Billy Boy (10 page)

“Sergeant,” said Corporal Leavitt. “Private Laird, Company G—”

“You as good with horses as the Dutchman claims, lad?” the sergeant interrupted, leaning over and pushing a finger into Billy's chest. “I've no use for a plodding farmhand, mind you.”

“Yes, sir—sir, I was wonderin' if I-I-I could go back—” He raised his face, twitched as the sergeant's eyes, black as a ferret's, narrowed.

“What is it, Private?” His breath was hot, and smelled faintly of stale coffee.

“I-I-I, well, Harry, my f-f-friends—”

“Ah, Sergeant Riley.” Corporal Leavitt pushed in front of Billy. “Private Laird needs to feed the horses—so, ah, I'll take him over to the corral now. We've not much time left before the last drill.”

Sergeant Riley turned back to the wagon. “Suit yourself. I'll know soon enough if he's up to the task.” He reached for his tow hook. “And find my ammunition, Corporal.”

Corporal Leavitt gave Billy a push and hurried him across the clearing. At the edge of the field he stopped abruptly, turned to Billy, both hands on his hips. “You simple fool. You almost got yourself in a lot of trouble. You're in the army! You do what you're told, and you don't ask for special favors.”

Pointing a finger toward a cluster of trees, he shouted, “Get yourself over to the other side of camp. Untie and corral the horses.”

“Ain't fair,” Billy whispered under his breath as he stared at his boots. He felt the corporal's hand on his back, shoving him forward. He stumbled and, turning, glanced at a face full of anger. “Get moving. And don't expect me to help you out again.”

Billy walked in silence, kicking up clods of dirt with the toe of his boot. He winced as he strode past a line of smoothbore cannons. Camp looked much like Company G—rows of tents, clusters of soldiers playing games of chance, rolling tobacco, writing letters, and polishing bayonets. But it didn't feel the same; it was unsettling without his friends. Billy headed for the stand of trees, choosing a path that ran behind the tents. A small group of soldiers was sitting around an unlit fire, smoking, and they glanced up as he walked past. From the corner of his eye he saw someone dart quickly from the group, and he hurried his pace.

A hand fell firmly on his shoulder and spun him around. He stared into the swarthy, strangely familiar face, recognition tying his stomach in knots.
Lars Soule
. The bully from Camp King.

“So it's you—the Sunday soldier,” bellowed Lars as he squeezed his fingers around the sleeve of Billy's jacket. “Look-a-here, fellas. Remember the dumb li'l cuss from the Awkward Squad?”

Billy's heart raced with fear as others closed in around him. Even though instinct told him to wrestle free and run, before he could move away, Lars grabbed his shoulders and twisted him around, pushing his face in front of the other privates.

“This ain't no Awkward Squad here, you dumb little toady.” He shoved Billy at the others. Billy tried to block out the
taunts, the laughter. But Lars grabbed him again by his shoulders, and leaning in close, spit tobacco in his face.

“Listen up, Sunday soldier—we got us a war to fight down here. And me and my boys don't need any simpleton getting us killed.” Lars pushed Billy to the ground. “We'll have some fun at drill tomorrow morning. You'll soon see this company's got no place for the likes of you.”

As Lars and his friends turned away, Billy rolled onto his feet and ran blindly toward the grove of trees, past the tethered horses, losing all sense of following the corporal's stern orders. He kept on running, the echo of laughter exploding behind him.

A gusty wind off the river swirled around him as he reached the hilltop above Edward's Ferry. For several moments he paced back and forth along the bluff, repeating that hated word—
simpleton
…
simpleton
… He gazed out at the wide Potomac, at the lush Virginia meadows on the other side. He sighed heavily at the view, the scattered stands of ash reminding him of autumn and home. He spotted Goose Creek emptying into the wider river, the woods flanking its banks, and for a moment he wished himself in the middle of the forest, away from the taunts, and far from Lars Soule.

As Billy walked along the edge of the bluff, a jackrabbit spooked in front of him and disappeared into the thicket. Finally, as a shield from the sharp wind, he sat down under an oak tree and leaned his head against its trunk. He opened his haversack and glanced at the three-day ration of hardtack, salt pork, and bully beef issued before he left, but nerves had curbed his appetite. Setting his pack on the grass, he tried to figure out what to do.

