Billy Boy (3 page)

“I like this ginger candy.” Billy eased Jamie back to the ground and watched as the sandy-haired child picked up the pitchfork and combed bits and pieces of grass from its muddied prongs. Small as Jamie was, Ma said he looked just like Billy. And Ma was always telling folks her boys' eyes were blue as a robin's egg. Billy took a deep breath and let it out slowly as it dawned on him that running off to war would mean leaving Jamie behind. He loved his little brother. Pa said Jamie was smart as a whip. For dang sure, folks had no cause to laugh at Jamie.

Billy and Jamie headed back across the pasture, the rocky landscape turning a dark purple in the dimming light. Maybe Ma would let them play a game of checkers before supper.

“You wantin' to play checkers when we get home?” Billy asked.

“Reckon.”

“Can I use them black checkers this time?”

“You know them black ones is mine.”

“Ain't never won a game is all. It's them dang red checkers, I'm thinkin'.”

Jamie let out a laugh.

Chapter 2

T
he bells were pealing as Billy stood on the steps of the Congregational Church, waiting for his friends. He squinted in the sunlight and smiled when he spotted Jamie swinging wildly on the branch of a bending birch. Behind Billy, standing beside Pa, was Stuart Marston, stirring a group of men with talk of war.

Suddenly, from the bottom of the steps, Henry Kinsley grumbled and raised a pointed finger. “You may think yourself a ready speaker, Stuart, but this danged rebellion won't get all my sons—not all five, by God! I can't run the largest dairy farm in York County myself.”

Marston replied, “President Lincoln asked for three hundred thousand volunteers to help keep this country together. If the Federal army can't meet its quota, this town's obliged to give up her sons.” Marston placed his hands on his hips, shook his head, and stared at his cracked kip boots. “My Charlie's signing up tomorrow. And he's the only boy I got. No matter if it's one or five, reckon we got to let our boys choose their own way.”

Billy liked Mr. Marston, but he didn't much like Mr. Kinsley. Pa said Kinsley was a hard man to do business with, always wanting to trade one of his dairy calves for a load of Pa's timber, even though Pa said calves didn't pay the taxes. Mr. Kinsley and his boys would ride up the lane with their empty wood sled, and the boys would take out their axes and fell the tall pines while Mr. Kinsley strutted around the farmyard like a rooster. Billy winced as Mr. Kinsley shot a look at him, and then Kinsley turned to Pa.

“And what about you, John? We let them send our sons off to war?”

John Laird pressed his Bible against his chest, his bony fingers fidgeting with the worn leather. His thick, graying brown hair framed his angular face. “Reckon we got us a duty. Our grandfathers fought on this very soil to preserve our Constitution, and I ain't about to walk over yonder, stand by Ephraim Laird's grave, and tell him we ain't fighting to keep it.”

“Suppose you call it our duty to free them slaves down south?” Kinsley muttered under his breath before spitting a wad of tobacco on the ground.

Billy saw Pa's jaw tighten. Sure enough, Pa was minding his temper.

“No man's got a right to own another, Henry. We're all God's children.”

“You talk mighty big,” Kinsley said angrily, “but folks know you ain't sending your simpleton off to war.”

The insult was familiar to Billy; he knew it was directed at him. He felt the heat rise in his cheeks and even his ears prickled hot. Heads turned in his direction. His eyes downcast, he stared awkwardly at the whitewashed steps, wishing he could disappear into the cracked and splintered wood.

“You got no cause to talk like that, Henry.” The firmness in John Laird's face crumbled. He turned and stomped up the steps. Billy hurried after him.

Billy slid into the family pew. Pa bowed his head in silent prayer. Billy angled his long legs out of the way as Ma joined them, offering her a faint smile. He warmed to her soft blue eyes. Her plaited hair reminded him of the color of honey, and Pa always said her cheeks were the pink of roses. Ma smoothed the folds of her plain linen dress, reached over and squeezed his
hand, and closed her eyes. The church was filling with people. Jamie stumbled into the pew, all in a rush, his Sunday clothes soiled with dirt and grass. Billy started to laugh, but Pa looked up with a stern face.

