Billy Boy

by Jean Mary Flahive

  “I understand you didn’t eat any supper tonight. Is there anything you’d like now?”

  Billy glanced at the window high over his bed. It was dark outside. “Yes, sir—I’m wantin’ to see the stars,” he said, surprised by the strange expression on the officer’s face.

  “You mean, you want to go outside?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Nothing to eat?”

  “No, sir.”

  “All right, Private. I’ll send one of the guards in here. He can take you to the parade ground.”

  “Thank you kindly, sir.”

  Andrews lowered his head and stepped back from the cell, turned, and walked away. Then he stopped and turned around. “You’ll have to be shackled, Private,” he said before he disappeared through the doorway.

  I’m gonna see the stars! His heart racing with excitement, Billy leaped to the floor, pushed the blanket aside, and reached under the cot. With trembling hands he slipped his stocking feet into his boots and leaned impatiently against the cell bars.

  Unsullied by clouds, the sky was profuse with stars. Billy stood in the middle of the parade ground, the far end of the lush green field rolling into the bay, the moonlight cutting a wavy golden path over the ocean swells. A lighthouse beacon shot through the darkness. He breathed deeply of the ocean air. It felt good to stand beneath the night sky again. He turned his head and glanced at the guard, briefly watched him pull a thin slip of paper from his jacket, open a pouch, and roll a cigarette. The guard didn’t seem to be in a hurry.

  Billy studied the millions of stars, searching for the large cluster shaped like a ladle. He turned in all directions, anxious nerves pulsing through him. He followed a shooting star as it fell below an island in the bay. That ol’ star’s all used up—she’s gonna splash right into the sea, I’m thinkin’.

  “You seen enough, Private?” shouted the guard through the dark as he flicked his cigarette to the ground, stubbing it into the grass with the toe of his boot.

  “No, sir. Please, I’m needin’ more time, if it’s all right.”

  “Sure. What are you looking for anyway?”

  “Shooting stars is all.” He didn’t want to tell the guard about the North Star, and Elijah, and carefully moved a few steps away from him. The iron irritated his hands. Again, he searched, worried he would run out of time before he found the North Star.

  A faint voice whispered in his head.

  Billy, suh, the North Star, she right over there! She low in the sky now.

  Elijah? Had he heard him call? Instinctively, Billy took a few steps forward, lowered his gaze, and stared straight out into the bay. I see the Big Dipper. I see her! He raised his shackled hands and, using his forefinger, traced the dipper’s ladle down until it crossed the bowl. From there he stretched his neck and looked a little higher. The North Star sparkled. He felt his skin tingle; his lips formed silent words. Elijah? I’m right here—under the North Star. They’re gonna shoot me tomorrow. Just like Leighton said. Elijah, I ain’t ever gonna see you again. I know you’ll be comin’ soon. For sure Ma and Pa will take you in. I told them all about you. And Jamie, well, you remember our promise? He won’t have a big brother no more. Will you take him fishin’? I went and whittled you a fish—put a spear right through it. Jamie’s keepin’ it for you. Oh, if you play checkers with him, you have to jump all his checkers before he—

  “Let’s go, Private,” the guard called out in the darkness. He walked over and yanked at Billy’s irons.

  Billy walked slowly behind him. At the edge of the parade ground he turned and looked back up at the sky. Good-bye, Elijah. He raised his shackled hands and tapped his fists against his chest. Right there, Elijah, right there.

  “You find yourself a shooting star, Laird?”

  “Yes, sir. Yes I did.”

  Major Andrews sipped his coffee and paced across the floor while the anxious lieutenant sorted through the mail pouch.

  “No word from General Wool about my request to transfer the prisoner to Fort Independence?”

  “No, sir, strange in fact—there’s nothing at all from headquarters,” answered the lieutenant as he hurriedly sifted through the mail. “Hmmm … Here’s something interesting.” He handed the paper to the major.

  Major Andrews put his cup down and quickly read the letter. “Draft riots? There are reports of draft riots in New York. The rioters have control of the trains and omnibuses at the moment. General Wool obviously has his hands full if that’s the case.”

