Billy Boy (25 page)

One evening Billy asked Ma to write a letter for him, handing her the crumpled slip of paper Anna had given him at the station. With a curious smile, Ma sat at the table and penned Billy's words to the young Quaker woman.

“The Seventeenth Regiment's camped in Fredericksburg,” said Pa as he peered at his family over the top of the newspaper.
“Says they're readying for their first engagement since going south.”

“Harry still writin' you?”

“Harry writes us when he can,” answered Ma. Pa looked over and nodded at her. “Billy,” she said in a quavering voice, “Jeb Hall took a fever some weeks back—got left behind at sick call while the rest of the regiment marched on to Richmond.” She hesitated.

“They send him on home?”

“No. Jeb … well, he didn't make it, Billy. Jeb's gone to the Lord.”

Billy laid his head on his arms.

“His folks took the train down to Virginia. They're wanting to bring his body back, bury him on the farm,” Pa added.

Eager to be alone, Billy grabbed his jacket from the kitchen hallway and left the house. He ran behind the barn, out of view of the farmhouse, never stopping until he reached the middle of the pasture. A thin layer of fresh snow dusted the ground. For a long while he stood, staring at nothing and shaking his head in disbelief. “Why did Jeb have to die?” he said out loud. “He never hurt anyone.”

Billy stomped the snow around him and kicked the drifts that piled against the fence posts. Finally he made his way to the barn, still angry.

Daisy's stall was in the far corner, but when he lit the lantern and called out to her, the old mare nickered in response. Holding the lantern in front of him, he watched Daisy stretch her long neck over the stall. He raised an arm and stroked her dappled face, his voice only a whisper as he bared his soul to his old friend. It felt good to talk to her as he rubbed his hands in the thick winter fur of her neck. Daisy
nuzzled against his chest and, still nickering, moved her mouth up and down the front of his jacket.

“Sure enough, Daisy, I got me some candy.” Billy reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of candied ginger and, laying it flat in his palm, smiled as Daisy curled her lips around it. He patted her neck again and then sat down on the barn floor in front of the stall.

His anger diminished, he was left with a profound sadness—for Jeb. For Harry, Leighton, Charlie, and Josh somewhere south, in a place called Fredericksburg. Shootin' them Johnnies, like Harry had said. He thought of the long drills along the Potomac in the blazing heat—loading muskets—fixing bayonets—charging and firing. A voice echoed in his ear. Leighton's voice. In the tent at Camp King.
Truth is, we ain't all comin' back, Billy Boy.

Billy turned and rolled over on his knees in the soft straw, bowed his head, and prayed for his friends.

Chapter 25

I
n the foggy predawn, the sharp crack of musketry startled Leighton from his sleep. He glanced at Harry, Josh, and Charlie, already awake and listening as nearly two hundred cannons belched forth deadly fire across the Rappahannock River.

“The pontoons must've arrived.” Harry said. “Three weeks of sitting in sleet and snow waiting for them pontoons. We're finally moving on Fredericksburg.”

“I hope some rations arrived with them. Been nearly starved for three weeks,” Leighton mumbled.

The four privates scrambled from their tent. By roll call the cannonading was a ceaseless roar. Throughout the day muzzles flashed from cobbled streets and riverfront houses as Confederate sharpshooters thwarted the Federal army's attempts to complete the pontoon bridges and secure their crossing.

“I can't even see the city for all this smoke in the air,” said Josh. “Don't even know what's going on!”

“Don't think I wanna know,” said Leighton as he scratched his back against the trunk of a white pine.

Hoping for a sight of the battle, Harry was perched high in a pine above Leighton and Josh. Along the riverbank trees were filled with hundreds of other men from the regiment, all clamoring for a better view.

Through the dense smoke, they could see chimneys and entire brick buildings crumbling to the ground. The city was burning. Suddenly, the faint sound of cheers erupted from the distant Federal ranks. “No guns. We must've crossed the river!” shouted Harry.

“Sure enough. Look-a-here! I can see the ol' Stars and Stripes flying above the town,” said Charlie as he climbed higher up the tree.

“Did we win? That mean we ain't gotta fight?” Josh squinted and peered up the wide trunk of the knotty pine. The overly laden branches swayed from the weight of the soldiers, who were busy echoing the cheers of their victorious comrades, their blue caps waving wildly in the air.

“Can't say,” Harry called down. “Gonna be dark soon. Reckon there won't be any more fighting today, leastways.” He leaned his body over the branch and cupped his hands. “Climb on up, Josh, and take a look.”

At sunset the regiment moved downriver and bivouacked in a stand of pine. Under the dark canopy of trees, the ground was still sprinkled with patches of snow. Feeling the cold and with their nerves frayed, Harry, Leighton, Charlie, and Josh gathered pine boughs to cushion themselves from the snow before they spread their bedrolls under the starry December sky.

“We ain't heard one thing since morning,” said Charlie angrily. “Why'd they march us two miles down the river?”