With a deep sigh Billy settled back into the bench and glanced across the aisle, searching for his friends. Harry's folks sat in their customary pew, but there was an empty space beside them. He wondered why Harry wasn't in church. Restless, he squirmed and looked over his shoulder, studying the rows behind him. Mabel Tasker smiled at him and nodded her head. He smiled back, but noticed that her son was nowhere to be seen. Leighton always sat next to his ma; where could he be? A nudge from Billy's own ma interrupted him. He turned around as Reverend Snow approached the pulpit and looked out at the congregation over his half-rim spectacles.

Billy was fond of the kindly old reverend with his round cheeks and tufts of wavy white hair. The reverend was a seafarer's son, and had told Billy a frightening tale from his childhood. When he was just a boy, his pa had taken him on his first trip out of Portsmouth Harbor. Not two days out to sea, a gale blew their small sailing vessel off course. Trying to tighten the riggings against the rough swells, his pa had slipped on the deck and hurt his back. The reverend had been forced to take the helm, young as he was. It was another two days before another fishing ship spotted them and pulled their vessel into Gloucester. The reverend always told folks how he had received the Lord after that. Said he'd felt the hand of God steering the bow headfirst into those swollen waves.

The tapping of drumbeats shook Billy from his thoughts.
Rat-a-tap-tap
. He shook his head. Where was that coming from?
Rat-a-tap-tap
. There it was again, along with music from a fife.

The rhythmic sound grew louder.
Rat-a-tap-tap
. Billy spun his head to the back of the room. The church doors opened and the tramping of marching feet mingled with the fife and drum. Around him, the congregation turned in their pews, whispering, wondering.

A parade of men, older men like Pa—Rufus Emery the shoemaker, the wheelwright Josephus White, Clarence Hasty the blacksmith, and many of the farmers—marched in measured steps down the center aisle to a pew left empty in front of the pulpit. The cadence of fife and drum filled the church.

Suddenly a line of boys tramped down the aisle behind the older men. The congregation erupted with shouts of enthusiasm. Billy's eyes widened in bewilderment as the young men filed by. Leighton. And Harry! Josh. And Charlie Marston—and Jeb Hall. And then he saw the Kinsley fellas and … and …

Billy's pulse raced. Reverend Snow stepped down from the pulpit and warmly greeted the late arrivals, smiling and shaking their hands. Then, raising a robed arm to the drummer and fife player at the church door, the reverend returned to the pulpit. A hush fell over the room.

“In the words of Isaiah thirteen, verse four,” the reverend began in a resounding voice, “ ‘The noise of the multitude in the mountains, like as of a people; a tumultuous noise of the kingdoms of nations gathered together: the Lord of hosts mustereth the host of battle!' ”

Billy stared in wonderment as arms rose from the front rows, fists clenched, beating the air. The congregation once again erupted in cheers.

Ma stretched her slender frame over Billy, and pinched Pa's shirtsleeve. “This is the Sabbath!” she whispered.

“Reckon we need to get used to this,” Pa said.

“Pa,” Billy whispered. “I ain't understandin'.”

“Me neither,” echoed Jamie.

Pa leaned close to Billy's ear. “These fellas plan on signing with the recruiting officer tomorrow and going off to war.”

“Pa, they're my friends; I'm wantin'—”

“Shhh … listen, son.”

Reverend Snow waved his hand to quiet the crowd, then continued solemnly. “My good friends, there are purposes under heaven that we are helpless to control. This is a time of God's calling, when no man has a choice, however gentle and peace-loving he may be. ‘I have seen the travail, which God has given to the sons of men to be exercised in it.' We have heard the call to war—a mighty call for our sons.”

The reverend glanced down at the men sitting in the front pews. “A time of war. Oh, Lord, give us the wisdom to understand all things that are done under heaven.”

Billy fidgeted, arched his back, fighting the urge to run over and sit beside Harry. Why hadn't his friends asked him to join them? He struggled to listen, catching the end of the reverend's words. “ ‘Therefore, my sons, take unto you the whole armor of God, that ye may be able to withstand in the evil of the day, and having done all, to stand!' Our brave and courageous fledgling soldiers, deliver unto us a time of peace.”

In the immediate silence that followed, Billy leaned forward, craned his neck, and saw the big grins on his friends' faces. He tried to catch Harry's eye, but the organist banged her fingers on the keys and in seconds the congregation was on its feet, singing “America.” Then Reverend Snow stepped down from the pulpit, embracing the boys, patting the shoulders of the older men.

