Billy Boy

by Jean Mary Flahive

  “Oh, God, Harry,” Leighton cried. “Ain’t this day over yet?”

  For several hours the troops lay in the miserable mud. Each movement attracted a barrage of artillery and musketry fire from the crest of the wooded hill as the Rebels refused to give up. During the long afternoon, the pitiful moans and cries of the wounded haunted the wretched men as they lay still, unable to help.

  “You hear that?” Josh nodded his head in the direction of the pleas for help. “It ain’t right to be left out there to die. Just ain’t right.”

  At 4:00 P.M., the Rebel lines began to move again, unleashing a firestorm of masked artillery on the front lines. Impressed with the 17th Maine’s first round of fighting, General Berry ordered the regiment to the front to support the left flank.

  Dodging shells and artillery, the Maine regiment scrambled across the road, advancing left in front of the batteries.

  “Prone positions! Return fire!” shouted Captain West as Livingston’s battery unleashed hundreds of shells over their heads into the advancing rebel lines.

  Harry dropped down again, into the mud. He fired his last musket ball and turned his head to check on Leighton, lying on his back near him. Blood oozed from a gaping hole in Leighton’s blue jacket. A few seconds too slow hitting the ground, he had been shot.

  “Leighton!” Harry crawled to his side. Frantically Harry pressed his hands on the open wound.

  Leighton’s fingers touched Harry’s blood-soaked hands. “Ah, Harry,” he whispered. “It hurts …” He grimaced in pain and looked around, his eyes blinking with tears. “I don’t want to die here. Get me home, Harry, promise me …”

  “I promise, Leighton, I promise. But you ain’t gonna die—don’t give up!” he yelled. He slipped his arms under Leighton’s chest and rocked him gently, holding him close.

  “Tell … Josh …” Leighton’s eyes, vacant like a hollowed log, stared blankly at the sky.

  “Leighton! Leighton!” cried Harry.

  Leighton’s eyes blinked, resting on Harry’s pale, anguished face, and his lips parted slowly. “Tell Josh—”

  “I’ll tell him, I’ll tell him—just hang on!” Harry’s voice cracked.

  “Without you fellas, I weren’t nuthin’ …” Leighton’s head fell limply into Harry’s chest. Harry felt the life leave Leighton’s body. He touched his face. “No!”

  “Private Warren! Move out!” Captain West started across the road. “Now!”

  The front lines were still under heavy fire, but as the battery continued its incessant reply with deadly force, the Rebel lines pulled back, disappearing into the woods.

  Harry looked around quickly and saw that he was alone. He grabbed Leighton’s body by the shoulders and began dragging him across the field to the embankment by the road. Captain West shouted at him once more.

  “Warren! Leave him be. Move!”

  Releasing his grip on the heavy body, Harry leaned over and whispered, “Don’t you worry none, Leighton. I’ll be back for you.” With a last look at his friend, Harry ran low across the field.

  “What’s happened to Leighton? Where is he? There’s blood all over you!” screamed a terrified Josh as Harry leaped into the ditch. Harry nodded solemnly to Charlie, who wrapped his arms around Josh and held him tight against his chest.

  “He’s gone,” sobbed Harry.

  “Let me go! No, no, he can’t die!” Josh wailed and kicked his legs wildly, desperate to free himself from Charlie. “He’s out there alone! Let me go!” But his body crumpled, wracked with sobs. Exhausted, he collapsed in Charlie’s arms.

  “I got to reload,” gulped Harry. “Stay alert. We’ll both keep an eye on Josh.”

  “Harry—the shooting’s stopped,” said Charlie in a hoarse whisper as he released one arm, placing it firmly on Harry’s taut shoulder. “It’s over.”

  The clatter of musketry grew faint, and the rumble of the cannons’ booms faded in the distance like a dying thunderstorm. Harry leaned his head against his rifle.

  Harry awoke during the night and stretched his arm out from under his sodden blanket, reaching for Josh. They had bedded down on broken cornstalks gathered earlier to shield them from the dampness and huddled together to generate warmth. His blanket was empty. Frightened, Harry called out. “Charlie? Wake up! Josh is gone.”

  “I know,” he answered sleepily.