Too frightened to return to camp, he watched the sun drop behind the hills, listening to the wind carry imagined howls of
laughter. As darkness settled, he grew anxious about Corporal Leavitt. Was he looking for him? Would it mean another court-martial? His pulse quickened.
I ain't never goin' back there. I ain't
. He ran his fingers frantically through his hair. Maybe he'd cut out like them others done. Then he remembered Leighton saying it was wrong to desert.

Suddenly the image of Lars's face flashed in front of him. He shuddered at the thought of morning and what might happen to him at drill.
But Leighton says the army will shoot you if you run away
.

Tears welled in his eyes. Misery overwhelmed him, and he slumped to the ground, his body wracked with sobs.

Long moments passed. Finally he sat up, and clasping his arms around his knees, he raised his face to a full moon and a sky full of stars. From the high hilltop he spotted the Big Dipper and traced his finger to the North Star. Pa said home would always be right under that star.

“Pa!” he cried out loud to the darkness. “Pa! I'm wantin' to come home.”

In spite of Leighton's warnings, his decision was made. He was not going back to Edward's Ferry. He remembered Leighton telling him that the privates who deserted would need to hide out in the woods. There were woods on the other side of the river, along Goose Creek. He could hide there for a time.

He was going home.

Chapter 11

B
illy flung his canteen and haversack over his shoulder and went to grab his rifle. He hesitated a moment before deciding to leave the gun, tossing it angrily into the thicket and turning away. It was a long hike back up the river to the crossing point, and more difficult at night. He glanced at the bright moonlit fields below.

The Lord's made me a lantern, seems like
.

Quietly he made his way down the opposite side of the hill, careful not to stumble and alert the soldiers on picket duty. He thought about Harry and Leighton and the others, wondered if his friends would understand and forgive him. Loneliness ate at him.

He walked for most of the night, following the river until he spotted the wide bend where he had waded across the day before, at White's Ford. Although the moon was fading in the predawn light, he recognized the steep banks across the river. The current was moving faster than it had been the day before. He wished he could swim across, but he needed to keep his haversack dry. Taking off his sack coat and wrapping the haversack and canteen in its folds, he raised it above his head and stepped into the dark, cold water.

The shale of sand and gravel on the river bottom was slippery, reminding him of wintry days sliding across the ice on Frog Pond. He slipped more than once and fought to keep his balance as the fast-moving water tossed him off the crushed bedrock. The river rose to his chest, and the heavy weight of his clothes pulled him downstream, pushing him with the current.
Too late, he realized, to take off his boots and dig his toes into the gravelly bottom. The force of the river pressed against him, and he twisted and strained his body sideways toward the opposite side. Gradually the water dropped below his waist and he regained control of his footing, moving freely toward the shore.

Catching his breath, Billy stared at the steep, smooth banks and readied himself for the slippery climb. He plunged his arms into the sleeves of his coat, repositioned his haversack and canteen, and dug his fingers into the bank. He searched for a handhold as his boots slid against the slippery clay, teasing him back to the river's edge. Above his head, he saw a thick root jutting out. He grabbed hold of it and pulled himself upward. Straining, his fingers clawing dirt and gripping at every root, he inched his way to the top. He swung his arm over the edge and in one great heave rolled his body sideways up and over onto the grassy crest. His strength drained, he swallowed mouthfuls of air as his heart hammered in his chest.

Wet clothes stuck against his skin, sending cold shivers up and down his body. Cupping his hands, he blew warm breath over his fingers, red and sore from the gritty climb. He lay down on dew-laden grass, listening for a rustle in the brush, a sudden movement in the trees. Hearing only the night insects' rhythmic trill, he closed his eyes and pretended he was home, warm and dry under his quilt, his little brother snuggled beside him.

Billy awoke to the sun on his face. Fearful of being spotted, he forced himself to his feet and looked across the fields. He could move quickly through the grassy landscape, but he'd have to stay low. He darted across the field and spotted a lone apple tree at its edge, its limbs overburdened with unpicked fruit. He
grabbed a handful of apples, stuffed them into his pockets, and hurried off.