“Harry,” asked Leighton, as he unrolled his blanket, “you think we'll see fightin' tomorrow?”

“Seems like. Not sure what to expect, though. We're way south of the city now. Maybe the Rebs are planning on moving this way come morning.”

“I'm gonna fight and all, but I ain't got much stomach for this. I'm just plumb scared.” Leighton stomped his boots to shake off the snow and walked back to the small fire. “Gonna warm my feet and make some coffee. Can't sleep.”

“Make me a cup, too,” said Josh, his blanket wrapped tightly around him. “If this is gonna be my last night on earth, then I ain't sleeping yet neither.”

Harry let out a deep sigh. “Josh, we're all scared 'cause we ain't seen our first battle yet. That don't mean we're gonna die. Someday we'll all be sitting at Frog Pond again, remembering this night and laughing—you'll see.”

Charlie rolled over and pushed the damp, sticky needles off his blanket. “Hope that means Billy, too,” he said quietly.

“I'm gonna keep thinkin' that Billy Boy will be with us at the pond,” Leighton said as he leaned over and handed Josh a tin mug of boiled coffee. “Where in tarnation could he be all this time? We woulda heard if he'd been caught.”

“Still hiding in the woods, I reckon. I just hope the good Lord's watching over him,” answered Harry. “Just as well he ain't here. I reckon Billy wouldn't fire off his musket even if some Reb was on him like fleas on a dog.”

“Leastways, we don't have to worry about that now,” Leighton said, sipping his coffee. He sat back and grinned at Josh. “We don't have to worry about Josh, neither. He's so puny, Rebs ain't even gonna see him out there on the battlefield.”

“Let's try and get some sleep, fellas,” said Harry wearily.

“Yeah, well, somethin' happens to me, you fellas get my fat bones back to Maine.” Shifting his weight onto the ground, Leighton quickly buried his head in the sparse comfort of his blanket. Seeking warmth, Josh settled on the pine boughs, his back curled against Leighton.

The regiment turned out at 4:00
A.M.
and waited impatiently throughout an agonizing day; no word to move was
given. From what they could tell, there had been no advances or organized attack all day. By darkness, General Birney had moved the division to a new camp, nearly a mile from the river. Although small campfires were allowed, orders came down to make as little noise as possible. At last, word spread quickly that the enemy was close by.

Anxious troops awakened early to bitter cold and the welcome surprise of salt pork sizzling on the fires. By mid-morning, under a lifting fog, they heard the call to arms. “This is it, fellas,” said Harry as he slung his knapsack over his shoulder. “We're marching to the Rappahannock.”

A frightening scene greeted them. Across the river, the Army of the Potomac's left wing, under the command of General Franklin, was heavily engaged with the enemy on the old stage road to Richmond. “By the God! I heard the corps pushed the Confederates back into hills,” said a stunned Charlie.

“Look at all them Rebel reserves! They keep running right out of those woods. We're outnumbered,” said Harry, his eyes darting back and forth in every direction.

“They're slamming into the Federal lines.”

“Looks like the Thirteenth Pennsylvania is falling back.”

“No wonder! They must be nearly out of ammo, fighting all morning.”

“Seventeenth! Across the bridge! Advance!” Under a curtain of fire, they rushed across the swaying plank bridges and scrambled up the riverbank.

“Form your lines across the road! Fix bayonets!” shouted company officers. The 17th unslung their knapsacks, adrenaline surging as they fixed their bayonets and formed their columns.

“Return fire!”

The guns of the 17th Maine exploded, volley upon volley; the air thickened with billowing, white sulfurous smoke. Cross showers of shot and shell pierced the air, and mingled with the shrill yells of the Rebels in a dramatic charge across the plowed fields.

“Advance your columns! Charge!” shouted Colonel Roberts to regiment commanders as he galloped down the lines. “Charge!”

The 17th Maine, over six hundred strong and larger than many battle-tested brigades, rushed down the turnpike, tearing huge gaps in the Rebel ranks. The Georgia regiment, in the forefront, dropped like flies as the barrage of shells blazed through its lines, quelling their offensive. The Union batteries unleashed a relentless siege, and the Rebels withdrew into the hills.

“A gallant job, men,” praised General Berry, commander of the 1st Division.

“We did it! By thunder, we did it!” screamed a jubilant Leighton, wiping the sweat on his face against the sleeve of his sack coat.

“We showed them Johnnies that two can play this charging game.” Harry smacked his big friend on the shoulder and turned around. “Hey, you okay, Josh?”

“Weren't nothing,” he answered in a hollow voice, nearly collapsing to the ground. “Guess it's just my knees still shaking.”

Suddenly artillery shells rained over the hundreds of cheering soldiers as they stood openly in the middle of the old stage road.

“Lie down, men! Lie down!” roared General Berry as he paced back and forth in the rear of the line. “Stay out of range!”

Harry dropped quickly into the mud, pulling Leighton down with him. The road exploded in front of them, splattering mud into the air. A shell fragment ripped Harry's pants, just barely grazing his leg.

“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.