Billy Boy Read online

  As Billy walked along the edge of the bluff, a jackrabbit spooked in front of him and disappeared into the thicket. Finally, as a shield from the sharp wind, he sat down under an oak tree and leaned his head against its trunk. He opened his haversack and glanced at the three-day ration of hardtack, salt pork, and bully beef issued before he left, but nerves had curbed his appetite. Setting his pack on the grass, he tried to figure out what to do.

  Too frightened to return to camp, he watched the sun drop behind the hills, listening to the wind carry imagined howls of laughter. As darkness settled, he grew anxious about Corporal Leavitt. Was he looking for him? Would it mean another court-martial? His pulse quickened. I ain’t never goin’ back there. I ain’t. He ran his fingers frantically through his hair. Maybe he’d cut out like them others done. Then he remembered Leighton saying it was wrong to desert.

  Suddenly the image of Lars’s face flashed in front of him. He shuddered at the thought of morning and what might happen to him at drill. But Leighton says the army will shoot you if you run away.

  Tears welled in his eyes. Misery overwhelmed him, and he slumped to the ground, his body wracked with sobs.

  Long moments passed. Finally he sat up, and clasping his arms around his knees, he raised his face to a full moon and a sky full of stars. From the high hilltop he spotted the Big Dipper and traced his finger to the North Star. Pa said home would always be right under that star.

  “Pa!” he cried out loud to the darkness. “Pa! I’m wantin’ to come home.”

  In spite of Leighton’s warnings, his decision was made. He was not going back to Edward’s Ferry. He remembered Leighton telling him that the privates who deserted would need to hide out in the woods. There were woods on the other side of the river, along Goose Creek. He could hide there for a time.

  He was going home.

  Chapter 11

  Billy flung his canteen and haversack over his shoulder and went to grab his rifle. He hesitated a moment before deciding to leave the gun, tossing it angrily into the thicket and turning away. It was a long hike back up the river to the crossing point, and more difficult at night. He glanced at the bright moonlit fields below.

  The Lord’s made me a lantern, seems like.

  Quietly he made his way down the opposite side of the hill, careful not to stumble and alert the soldiers on picket duty. He thought about Harry and Leighton and the others, wondered if his friends would understand and forgive him. Loneliness ate at him.

  He walked for most of the night, following the river until he spotted the wide bend where he had waded across the day before, at White’s Ford. Although the moon was fading in the predawn light, he recognized the steep banks across the river. The current was moving faster than it had been the day before. He wished he could swim across, but he needed to keep his haversack dry. Taking off his sack coat and wrapping the haversack and canteen in its folds, he raised it above his head and stepped into the dark, cold water.

  The shale of sand and gravel on the river bottom was slippery, reminding him of wintry days sliding across the ice on Frog Pond. He slipped more than once and fought to keep his balance as the fast-moving water tossed him off the crushed bedrock. The river rose to his chest, and the heavy weight of his clothes pulled him downstream, pushing him with the current. Too late, he realized, to take off his boots and dig his toes into the gravelly bottom. The force of the river pressed against him, and he twisted and strained his body sideways toward the opposite side. Gradually the water dropped below his waist and he regained control of his footing, moving freely toward the shore.

  Catching his breath, Billy stared at the steep, smooth banks and readied himself for the slippery climb. He plunged his arms into the sleeves of his coat, repositioned his haversack and canteen, and dug his fingers into the bank. He searched for a handhold as his boots slid against the slippery clay, teasing him back to the river’s edge. Above his head, he saw a thick root jutting out. He grabbed hold of it and pulled himself upward. Straining, his fingers clawing dirt and gripping at every root, he inched his way to the top. He swung his arm over the edge and in one great heave rolled his body sideways up and over onto the grassy crest. His strength drained, he swallowed mouthfuls of air as his heart hammered in his chest.

  Wet clothes stuck against his skin, sending cold shivers up and down his body. Cupping his hands, he blew warm breath over his fingers, red and sore from the gritty climb. He lay down on dew-laden grass, listening for a rustle in the brush, a sudden movement in the trees. Hearing only the night insects’ rhythmic trill, he closed his eyes and pretended he was home, warm and dry under his quilt, his little brother snuggled beside him.