  “That explains why nothing is coming through—not even telegraphs if they have control of the stations,” said the lieutenant.

  “Yes, it would seem so. Well, I’m sure the general will have this quelled in short order.” Andrews sighed deeply and stared out the window at the bright blue morning. “Everything’s in order for the execution?” he asked with a hint of sadness.

  “Yes, sir. As you directed, there will be a volley of twelve—one blank will be fired. And the ramparts have been secured, Major.”

  “Good. I don’t want any citizens trying to witness this. That Reverend Snow will accompany Private Laird. He has convinced the family to remain at the train station and await the arrival of the coffin. We can’t afford to have a scene. It’s already affected the morale of the soldiers here; some are even sympathetic, and grieving parents are not something we need to deal with.”

  The lieutenant nodded. “The coffin’s assembled. One of the workers completed it yesterday. Any chance for a pardon from the president, sir?”

  Andrews shook his head. “The fields of Gettysburg are not yet cold, Lieutenant. It would seem impossible that the president has had anything else on his mind these past weeks. And we have heard nothing.” He turned and stared intensely at his aide. “Tell the firing squad to pierce the heart. I don’t want to see a wounded soldier slumped over his own coffin.”

  “Billy.”

  Hearing his name, Billy rolled over on the cot and rubbed his eyes. He glanced up, pleased it was Reverend Snow, his wavy white hair brushed neatly away from his face. Billy swung his legs over the side of the bed as the guard opened the cell and let the reverend in. Then the door clanged shut, and the guard stepped away.

  “Did I get me a pardon, Reverend?”

  Reverend Snow sat down beside him and slowly shook his head. “We have heard nothing, my son.” He placed his hand on Billy’s knee and forced a smile.

  “Where are my folks?”

  “They are waiting just a short distance from here, and still hoping, Billy. They are with you in spirit and love this morning. I will be by your side—that we may pray together.”

  “Then I’m gonna die?”

  The reverend nodded slowly. “But you will see God today, my son.”

  “You said we ought not to fear death, Reverend Snow. But God is angry with me, I’m thinkin’—what with me desertin’ and all.”

  Reverend Snow leaned his back against the cold wall. “That is not the God I know, Billy. God loves you. God is not angry with you. He is very forgiving—especially when we own up to our mistakes.”

  “But I didn’t hurt Lieutenant Walker! I was holdin’ the pitchfork before he came is all.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “And the gun—I ain’t even rememberin’ holdin’ that.” He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. “Does God know that?”

  “Oh, yes, Billy, God knows that very well, and I’m sure you were very frightened. Our mind has a way of protecting us from remembering fearful things.”

  “Why did God make me this way? Why ain’t I smart? Why ain’t I like Harry?” He turned his face to the ceiling, ran his fingers through his hair.

  Reverend Snow cast a long look at the opposite wall. He hesitated for several moments before he spoke. “God makes people in all kinds of ways—tall, handsome, short, not pretty, strong, weak. We don’t all have the same collection of gifts. But each of us has a gift of God’s work.” He turned and placed his arm around Billy’s shoulders
, hugging him close to his chest. “God gave you a good soul, Billy. And a very brave one. I remember how you saved Josh from almost drowning at Frog Pond. The others, including Harry, did not see what you saw. And you rushed into the water without regard for yourself, pulling Josh to safety.”

  “Like I done with Elijah.”

  “Elijah was drowning?”

  “Yes, sir. In Goose Creek. I pulled him out.”

  Reverend Snow smiled. “There, you see, Billy. God made you very special indeed.”

  “Why did God make Elijah a slave?”

  “The real Elijah is much more than a slave, Billy. That was the work of men, not God.”

  “Elijah says God’s gonna help the little people.” His eyes widened and he turned to face the reverend. “I saw the North Star last night!”

  “You were outside?” The old man’s eyebrows arched in surprise.

  Billy nodded. “Guard came and took me to the parade ground.”

  “The North Star is very important to you, isn’t it, son?”

  “Yes, sir. Elijah and me, we followed it when we was in the woods.”