Billy felt very alone. Yesterday Harry had tried to talk him out of mustering. Then Mr. Kinsley had talked hurtful in front of folks.
Ain't fair. I can fire a musket same as anyone.
He should be sitting in the front row too. He listened, stone-faced, to the rest of the service.

In the soft glow of the lantern, the evening meal passed in near silence. Billy shuffled in his chair and glanced at his little brother pushing carrots around his plate.

“Ma's gonna make you sit here all night if you don't eat them carrots, Jamie.”

“Don't care. Besides, I seen you hide them turnips in your pocket.”

“Not by a darned sight!”

“Hush, the both of you,” snapped Ma. “I'm in no mood to listen to your fighting.”

“Pa?”

“What is it, son?”

“I can fire a musket same as Harry.”

Pa's jaw tightened, his brow wrinkled. “I know dang well what you're thinking. And you ain't never fired your rifle at another fella before,” he said sharply.

Billy stared at the half-eaten food on his plate. Pa was right smart, figuring out what he was going to ask.

“You think you can fire at a fella when you can't even shoot a bad colt?” Pa slammed his fork on the table.

“Weren't no need of shootin' the colt. I soothed her down good.”

“Well, let me tell you something, Billy. You ain't soothing any Reb soldier down. They're gonna be shooting at you. And
you got to fire that ol' muzzleloader, load another ball just as fast as you can spit, and fire again—right at them.”

“My friends—”

“War ain't about being with friends, son.”

“Just wantin' to be like Harry.”

“You goin' to war, Billy?” asked Jamie. He pushed out his lower lip.

“Billy ain't going anywhere but to do his evening chores,” interrupted Ma. “Go on, the both of you.”

“Jamie ain't eatin' his carrots, Ma.”

“Billeeee!”

“I'll mind what your brother's eating.”

It was a clear night, and without the cover of clouds the summer air was cool. Leaning over the rail fence, Billy scanned the sky in search of the North Star. For weeks Pa had been showing him how to find it. Said it was like a signpost, and that their farm sat right under it. Billy looked hard, but couldn't find the star. It was hard, what with the stars all looking the same. He was getting a crick in his neck.

He unhitched the gate and ran to the middle of the pasture. Determined, he lay down on the ground on his back, his hands behind his head. It was easier to look up this way. Now, what had Pa told him to look for first? A cluster of stars that looked like a large ladle in a kettle of stew. Said it was called the Big Dipper. He thought he saw something. He sat up and leaned on his elbows.
It
does
look like a ladle! And a plum big one! That's it—the Big Dipper.
His heart pounding, he traced his finger across the starry bowl.

I see it, Pa, I see it.
He had never found the North Star by himself before, and the small victory made him think that maybe he wasn't a simpleton after all. Billy glanced across the
darkened field. The yellow light from the kerosene lamp cast a warm glow in the farmhouse window, and he could see the shadowy silhouette of his brother pressed against the glass, searching for him.
Things don't work out at war, I'll just come home is all. Got me a signpost now.

Billy jumped to his feet and ran through the blackness, toward the light across the pasture.

Chapter 3

B
illy awoke with the sun, but he was still tired. All night he had tossed and turned, wrestling with his decision of whether or not to follow his friends. Pa said he had never fired a musket at another fella, and it didn't seem right, shooting at someone. But Harry, Leighton, and Josh had all acted so excited reading that recruiting sign in Blaisdell's Store. And then with all the goings-on at church yesterday, even Reverend Snow had been riled up about it. His mind was made up.

He let out a big yawn as he thought about his day's work ahead, what with the hay still to be gathered and stored in the barn. He picked his trousers and blue cotton shirt off the floor and struggled to squeeze his feet into his boots, which he always left half-laced. With care he smoothed the worn bedclothes and placed the quilt Ma had made especially for him when he was a boy neatly over his bed.

He clambered down the narrow staircase that emptied into the mudroom off the kitchen. The sweet smell of smoky bacon and boiled coffee stirred hunger in his belly, but there was no time to eat, and for sure he didn't want Ma asking about his business. Billy yanked his jacket off the wall peg and moved quietly toward the back door.