  Billy awoke to the sun on his face. Fearful of being spotted, he forced himself to his feet and looked across the fields. He could move quickly through the grassy landscape, but he’d have to stay low. He darted across the field and spotted a lone apple tree at its edge, its limbs overburdened with unpicked fruit. He grabbed a handful of apples, stuffed them into his pockets, and hurried off.

  By the time he reached Goose Creek, thickening clouds blocked out the late-morning sunlight. The woods seemed darker, more frightening in the graying sky. Glancing across the river at Edward’s Ferry, he darted into the cover of the trees, hugging the bank of the creek as he moved into the forest. He would sooner be in the meadows, and sooner feel the wind rustling through the tall grass than the dampness of the gloomy forest. He was scared and alone. The wet leather of his boots chafed his feet, and he stumbled over tree roots hidden under decaying leaves. He cried out once, spooking the birds high in the treetops. He sniffed and brushed the sleeve of his jacket across his runny nose.

  He wanted to turn back, hide closer to the Potomac River, but fear drove him deeper into the woods. He stopped several times and splashed water from the creek over his face. Once he sat down on a boulder, looked around, and tried to rest. But the stillness unnerved him, and he slid off the smooth rock and moved farther upstream. At last the afternoon sun burned through the clouds, filtering welcome light down through the trees, briefly lifting his dispirited soul. He spotted another small clearing beside the creek just beyond the branches hanging low over the bank. He was desperately hungry, now anxious to sit in the warming sunlight and eat one of the apples.

  He pushed the needled limbs away from his face. Suddenly he yelled as he fell into the pine tree, branches snapping against his weight. He stared in shock at what he saw there on the forest floor.

  A colored boy lay sprawled across the ground where he’d been sleeping. The snap of tree limbs had startled him awake, and in an instant, fear flashed across his dark face. He rolled over on his side and staggered to his feet.

  Before Billy could speak, the boy backed away, each step inching him closer to the creek. His bare feet sank in the shallow water and he jerked backward. Water swirled around his knees, pushing him off his feet. In a rush to regain his balance, he lost his footing and flipped on his back. Screams pierced the air before he disappeared under the muddied water.

  Billy scanned the river, waiting for the boy to surface and swim to shore. Seconds passed. He began to panic and ran along the river’s edge, glancing in every direction. There was no sign of him.

  Finally the boy broke through the water, his face turned upstream, his eyes filled with terror as water rushed into his nose and mouth. The current buried him, and then spit him up, hurling him like a log as he moved swiftly downstream. Boulders peppered the riverbed like jagged fence posts.

  He can’t swim! He’s gonna hit them rocks! Billy realized.

  Tossing his canteen and haversack to the ground, Billy yanked off his jacket and boots, his heart racing. His blistered feet burst open on the stony ground. Cold water stung the open flesh. He thrust his body downstream, kicked his legs furiously, and used his arms to guide him to the half-submerged boulders. Brown water rushed around the bedrock. He couldn’t see beneath the surface. He dove under, spreading his fingers like tentacles in search of the bo
dy. In the murky darkness, he felt him, flattened against a boulder, pinned by the current. Billy yanked and pulled, but his emptying lungs cried out for air. Propelling his legs to the surface, he breathed deeply and then dove again. Using his back to break the force of the water, he wrestled the body away from the rock and pushed it to the surface. With one arm, he grabbed the lifeless form around the chest, his free arm paddling water, groping for leverage. The creek splashed over him and he rolled on his back, his face downstream. Kicking his feet, one arm in a frenzied backstroke, he angled toward the bank.

  Once in shallower water, Billy planted both feet in the sand. Slipping his hands under the colored boy’s armpits, Billy dragged him to the grassy clearing. Sinking to his knees, his chest heaving, Billy studied the boy’s inert body. Brown water slowly drained from his mouth. Billy rolled the boy onto his side, and in seconds bile and water erupted from his throat.

  Billy watched the boy’s chest move up and down in faint, shallow breaths. Moments passed before his eyes flickered open and met Billy’s. “Slave catcher …”

  “I ain’t no slave catcher! I’m a soldier; least, I was …”

  “White folk … slave catcher …” The boy’s voice faded as he collapsed on the grass.