  The reverend smiled and folded his hands in front of his robe. “A very long time ago, others followed a star. Do you remember what star that was?”

  “No, sir.”

  “It was the Bethlehem Star. The Wise Men followed the star to find Jesus, in much the same way that you and Elijah followed the North Star. The star was a gift from God.” Reverend Snow sighed deeply and placed his hand over Billy’s. “Today, Billy, you must follow the star again. You must follow its perfect light to see God.”

  “What’s it gonna be like—I mean, dyin’ and all?”

  “I don’t really know; the Bible does not tell us. But it does promise us that there is something more. Jesus said that he who believeth in God will have eternal life.”

  “I ain’t understandin’ so good.”

  The reverend chose his words more carefully. “Jesus tells us there is something after this life for us. And those who have gone before us are now in heaven. You must take comfort in knowing that there are friends in heaven who are waiting for you.”

  “You mean Leighton? And Jeb? Am I gonna see them, Reverend?”

  “Yes, Billy, you will see them.”

  They sat together, huddled on the cot throughout the long morning. Billy refused his lunch, choosing instead his last pieces of ginger candy. Just before two o’clock, guards entered the cell. Behind them Major Andrews stood silent. As they latched his hands in the irons, Billy turned to Reverend Snow, hesitating to move in spite of a nudge from one of the guards. Not until Reverend Snow moved in beside him did he walk away from the cell.

  Tufts of clouds drifted across the warm summer sky. Billy stepped down the porch stairs and onto the dirt pathway, one guard in front of him and one behind. Ahead, Major Andrews and Dr. Tewksbury, the post surgeon, walked briskly over a long green rise, past hedges of wild roses and down steps of flattened stone to the ramparts overlooking the sea and a sweeping rocky shore.

  “May God comfort you, Billy, and wrap his arms around you,” Reverend Snow prayed as he clutched his Bible to his chest.

  Major Andrews walked to the center of the ramparts and stopped beside a lone pine coffin. Against the seawall, a line of twelve men stood motionless, muskets at their side.

  “Private Laird, you will kneel beside the coffin,” said Major Andrews. Billy froze.

  The guards moved forward, escorted Billy to the center of the green, and eased him to his knees.

  Billy raised his face to Reverend Snow before the blindfold wrapped over his eyes.

  Darkness. “Reverend Snow—”

  “When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee; when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.” The reverend’s voice was tremulous.

  “God is close, Billy. He asks you to have courage, to die with love.”

  “Reverend—”

  “Look for the star, Billy. Follow its light. Your friends are waiting—go with love, my son.”

  Then it was silent.

  He thought he heard a crack, the sharp crack of musketry.

  Dr. Tewksbury leaned over and examined the lifeless body slumped over the coffin. “Put him in, boys.” Turning to Major Andrews, he spoke in a low tone. “Five, Major. Five to the heart.”

  Chapter 32

  August 1863

  Cranberry Meadow Road wound through rock-strewn pastures, and fields of ripened corn rose gently over the granite hillside. Brightened by the early morning rain, blue-stemmed goldenrod bloomed in the meadows.

  The endless rows of corn triggered painful memories for Elijah. A year ago he was on his belly, crawling through withering stalks and feeding on rotting corn, worried that bloodhounds hard on his scent would plunge across the field and tear his body to shreds. Now he had his own room, a real bed with crisp white sheets, and a goose-down pillow. Had Billy not found him on the banks of the creek—he shook the cobwebs from his mind, squinted as sunlight streamed on his face. He still reveled in his hard-won freedom. Billy, suh! Elijah almost there, just like he promise.

  It had not been easy to keep his promise. His new friends in Canada had warned him it would be a dangerous journey, pleaded with him not to go. Only Molly, the missus of the boardinghouse, understood his unflappable promise to Billy. She watched Elijah on cloudless nights walk into the field behind the boardinghouse, lie on the grass, and gaze at the stars for hours at a time.