By the time he reached Goose Creek, thickening clouds blocked out the late-morning sunlight. The woods seemed darker, more frightening in the graying sky. Glancing across the river at Edward's Ferry, he darted into the cover of the trees, hugging the bank of the creek as he moved into the forest. He would sooner be in the meadows, and sooner feel the wind rustling through the tall grass than the dampness of the gloomy forest. He was scared and alone. The wet leather of his boots chafed his feet, and he stumbled over tree roots hidden under decaying leaves. He cried out once, spooking the birds high in the treetops. He sniffed and brushed the sleeve of his jacket across his runny nose.

He wanted to turn back, hide closer to the Potomac River, but fear drove him deeper into the woods. He stopped several times and splashed water from the creek over his face. Once he sat down on a boulder, looked around, and tried to rest. But the stillness unnerved him, and he slid off the smooth rock and moved farther upstream. At last the afternoon sun burned through the clouds, filtering welcome light down through the trees, briefly lifting his dispirited soul. He spotted another small clearing beside the creek just beyond the branches hanging low over the bank. He was desperately hungry, now anxious to sit in the warming sunlight and eat one of the apples.

He pushed the needled limbs away from his face. Suddenly he yelled as he fell into the pine tree, branches snapping against his weight. He stared in shock at what he saw there on the forest floor.

A colored boy lay sprawled across the ground where he'd been sleeping. The snap of tree limbs had startled him awake,
and in an instant, fear flashed across his dark face. He rolled over on his side and staggered to his feet.

Before Billy could speak, the boy backed away, each step inching him closer to the creek. His bare feet sank in the shallow water and he jerked backward. Water swirled around his knees, pushing him off his feet. In a rush to regain his balance, he lost his footing and flipped on his back. Screams pierced the air before he disappeared under the muddied water.

Billy scanned the river, waiting for the boy to surface and swim to shore. Seconds passed. He began to panic and ran along the river's edge, glancing in every direction. There was no sign of him.

Finally the boy broke through the water, his face turned upstream, his eyes filled with terror as water rushed into his nose and mouth. The current buried him, and then spit him up, hurling him like a log as he moved swiftly downstream. Boulders peppered the riverbed like jagged fence posts.

He can't swim! He's gonna hit them rocks!
Billy realized.

Tossing his canteen and haversack to the ground, Billy yanked off his jacket and boots, his heart racing. His blistered feet burst open on the stony ground. Cold water stung the open flesh. He thrust his body downstream, kicked his legs furiously, and used his arms to guide him to the half-submerged boulders. Brown water rushed around the bedrock. He couldn't see beneath the surface. He dove under, spreading his fingers like tentacles in search of the body. In the murky darkness, he felt him, flattened against a boulder, pinned by the current. Billy yanked and pulled, but his emptying lungs cried out for air. Propelling his legs to the surface, he breathed deeply and then dove again. Using his back to break the force of the water, he wrestled the body away from the rock and pushed it to the surface. With one arm,
he grabbed the lifeless form around the chest, his free arm paddling water, groping for leverage. The creek splashed over him and he rolled on his back, his face downstream. Kicking his feet, one arm in a frenzied backstroke, he angled toward the bank.

Once in shallower water, Billy planted both feet in the sand. Slipping his hands under the colored boy's armpits, Billy dragged him to the grassy clearing. Sinking to his knees, his chest heaving, Billy studied the boy's inert body. Brown water slowly drained from his mouth. Billy rolled the boy onto his side, and in seconds bile and water erupted from his throat.

Billy watched the boy's chest move up and down in faint, shallow breaths. Moments passed before his eyes flickered open and met Billy's. “Slave catcher …”

“I ain't no slave catcher! I'm a soldier; least, I was …”

“White folk … slave catcher …” The boy's voice faded as he collapsed on the grass.

Elijah's first sensation when he awoke was warmth. Wood smoke tickled his nose. Eyes pinched closed, Elijah listened, his body motionless. Over the crackling flames, he heard water slapping against the rocks. And then he remembered. The creek. He fell in the creek.
Slave catcher
! He rolled his hand across his chest, his fingers touching heavy cloth.
What's this
? Something stirred beside him. He didn't want to look. His eyelids fluttered with indecision.