  Elijah’s first sensation when he awoke was warmth. Wood smoke tickled his nose. Eyes pinched closed, Elijah listened, his body motionless. Over the crackling flames, he heard water slapping against the rocks. And then he remembered. The creek. He fell in the creek. Slave catcher! He rolled his hand across his chest, his fingers touching heavy cloth. What’s this? Something stirred beside him. He didn’t want to look. His eyelids fluttered with indecision.

  “You done sleepin’?” the voice asked.

  White folk. Slave catcher. He takin’ me back. He opened his eyes to the tall and fearful white man looming over him. He would have to fight. He tried to raise his head off the ground, but his weakened body resisted, pulling him down.

  “Slave catcher?” Elijah moaned.

  “Told you already, I ain’t no slave catcher. Why? You a slave?”

  “Why you pull me from the creek?”

  “I seen you can’t swim is all. Thing is, first time at Frog Pond, Josh—”

  “You takin’ me back?” Elijah cried out.

  “I ain’t doin’ nuthin’.”

  Confused, Elijah watched the man lean over and pick up a handful of branches stacked neatly in a pile, tossing them onto a small fire burning in the center of the clearing.

  Elijah was suddenly conscious of his fingers fiddling a button—the jacket that was keeping him warm, alive, for the slave catchers. For the reward. “This your jacket?”

  “Yeah. You was shakin’ bad. Why ain’t you gotta shirt?”

  Baffled, Elijah shook his head. “White folk don’t care if a nigguh got no shirt.”

  “You lose it?”

  “No, suh.”

  “Then why ain’t you got one?”

  Elijah sighed and rolled over on his side, holding the jacket close around him. His forehead exploded in pain, the woods whirled in rapid circles around him. “Why you keep askin’?”

  “Wonderin’ is all. You hungry?”

  “Yes, suh.”

  “You got a haversack?”

  “What’s a haversack?”

  “Ain’t you got one?”

  “No, suh.”

  “Where you keepin’ your food?”

  “Ain’t got no food.”

  “How come?”

  The white man stood up and walked away from the fire, leaned over, and reached for a leather pouch. Elijah stiffened, ignoring the question. He needed a weapon. Afraid to raise his head, he used his fingers to search the ground around him. He touched a rock the size of his fist, and wrapping his hand around it, dragged the rock close to his side.

  The man pulled a knife from his pouch and looked his way. Elijah gripped his fingers tightly around the rock.

  “Got some salt pork here.” Holding his pouch, he dropped to the ground, sat cross-legged, and placed the salt pork on his knee. He dug his knife into the greasy meat. “Why you ain’t got any food?”

  Salt pork. How long had it been? A picture flashed through Elijah’s mind—sitting on the steps of the log hut with Pappy, eating chunks of warmed salt pork and moist corn cakes. Pappy telling stories as they ate under the stars, the long day in the fields finally at an end. Hungry, he tried to sit up. Dizziness washed over him. He lowered his head slowly onto the flattened grass.

  “No matter. Stay there.”

  “What you gonna do?”

  “Gonna feed you is all. Harry said I did a good job helping out them fellas in the hospital.”

  He inched his way over.

  Still, Elijah locked his gaze on the pale blue eyes studying him as a piece of salt pork dangled from the knife. He had no strength to resist; he felt sure he was going to die at the hands of the stranger. But the man carefully picked the salt pork off the blade and slipped it into his mouth. Bewildered, Elijah closed his lips around the meat, his starvation overwhelming his will to fight. He eagerly accepted more. The white man sat beside him, feeding him chunks of the salt pork; then he cut up an apple and fed him a few slices. Elijah swallowed hard, fighting the longing to close his eyes in sleep. Consciousness slipped slowly from him; his eyelids drooped, blinked open, and finally shut.

  “Why white folk save Elijah?” he whispered as he drifted into darkness.