  His new home in Canada was not far from the New York border, and only a three- or four-day walk to Burlington, Vermont, where he was told he could find refuge at the Wheeler farm, a station still active in harboring runaways. Elijah rested at the Wheelers’ for two days before he set out for Littleton, New Hampshire, a small town along the Ammonoosuc River in the middle of the White Mountains. Mr. Wheeler said the Carleton house there was the only known station along the careful route he had sketched for him.

  Elijah was awestruck by the emerald green countryside, its pastures marked by endless walls of piled stone, abundant dairy farms so unlike the plantations of his southern fields. At night he slept on the cool grass, content to share the meadows with the grazing herds, comforted by the occasional clanging of their harness bells. To Elijah’s delight, on the morning of his departure from Littleton, old Edmund Carleton hitched his horses to his buckboard and the two set out for Crawford Notch. For several miles they plodded over forested hills before the road opened onto sprawling alpine meadows against a backdrop of ragged mountains. Carleton slowed his wagon before the road disappeared through a narrow pass that dropped sharply through the mountains. “This here’s the Notch,” he told Elijah as he pointed his finger. “See them red and yellow tips on the leaves below? Starting in to change already. Another few weeks and the whole pass will look like she’s on fire. Mostly oak, birch, and maple down through the ravine.”

  Elijah had never seen a sight more beautiful, and he tried to imagine the green forest ablaze with color. He listened to the sound of water rushing below.

  “You’ll pick up the Saco River near the bottom of the Notch. Follow her like your best friend,” Carleton had cautioned. “She gets her water from the mountains and flows nice and easy to the sea. Reckon it’s about a three-day walk from here. Once you see that blue Atlantic, you’ll find the railroad nearby—follow the tracks south. Berwick’s not but a day’s walk from where the Saco River ends her run.”

  The cool forests offered Elijah comfort against the late summer warmth, and the old man, who seemed to enjoy fussing over him, had packed his knapsack full of dried meat and carrots and tomatoes fresh picked from his garden. Elijah drank from the clear mountain-fed river and rested under the shade of the birches leaning delicately over its banks. Slowly the White Mountains faded behind him, and he watched with fascination the river cutting through tall and flowering grasslands, flattening at last into
an expanse of sand and marsh rolling into the sea. It was his first look at the ocean. He wanted to stay and study it longer, but he didn’t want to delay. Maybe Billy would take him back here to see it some more. He found the railway tracks easily, and hurried off on the last leg of his journey. Children playing on the tracks told him he was in Berwick. Giggling and staring, the children gave him directions to Cranberry Meadow Road.

  The road climbed a long hill. Stone walls edged the roadside, and leafy maple trees cooled the way from the heat of the summer sun. When he reached the crest, Elijah stopped to catch his breath and, wiping the sweat from his brow, scanned the forested valley below. He saw the Little River; Billy had described it well. A small lane, almost hidden by the pines, branched off the main road just before the bridge. Elijah’s heart thumped rapidly, his legs pulsed as he raced down the hill. The lane cut a path to a white clapboard farmhouse.

  Before he reached the house, Elijah brushed the dust from his trousers and tucked his shirt into his waist. He heard a door slam shut, then footsteps racing down the porch steps. Above a hedge of rosebushes, Elijah glimpsed a sandy brown head moving his way.

  “Billy, suh!” he shouted. “Elijah here!”

  A blue-eyed child peeked slowly around the bush and then took a cautious step forward, one hand clutching a wooden toy.

  Elijah gasped at the child’s striking resemblance to Billy. “You must be Jamie, suh?”

  With a frightened look, the boy drew back. He said nothing.

  Elijah glanced at the toy clutched in the boy’s hands. A fish. With a spear in its belly.

  “Billy, suh, go and whittle that fish you got in your hand?”

  Blue eyes flashed back at him. The child grimaced; looking down at the carving, he hastily whisked it behind his back.

  Across the farmyard a door opened and slammed. Jamie turned and ran.

  Elijah looked away. A sense of unease welled inside him. He stared out across the fields. Finally, Elijah got up his nerve to walk to the porch. Standing in a patch of sunlight, Elijah stood at the foot of the steps.