Billy Boy

by Jean Mary Flahive

  Leonard Tasker set the daguerreotype down gently on the table and folded his arms across his chest. “Lieutenant, I understand what you’re tryin’ to say about duty and all. But Leighton most likely mustered for the same reason as Billy. I’ll wager he was more interested in being with his friends than setting his mind to some sworn duty. I’m not sure he knew just why we’re fighting this war. Don’t judge young Billy so harshly. He probably don’t even know he done wrong when he ran,” he said.

  The lieutenant tried to soften his words. “I’m hearing from folks that Private Laird may be simple, Mr. Tasker, but nevertheless, he committed a serious violation of the Articles of War. And, well, sir, the army just can’t afford to let people walk away from their obligation. We have to win this fight, and the president needs every soldier the towns can give us.” Lieutenant Walker leaned closer to the couple and asked softly, “Do you have any idea where he might be hiding?”

  Mabel Tasker wrung her hands. “Why, no … I didn’t even know about Billy being back home ’til you spoke of it.”

  “Will they bring my boy’s body back to Maine, Lieutenant?” asked Leonard as he stared at the photograph.

  Lieutenant Walker bit his lip and stirred uncomfortably in his chair. Any further chance to learn more about Private Laird was lost. He stole a glance at Hanson and Waterhouse and, shrugging his shoulders, tilted his head toward the door.

  “Mr. Tasker, I’m afraid it won’t happen until after the war. Someone will have to go down south and look for his grave. Perhaps one of his friends marked the site. I’m sorry. I wish I could be more helpful.”

  Mabel Tasker slumped against her husband. Whatever hope they had held for retrieving their son’s body withered in front of them, and they cried openly. Lieutenant Walker pushed his chair back and stood up from the table.

  “You gonna be takin’ a look in my barn and outbuildings?” Leonard asked feebly.

  Lieutenant Walker shook his head. “No, sir, I don’t think that will be necessary.”

  The three men rode silently up the winding road to Pine Hill, its timbered sides now planted in fields of apple trees. The wind was strong at the crest, but through the budding trees the view was spectacular. At the top of the hill was a red Cape with black shuttered windows. A center chimney loomed against the clear blue sky.

  “Must be the Warren farm,” said Hanson. “Right where Frances Porter said it would be.”

  The lieutenant nodded and leaned forward on his saddle. “Keep your eyes open; if you can’t hide in the home of your best friend, then where else?”

  A handsome middle-aged woman looked up from the porch and felt her heart leap in her chest when she noticed the man in uniform. Florence Warren called out to her husband and walked away from the basket of laundry. Her hand over her mouth, she approached the men as they dismounted from their horses. Hank Warren ran out of the barn.

  “Oh, Lord! Has something happened to my boy?” she said, barely able to utter the words.

  “Ma’am,” Walker interrupted, “far as we know, your son is fine. I’m sorry to give you such a fright.”

  The Warrens shook their heads when Lieutenant Walker talked to them about Private Laird. It was simply not possible, they told him, for Billy to have found his way home from Maryland.

  The lieutenant pursued his questioning, and as with the Taskers, he found the Warrens’ responses sincere. “So what you’re saying, then, Mr. Warren, is that Laird’s only friends mustered? There’s no one else here who might hide him that you know of?”

  “That’s what I’m saying to you, Lieutenant,” Hank Warren glanced at his wife. “Billy’s a fine, God-fearing boy. Just plain simple is all. As far as the missus and I are concerned, we don’t want to see Billy arrested. Reckon I’m glad I don’t know his whereabouts. Don’t take kindly to lying, and I don’t want to be untruthful to the army. Thank the good Lord, I don’t have to make that choice.”

  “I hear your son is a mighty fine soldier, Mr. Warren. You and Mrs. Warren should be proud,” offered Hanson.

  “Oh, we’ve always been proud of Harry. He’s a good boy. We just want him home safe and sound, so he and Mary can get married and settle down.”

  “Who’s this Mary?” the lieutenant asked.

  “Mary Rogers,” chimed in Mrs. Warren. “She and Harry are promised to each other. She’s a lovely girl—the schoolteacher in town, you know.”

  “So she must know Private Laird?”

  “Well, yes. Everyone in Berwick knows everyone else. And young Jamie Laird is one of her students.”