  He wakened to find night settling, flames from a small fire crackling and sparking the air. The white man was still there, sitting nearby, his long legs huddled against his chest, arms wrapped around his knees. There was no hint of meanness in his face, eyes blue as a perfect summer sky. Elijah coughed. The man startled, jumped to his feet, grabbed a canteen, and kneeled beside him. Elijah didn’t move as a hand cradled his neck and raised his head. Slowly, water spilled onto his tongue. “Go on now and sleep ’til mornin’,” Elijah heard him say as he closed his eyes.

  The rustling of leaves wakened Elijah. Opening his eyes, he turned his head as a gray squirrel darted into the thicket, his teeth clamped on the small haversack. In an instant Elijah was on his feet, crashing through the dense brush, suddenly aware that his legs were no longer trembling and the dizziness was gone. Relieved, he grinned as the squirrel abandoned the pouch and scurried up the pine. Leaning over, Elijah grabbed the haversack and pushed his way through the tangle of brush back to the clearing. He stepped over to where the man lay sleeping and studied him, and then he scanned the ground for a rifle, perhaps hidden under the brush. Other than the canteen and knapsack resting by his side, there was nothing else, not even a blanket. The man’s dark clothes were crusted with dirt and mud. For a moment Elijah thought about running, but instinct told him to stay, to see what would unfold. Without a weapon, the thin white man posed little threat. He tossed the pouch down to the ground. The man stirred, blinked his eyes at Elijah, and rolled over on his side, back to sleep.

  Elijah gathered a handful of branches, feeding them onto the smoldering fire. Slowly the coals rekindled into life. He breathed deeply in the crisp morning air, feeling hopeful for the first time in days.

  Lord, give Elijah one mo’ chance. But why, Lord, you send Elijah white folk? Leaning over, he picked up the rock he had hidden earlier by his side and tossed it into the middle of the creek.

  This time the man groaned awake and looked his way, staring at him for several moments before breaking into a smile. Elijah offered a shy smile in return.

  “You feelin’ better?”

  “Yes, suh, sho’ am.”

  “Reckon you’re still hungry.”

  “Yes, suh.”

  “We got us two apples and some beef is all.”

  Sitting up, he reached for his haversack and took out an apple, tossed it to him, and taking out his knife, pulled out the meat and cut it in half.

  Elijah ate the apple first, licking the juice from his fingers, staring intently at the stranger who kept sharing his fo
od.

  Elijah waited and then spoke. “You be thinkin’ ’bout takin’ me back?”

  “Back where?”

  “Mastuh Fowler.”

  “Don’t know no Master Fowler. You just run off?”

  “Yes, suh.”

  “Name’s Billy.”

  “Billy, suh.”

  “Ain’t you got a name?”

  “Elijah.”

  “Elijah,” Billy repeated. “Reverend Snow read that name afore—in the Bible.” He tossed the apple core into the fire. “Thing is, I run off, same as you. Cut out from the army.”

  Shock jolted Elijah to his feet. “Army, suh? They lookin’ for you?” he asked, blowing air out of his cheeks. “Oh, no, suh.”

  “You sore at me? I mean, ’cause I deserted and all?”

  Elijah stared at Billy in disbelief, then glanced at his clothes, badly soiled but the jacket distinctly blue. “What army you in?”

  “Army of the Potomac, Seventeenth Maine Regiment. Leighton says the army’ll likely shoot me.”

  “And where is this Leighton?”

  “He’s my friend.” Billy let out a deep sigh. “Leighton and Harry and, and—all of them back there, ’cept me. You got a friend, Elijah?”

  Nodding his head, Elijah gazed into the woods, a vacant stare across his face. “Ol’ Joe, he my friend. Elijah never gon’ see Ol’ Joe again.”

  “Then you ain’t got a friend?”

  “No mo’, suh.”

  “You wantin’ to be my friend?”

  Elijah’s eyebrows arched. He turned away and looked out across the creek. “White folk don’t be makin’ friends with no slave,” he said a few moments later.

  “Why not?”

  “That just the way it be.”

  “Reckon it ain’t needin’ to be that way.”

  “When you leave these woods, maybe you tell slave catchers about Elijah. Slave catchers pay you money.”

  “I ain’t tellin’ no slave catcher.” Billy shouted. “Besides, I’m needin’ to stay here. Leighton says if you desert, you got to hide in the woods for a time.”