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s okay—let him be—he’s with Leighton.” Charlie pulled the blanket over his head, shivering from the dampness. “We’ll fetch him in the morning.”

  Harry lay back down and stared at the starlit night. “By the God!” He raised himself up, leaning on his elbows. “Charlie, look at the sky!”

  The northern lights, luminous arches of yellow light, streamed brilliantly above them. Charlie sat up and stared wide-eyed at the brilliant sky.

  “Them’s northern lights!” said Harry in a shrill voice. “Heaven’s lighting up the sky for Leighton, make no mistake.”

  “Leighton and the thousands of other northern boys lying out there on the plain.”

  “Ain’t no northern lights supposed to be this far south. What do you think it means?”

  Charlie scanned the sky and shook his head. “I reckon it’s a northern dawn …” He paused and rubbed a hand across his eyes. “Leighton—and all the others—have gone home.”

  In the early hours of a gray morning, a two-hour truce was declared to protect the men on either side who went out into the trampled plains to bury the dead and bring in the wounded. Harry and Charlie walked across the crimson-stained fields in silent bewilderment. Around them, stretcher bearers in blue and gray hastened by in search of the living. Shovels tore at the crusted ground as both sides tried futilely to bury their dead before the short truce was over. As they approached the ground where Leighton lay, they stared sadly at Josh, asleep on his stomach, one arm stretched across Leighton’s chest.

  Charlie leaned over and eased Josh up into his arms, turning his back to the scarred ground. “It’s time, Josh,” he whispered.

  Chapter 26

  As the townspeople of Berwick gathered to grieve the death of Leighton Tasker, Billy lay in his bed, his pillow soaked from crying. He curled into a ball, burying his head under his quilt to block the sunlight.

  Billy rolled on his stomach and sobbed more into his pillow, wondering if God was sore with him for deserting, punishing him by taking away his friends.

  By mid-January snowdrifts had piled up against the barn. Icicles hung from the eaves, and an empty water trough lay buried in tufts of white. Inside the barn, Pa wielded his ax on a thick log while nosy hens clucked and scratched the floor and a small black goat nibbled at pieces of splintered wood. Beside him, Billy stacked a load of split wood in Jamie’s outstretched arms and watched as his brother weighed each step over the icy barnyard. On his way back into the barn, Jamie stopped suddenly and turned around. Then, he turned a panicked face back to the barn and with a wave of his hand motioned Billy to hide.

  “Pa!” he shouted. “It’s Mr. Kinsley!”

  Henry Kinsley slid off his saddle and pulled the reins over his mare’s neck. “What’s got you so all fired up, young’un?” Shaking his head, he hitched the horse to the fence post and headed into the barn. A thud caught his attention, and he glanced in the direction of the noise, the empty stalls under the main loft.

  Crouched on his knees and holding his breath, Billy peeked between the slats of Daisy’s stall. Sure enough, Mr. Kinsley was staring right at the pen. Not even daring to breathe, Billy sunk into the shadows.

  “Henry.” John Laird lowered the ax to his side. “What brings you here? Needing more wood this early in the winter?”

  “Ayuh.” Henry nodded, eyes fixed on the horse stall. A brown hen pecked at his boots, snapping his concentration, and he turned to John, spitting a wad of tobacco on the straw-covered floor. “Too much pastureland and not enough standing timber. What little I cut’s too green for this year. That pile of tim
ber in your back field—would you be willing to trade straight out for one of my calves this spring?”

  John Laird sighed and blew out his cheeks. “Fair enough.”

  “Thank you kindly, John. Dang lumber mills stripped the forests so I can’t even scavenge for wood. Thought I had enough to last the winter, but we’ve not had a January thaw this time—cold spell’s left me plum short. I’ll send my boys over come Saturday with the wood sled.” He hesitated, pushing at scattered straw and chips of wood with the toe of his boot. The goat bleated and scampered to the other side of the barn.

  “Damn shame ’bout Leighton.”

  “Ayuh. He was a good lad.” Pa wielded his ax and tossed the split halves off to the side. With the sleeve of his shirt he wiped the beads of sweat that dripped along his forehead and took a deep breath.

  “Heard from your boy since he run off?” Mr. Kinsley stole a lingering glance at Daisy’s stall.