  Hank Warren stepped forward and asked, “Will you be needing to search our farm?”

  “Yes, sir, my partners and I want to take a look around. We’ll be quick about it,” said the lieutenant.

  “Do what you must. We’ve nothing to hide.”

  Lieutenant Walker walked the farmyard while Hanson and Waterhouse scoured the large barn, opening doors, checking stalls and haystacks. Again, they found nothing. The afternoon sun was fading as the three mounted their horses and headed down the long, steep hill. Anxious to reach the schoolhouse, Walker pressed his legs into his horse and moved quickly down the lane, hoping to beat the dark.

  Chapter 29

  In the chilly twilight, Jamie raced across the muddy fields. The light at the Rogers farm was faintly visible, the night air serene; the sting of winter was at last fading into early spring. In spite of Pa’s admonitions, Jamie dashed onto the road to shorten the distance, replaying his secret plan in his mind.

  “Billeeee!” he cried as Mary opened the front door to his heavy knocking. “Billeeee!” Jamie leaped into his brother’s outstretched arms, burying his cold, reddened cheeks against his chest.

  “Pa said you’re to come home with me tonight. Said he and Ma are needin’ to talk about a new plan, what with the army in town.”

  “It’s been a frightful afternoon,” Mary said, her face ashen. At school, Jamie had told her about the people looking for Billy. “I’m not sure you should go home tonight, Billy, but we’ll do whatever your Pa says.”

  Billy led Jamie into the living room and Mary followed. Billy sat down on the braided rug, fidgeting nervously. “Tell me more about this morning.”

  “Pa made me leave the room when they came, but I listened behind the door,” Jamie said. “They said they’re gonna arrest you for desertion. Then Ma got real upset. Talked sharp with the lieutenant. And Pa asked them to leave.” Jamie glanced at Billy. “The lieutenant said he was under orders to find you. They went and searched the house and barn. They found your boots.” Billy lowered his head and stared vacantly at his hands, his eyes wide with fear. “They’re gonna shoot me. Leighton said—”

  “No, Billy! I got a secret plan! They ain’t never gonna find you.” Jamie plopped down on the floor beside his brother. “We’ll build us a hiding place in the woods. We can stay there forever. Just you and me, like you done with Elijah. You said it ain’t so bad, remember?” Jamie’s earnest blue eyes clouded at the look of fear on Billy’s face.

  Billy got back up on his feet and walked to the hearth, leaning his head against the mantel. He felt the touch of cold metal against his forehead and jerked back. His eyes fell on the pistol, which had belonged to Mr. Rogers. Mrs. Rogers had set her late husband’s gun there before leaving for New York, telling Mary she was worried about her daughter being there alone, without protection. Billy ran his fingers along the barrel. Mary had scolded him when he’d picked up the gun that first day he stayed at the farm. She didn’t want him holding it, said it scared her even having it there, but she had promised her ma. While Mary was at the schoolhouse one day, Billy had opened the chamber. It was loaded.

  “You likin’ my plan?” asked Jamie, shaking Billy from his thoughts.

  Abruptly, Billy turned and nodded, forcing a smile he didn’t feel. “Likin’ it fine. We’ll talk to Pa about it.”

  “Wantin’ to play checkers, Billy?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good id
ea, Jamie,” cautioned Mary. “Your pa will be watching for you.”

  “One game is all—it ain’t so late yet, Miss Rogers.”

  “Well, one game won’t delay you too much, I reckon,” she answered. “Might be nice to take your minds off the army.”

  Billy and Jamie set up the board, and Mary sat down with her needlepoint.

  The wick in the kerosene lamp flickered across the trestle table. Jamie leaned closer to the board, scrunched his nose, and jumped his black checker over three red.

  “Why’d you go and jump all them checkers like that?” Billy asked, biting his thumbnail in frustration.

  “I already told you. When you go and leave your checkers all spaced in a row like that, I get to jump them is all.”

  “But then I ain’t got many checkers left. Ain’t fair, seems like.”

  “Is too. Someone’s got to win.”

  “Ain’t never me.”

  “Then don’t move your checkers in front of mine. Your turn.”

  “I’m gonna jump all them black checkers.”

  “No you ain’t.”

