “Suit yourself. I’ll know soon enough if he’s up to the task.” He reached for his tow hook. “And find my ammunition, Corporal.”

  Corporal Leavitt gave Billy a push and hurried him across the clearing. At the edge of the field he stopped abruptly, turned to Billy, both hands on his hips. “You simple fool. You almost got yourself in a lot of trouble. You’re in the army! You do what you’re told, and you don’t ask for special favors.”

  Pointing a finger toward a cluster of trees, he shouted, “Get yourself over to the other side of camp. Untie and corral the horses.”

  “Ain’t fair,” Billy whispered under his breath as he stared at his boots. He felt the corporal’s hand on his back, shoving him forward. He stumbled and, turning, glanced at a face full of anger. “Get moving. And don’t expect me to help you out again.”

  Billy walked in silence, kicking up clods of dirt with the toe of his boot. He winced as he strode past a line of smoothbore cannons. Camp looked much like Company G—rows of tents, clusters of soldiers playing games of chance, rolling tobacco, writing letters, and polishing bayonets. But it didn’t feel the same; it was unsettling without his friends. Billy headed for the stand of trees, choosing a path that ran behind the tents. A small group of soldiers was sitting around an unlit fire, smoking, and they glanced up as he walked past. From the corner of his eye he saw someone dart quickly
from the group, and he hurried his pace.

  A hand fell firmly on his shoulder and spun him around. He stared into the swarthy, strangely familiar face, recognition tying his stomach in knots. Lars Soule. The bully from Camp King.

  “So it’s you—the Sunday soldier,” bellowed Lars as he squeezed his fingers around the sleeve of Billy’s jacket. “Look-a-here, fellas. Remember the dumb li’l cuss from the Awkward Squad?”

  Billy’s heart raced with fear as others closed in around him. Even though instinct told him to wrestle free and run, before he could move away, Lars grabbed his shoulders and twisted him around, pushing his face in front of the other privates.

  “This ain’t no Awkward Squad here, you dumb little toady.” He shoved Billy at the others. Billy tried to block out the taunts, the laughter. But Lars grabbed him again by his shoulders, and leaning in close, spit tobacco in his face.

  “Listen up, Sunday soldier—we got us a war to fight down here. And me and my boys don’t need any simpleton getting us killed.” Lars pushed Billy to the ground. “We’ll have some fun at drill tomorrow morning. You’ll soon see this company’s got no place for the likes of you.”

  As Lars and his friends turned away, Billy rolled onto his feet and ran blindly toward the grove of trees, past the tethered horses, losing all sense of following the corporal’s stern orders. He kept on running, the echo of laughter exploding behind him.

  A gusty wind off the river swirled around him as he reached the hilltop above Edward’s Ferry. For several moments he paced back and forth along the bluff, repeating that hated word—simpleton … simpleton … He gazed out at the wide Potomac, at the lush Virginia meadows on the other side. He sighed heavily at the view, the scattered stands of ash reminding him of autumn and home. He spotted Goose Creek emptying into the wider river, the woods flanking its banks, and for a moment he wished himself in the middle of the forest, away from the taunts, and far from Lars Soule.