  Billy stiffened at Mr. Kinsley’s words. Leaning into the slats, he saw Pa’s jaw tighten in anger. Moments passed; the silence hung in the air like thick fog. All of a sudden Jamie rushed up to Mr. Kinsley, pulling furiously on the sleeve of his coat.

  “Mr. Kinsley? Mr. Kinsley? Can I name the calf when she’s born?”

  With barely a nod, Kinsley brushed the small hand from his coat, his eyes steadfast on Pa. But Jamie darted in front of him like a pesky fly, still tugging on his coat.

  “Whaddya think I should be callin’ her?” Jamie asked.

  “I don’t give a tinker’s damn. Now, Billy, he—”

  “Then I’ll be naming her Nellie.” Jamie yanked again on Kinsley’s coat sleeve. “Come with me, Mr. Kinsley—I’m wantin’ to show you where I’ll build Nellie a pen.”

  Kinsley elbowed the purposefully annoying Jamie aside, sending him sprawling to the floor. The hens squawked and scattered, flapping their feathers in frenzied confusion.

  The ax dropped from Pa’s hand as he rushed over to help Jamie up. He pointed his finger in anger. “There’s no need of that, Henry! I’m asking you to leave.”

  “Tarnation!” Kinsley held his palms up in the air and hurriedly retreated from the barn onto the icy footpath. His boots slipped beneath him, lifting his legs over his head and flinging him onto the frozen ground. For a moment he lay still, groaning and cursing under his breath before he shot a miserable glance in their direction.

  “Mr. Kinsley,” said Jamie. “I’ll help you—”

  “Stay away from me, you dang little …” He stopped short of finishing his sentence, and, still muttering to himself, rolled on his side before crawling back onto his feet. Without a backward glance, he untied his horse, guiding him cautiously down the icy lane.

  “All clear, Billy.” Jamie climbed up the slats to greet him.

  “Some mighty fast thinking there, son,” Pa said as he leaned over the stall and placed an arm over Jamie’s shoulder. He was visibly shaken.

  “Pa?” Billy’s voice was barely a whisper. “You thinkin’ Mr. Kinsley saw me?”

  “He did,” Jamie said. “I could tell.”

  Across the barnyard Ma’s voice called for supper. A heavy silence fell as they stacked the uncut timber. Pa pulled the barn door along its tracks, and the three headed for the farmhouse.

  After supper, Pa wiped his hands on his napkin and leaned back in his chair. “We’re needing to find some place for you to go, Billy,” he said. “Reckon it ain’t safe for you to stay here now, what with Henry Kinsley snooping around.”

  “Billy ain’t leaving home this time, John Laird,” Ma snapped. “He’ll not leave my side again.” Billy glanced at his brother before he lowered his eyes.

  “Martha, we’ve no choice in the matter.” His chair scraped across the floor as Pa pushed away from the table. He walked to the mantel and grabbed his pipe. For several anxious moments he paced the floor. Finally he hesitated and struck a match, inhaled, and blew tufts of smoke. “Billy can’t stay—”

  “Then hear me out,” Ma said. “I guess I knew this day was coming. We can’t expect all folks to be taking kindly to Billy’s running off, what with the deaths of Leighton and Jeb.” She paused, watching her husband renew his rigid pacing across the floorboards. “I’m willing to ask Mary Rogers if Billy can stay at her farm; it’s close enough to home. She’s fixing to marry Harry after the war, and knowing how Harry feels about Billy—well, Mary ain’t gonna tell no one.”

  Billy’s gaze darted back and forth between his ma and pa. “Mary Rogers?”

  Jamie started to giggle. “She’s my teacher!”

  “But she lives with her ma. We can’t ask Elizabeth to take him in. Ain’t proper for a widow.”

  “Elizabeth is in New York and will be for a time, taking care of her ailing father. Billy could stay there during the day and come home after dark. Sleep in his own bed.” She folded her hands, nervously playing with her fingers, and waited. “I won’t have my boy any farther away than that, John Laird.”

  Pa was quiet. Slowing his pace, he hesitated, removed the pipe from his mouth, and set it back on the mantel. “I reckon that will do for now. Don’t figure the army will be looking for him at the Rogers farm—got no reason.” He turned to his wife. “But we’ll have to figure something else out real soon. A place where he can stay for a long while.”