  “Am too. You just went and done it.”

  “Your checkers was all lined up is why.”

  “Then you put yours in a line.”

  “I ain’t!” Jamie was shouting.

  “Boys!” called Mary as she dropped her needlepoint in her lap. “It’s late; I think it’s time you headed over the fields.”

  “We ain’t finished the game, Miss Rogers,” Jamie said as he turned his head and looked her way.

  With Jamie distracted, Billy hurriedly reached for a red checker and jumped over several black ones, crisscrossing the board in a haphazard pattern. Satisfied, he tossed the jumped checkers beside the board. “Your turn,” he announced.

  “Billeeee!” Jamie picked up a red checker and threw it. “Not fair.”

  “Do your checker games usually end like this?” Mary asked, shaking her head.

  “Yes. Jamie always wins,” Billy said glumly. “It’s them black checkers is why.”

  Mary placed her hands on her hips and glanced at Jamie as he gathered the checkers. “Might be real nice of you, young man, if you helped your brother understand this game a bit more.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Sulking, Jamie moved away from the table and walked to the front hall. He turned to his brother, resignation in his small voice. “I’ll learn you checkers better when we get to the hiding place.”

  Billy grabbed their jackets and glanced affectionately at his brother, the tufts of sandy brown hair, the impish blue eyes, the lanky body so much like his own. Without thinking, he leaned over and kissed the top of Jamie’s head.

  “You only do that to Ma.”

  “Just wanted to is all.”

  Mary checked the buttons on Jamie’s coat, wrapped the wool scarf snugly around his neck, and kissed him lightly on top of his head. “That one’s from me, Jamie,” she said. “And don’t be telling your friends at school tomorrow,” she admonished.

  “I’m tellin’ Harry for sure when he gets home.”

  Billy took his brother’s hand and, opening the door, walked out with him across the moonlit fields.

  Finding the schoolhouse dark when they finally arrived, Lieutenant Walker, Hanson, and Waterhouse decided to find themselves a hot meal and a place to stay for the night. Later, over bowls of hot stew at the inn, Hanson stirred uncomfortably and groaned. “I don’t reckon we’re wanting to hear your answer, but are you figuring on some kind of watch tonight?”

  Walker shook his head. “Before first light. There’s a ridge overlooking the Laird farm. I’ll wager it offers a clear shot of the house, and it’s no more than a few hundred yards off the road. We’ll keep watch just until the little fella goes to school. Follow him in—talk with Mary Rogers then. If nothing pans out, we’ll ride out and talk with the Rickers and the Halls after that.”

  The morning sun lifted, spilling a thin yellow line along the crest of the surrounding hills, the valleys still gray. Hanson and Waterhouse hunched over their saddles. The lieutenant, invigorated by the crisp air, sat upright, eyes fixed solidly on the Laird farmhouse, waiting.

  A door slammed, echoing against the hillside. Then voices. Faint. Walker leaned forward. Waterhouse jerked his reins, stilling his mare as she stomped her hooves on the rocky ledge. In the dim light a solitary figure, tall and lean, moved away from the farmhouse, past the barn, walking east over the fields.

  “Think it’s the father?” whispered Hanson, straining for a better look.

  “Can’t say. Still too dark. Depends on where he’s heading, I’m guessing,” said Walker.

  The lone figure crossed one pasture, opened a gate, and continued walking, each step taking him farther away from the farm. Minutes later a light glowed in the kitchen windows. The door opened. Another man, similarly tall, moved swiftly toward the barn.

  “I’ll be damned!” murmured Walker. “I bet that’s the father.” He turned excitedly to his companions. “I think we found our deserter.”

  “We going after him, Lieutenant?”

  “Not yet. As soon as he hears us, he’ll make a run for the woods. Forest’s so damn thick, we won’t be able to push the horses through.” Walker jerked his obedient bay sideways, changing his viewpoint on the sweeping outcrop. “I’m not about to risk losing him. We’ll follow this ridge until we spot wherever it is he’s heading for, then take the road. Wherever he’s going, he’ll likely stay put until dark.”

  “Explains the wet boots, all right. He tracks across the fields after dark, sleeps at home, and heads out before dawn. Not a bad plan.” Waterhouse grunted and rubbed his glove across his beard. “I’m wagering that for a simpleton, he’s a pretty smart fellow.”