  With a heavy sigh, Billy pushed the ruffled curtain across its rod and sat down in the rocker. He pushed his long legs against the floorboards, rocking and brooding in sullen silence. It had snowed all day, and the stretch of fields back to his own farm would be impassable. Each evening for the past three weeks he had darted across the shadowy pastures for home, returning to the Rogers farm in the gray light of dawn

  “You’re looking right sad this evening,” Mary said, entering the living room. “Here, I brewed some coffee.”

  “Wantin’ to go home is all.” Billy reached for a mug of the steaming coffee.

  “You’re to stay here tonight. Snow’s too deep to cross the field, and you surely can’t take the roads.” She took a sip from her mug and then smiled. “I’m thinking about fixing some biscuits. Still got a jar of last June’s strawberry jam.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” His pinched lips collapsed into a smile. He liked Mary. It had been hard at first, spending his days at the Rogers farm. Mary was shy like him, and mostly they just smiled at each other, their words few and awkward. After a while, they began to talk more easily, and Mary would ask him questions or explain things to him in a way that he could understand. He wished Miss Dame had been more like Mary. Maybe things would have been different for him somehow. Sipping his coffee, he slowed his anxious rocking.

  “And here’s something that will cheer you up even more. I got a letter today,” Mary said, her eyes sparkling.

  Billy almost spilled the coffee over his trousers. “From Harry?”

  She nodded, set her mug on the side table, and pulled the letter from her pocket, unfolding it tenderly as if it were fine lace. “I’ll read some of what he has to say,” she said shyly. He saw the pink flush of her cheeks as she leaned closer to the kerosene lamp. “Listen good.”

  We’re back at our winter quarters, Camp Pitcher, after General Burnside’s miserable attempt to have us cross the Rappahannock again and attack General Lee. It rained so hard the ground turned into a sea of mud. Horses and artillery were so mired as not to move an inch. I never dreamed winter in Virginia could be so cold. All the fellas got coughing fits, it’s so damp. Now we spend most of our days building corduroy roads and our evenings building fires to dry us out. Last night the Union bands massed together and gave a concert along the riverbank, being it wasn’t so cold for a change. There must have been thousands of us singing songs. Even the Rebs gathered on their side of the river to listen. After a time, some Reb shouted from the banks for the bands to play one of their songs. So the band played “Dixie” for them. Then “Home Sweet Home.” Seems like quite a few of us got pretty choked up before the song was near over. Things got real quiet. Then the
Rebs just up and walked away from the river, without a sound. And we all went back to our tents, not a one of us saying a word.

  Mary paused and looked at Billy.

  Billy’s eyelids lowered as he stared absently at the floor. Mary leaned over and touched his arm. “Billy?” she asked softly. “I know it’s sad.”

  He nodded his head. “It ain’t that kind of sad, Mary.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  Billy hesitated before he spoke. “Fellas all singin’ together. Folks ain’t hurtful when they got something to sing.”

  “No?”

  “I’m thinkin’ of them times—before Harry, when I didn’t have no friends. When I tried to be friends with the other fellas, they just poked fun, and sometimes they was real mean. Then come Sunday we was all in church standin’ there, side by side, singin’ like we was friends and all. Not a one pokin’ fun.” He hesitated for a moment and then said, “Figure music just makes things right.”

  Mary let out a sigh. “My gracious, Billy, you surely did understand what Harry was writing about. You surely did,” she repeated once more under her breath.

  Her eyes scanned the next few lines, and then she quickly folded the letter in half. “I guess that’s about all he says …”

  Billy saw the color deepen on her cheeks. “You sure like Harry. In the evenings, at camp, Harry most always fingered that pink ribbon you give him.”

  Mary smiled warmly. Placing the letter on the side table, she stood. “How about we fix those biscuits now?”

  Billy followed her and watched eagerly as Mary lifted the barrel’s lid, leaned over, and opened the sack of flour. “I wish it wouldn’t snow no more. I ain’t seen the stars for a long time, what with it being so cloudy and all. Mary, does it snow in Canada?”

  “Yes, it snows, and even more there, I reckon,” she said, carefully sifting a cup of flour into a yellow bowl. “You thinking of Elijah again?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”