  “Let’s go. He’ll disappear over that slope soon.”

  Billy trudged across the field, tired from not enough sleep. He and his folks had talked well into the night. Jamie was excited about the hiding place, but Pa just kept shaking his head. Billy wished Ma wouldn’t cry so much. He was glad he had tiptoed into her bedroom this morning. She was still asleep when he leaned over and kissed her on top of her head. Then Ma opened her eyes, still red and puffy, and smiled at him. Right then he decided to whittle something special, just for her. Most likely a flower; maybe Sweet William, her favorite. Besides, the name would make her think of him. Things was real bad. He wished he’d never signed up for the army. And while Mary was real nice to him, he still missed his friends.

  Billy raced the last few yards to the farmhouse and, careful not to waken Mary, quietly opened the door. The kitchen was dark and barn cold. He filled the stove with kindling, struck a match across its surface, tossed it in, and latched the door. He added a few split pieces of wood to the fire, waited until he was satisfied it was burning well, then left the kitchen and headed toward the barn.

  The barn door creaked and groaned as Billy pushed its bulk along the track, latching the hook on the outside wall. Sunlight rushed in ahead of him, and the scent of hay filled his nostrils. The pigs squealed and scampered across the floor. He picked up a pitchfork and walked to the haystack.

  “Private Laird!”

  Lieutenant Walker stood in the barn’s doorway, a towering outline against the morning sun.

  Air sucked from Billy’s lungs. Cold, raw fear devoured him.

  The officer’s eyes bore down on him like a hawk ready to strike. Then the officer moved slowly toward him.

  Billy’s hands tightened around the handle of the fork.

  Walker took another step closer. “Private Laird, I’m an officer in the discharge of my duty. I’m here to arrest you as a deserter. Drop the pitchfork—that’s an order!”

  Billy heard the stern command, but he couldn’t move. His body felt locked, fastened to the floorboards. He swallowed, but his throat was dry. He looked down at the fork, its prongs now pointed squarely at the officer. His knuckles ached as he squeezed the handle.

  Suddenly there was a different voice. Billy jerked his hea
d and saw two other men enter the barn. They weren’t wearing uniforms.

  “Son,” said Hanson as he stepped forward. His tone was low, almost friendly. “Do as he says: drop the fork.”

  Billy stared at the stranger, perplexed. Lieutenant Walker lifted the pistol slowly from his holster.

  “Drop it, son. Go ahead, it’s all right,” Hanson repeated with a shake of his head at the lieutenant.

  Billy loosened his grip, and suddenly the officer lurched forward, yanking the pitchfork from his hands.

  Cold, heavy, iron shackles snapped around his wrists. The men were on top of him, grabbing him, pushing him across the yard. His legs weakened. He stumbled. He was jerked back onto his feet. Pa! Help me. I’m scared.

  “We’ll watch the prisoner while you get the horses,” Walker said to Waterhouse.

  “Can I-I-I see Mary?” Billy heard himself ask as he was dragged across the barnyard.

  “Mary who? Does she live here?”

  “Mary Rogers. This is her farm.”

  “The teacher?” Walker stole a glance at Hanson. “No, you can’t see her. Now get moving.”

  “Ah, let him see her, Lieutenant. He’s ironed,” said Hanson. “He’s not going anywhere.”

  Lieutenant Walker tugged at the shackles. “All right, Private, you can go inside—but be quick about it. And leave the door open so we can see you.” Billy tried to slow his breathing, stop the trembling in his knees. Slowly, he walked to the farmhouse steps, dazed. Inside, he stood before the mantel. The pistol. It was still lying there, shiny and bright.

  Footsteps clattered down the staircase, startling him.

  Frightened, Billy picked the pistol up with his shackled hands.

  “Billy, whatever is happening? What’s wrong?” cried Mary as she ran into the room, pulling the sash of her robe around her. He saw her eyes widen, heard her gasp in shock. “Oh, Lord, Billy, put that thing down!” Mary screamed.

  “I-I-I … Mary—the army …”

  He saw her turn and run from the room and out onto the porch. He thought he heard her voice shouting in panic, then footsteps loud, heavy, racing up the steps.