Billy Boy (2 page)

Lincoln looked over his spectacles, his eyes calm, his voice unwavering.

“See that this young boy goes home—where he belongs.”

Chapter 1

T
he hot sun beat down on Billy's shoulders as he turned the grass in large forkfuls and made his way across the rocky pasture. He was mad clear through. Mad at his pa, mostly. Harry Warren and his other friends had wanted him to go swimming at Frog Pond, but Pa said he had to finish turning the hay. Said the grass was needing to dry before gathering it for the barn. Haying season in New England was short, after all—shorter than ever on their Maine farm, his Pa reminded him—and there was no time for tarrying.

Sweat poured down Billy's neck. As he tossed hay in the muggy, late-July air, he thought of his friends, most of them nearly twenty years old like him, splashing in the deep, cool water. He paused, pulled out his handkerchief, and wiped his dusty face.

“Ain't fair I didn't get to go swimmin',” he mumbled to himself. Then he remembered that Harry had told him they were all meeting up at the store after their swim. There was some big news, Harry had said, and now Billy was going to miss out on that, too.

Shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun, Billy gazed at the graying rows of unturned grass. Tossing his pitchfork against the boulder, Billy defiantly crossed the field to the road. His mood was stormy as he kicked up the yellow dust with his boots, and he sneezed when it settled in his sandy brown hair.

When he reached the bridge over Little River, Billy took off his boots and rolled his trousers high up on his long legs, choosing to wade across the shallow stream. He'd get a tanning
for sure, going to Blaisdell's Store before all the hay was turned, but he didn't care.

He never left the farm much anymore, what with the teasing and all. And only now, figuring that Harry would be there, was he willing to go to Blaisdell's alone. Fellas in town most always poked fun, calling him names. Doc Stillings said Billy's mind just worked a little slower, but that didn't give folks cause to be hurtful. Even Mr. Blaisdell yanked all the coins from his hand one time, counting each one, loud as a braying mule. Folks in the store were laughing because Billy couldn't make change. Leastways Harry changed that. He'd sooner fight anyone who poked fun at Billy. Back on dry ground, Billy jingled the coins in his pocket. He reckoned there was enough to buy some candied ginger. After Mr. Blaisdell's poking fun, Harry showed Billy how many pennies he needed to buy the candy. He went and took one of Billy's hands and laid a penny on each finger. Said Billy would have enough to buy him a whole bag.

When Billy reached the top of Pine Hill he stopped to catch his breath. Scattered farms worked the hillsides, and in the valley below, he could see the small villages of Berwick, Maine, and Somersworth, New Hampshire, separated by the Salmon Falls River. A gray cluster of woolen and cotton mills flanked the riverbanks.

Blaisdell's Store, a large white clapboard building on the corner of Milk and Berwick streets, was the local gathering place in Berwick. Even with his pocket full of change, Billy felt uneasy as he went into the store to wait for Harry. Inside he smelled the store's familiar but peculiar aromatic blend of salt codfish, West India spices, and tobacco. He stood quietly to the
side in the cluttered old establishment, nervously fingering the colorful bolts of cloth, watching curiously as Mr. Blaisdell scribbled several lines on a square of slate and set it prominently in the storefront window. Then Mr. Blaisdell unrolled a large parchment on the countertop and smoothed it with the palm of his hand before he nailed it to the rafter above the unfired woodstove. Billy was glad Mr. Blaisdell never once glanced his way.

Map of Berwick, circa 1872 from “
The Old Maps York County, Maine in 1972.”
Courtesy of Maine Historical Society Collection.

He sighed, wishing Harry would hurry along. When Mr. Blaisdell at last disappeared behind the stacks of canned goods, Billy hurried across the floor and glanced up at the poster, frustrated that he could not read its bold print. It reminded him of the day Miss Dame had walked him home from the schoolhouse and talked to his folks. He was just eight, but he never went back to school again. Ma said there were things enough to learn at the farm. That's when Pa started teaching him to work the horses. Pa said he had a way with animals. Like that time at the Hall farm, when Mr. Hall wanted to shoot a year-old colt—said he was born mean, always biting and kicking. But Billy walked right up to the frightened colt, stroked his neck, talked nice, and sure enough, the little fella calmed down. Even followed Billy clear across the pen, right over his shoulder. Mr. Hall said he'd never seen anyone soothe a horse like Billy had done.

Billy studied the ink drawing at the top of the paper, a bald eagle with its talons gripping a long white banner. Creases furrowed his brow as he ran his finger along the eagle's outstretched wings. Suddenly shouts erupted outside, and he spun around to see Harry, Leighton Tasker, and Josh Ricker pointing wildly at the slate in the storefront window. Seconds later, Harry and Josh rushed through the door, feverishly glancing around the store.

“It's over there—tacked on the beam!” Josh shouted. He and Harry raced across the store, and behind them biscuit crates toppled as the ungainly Leighton lumbered over the uneven floor, his immense size filling the narrow aisles.

“Hey, Billy.” Harry grinned and, taking a deep breath, turned an anxious glance to the poster as he ran his fingers through his damp black hair. His gray eyes flashed in excitement. “Says here we get a hundred and sixty acres of land after the war! Free!”

“And seventy-five dollars!” shouted Josh as he ducked his small, wiry body under Harry's arm and scooted in front of him. “Don't that beat all.”

Billy tugged at Harry's shirtsleeve. “What's it mean?”

“It's a recruiting poster, Billy. That's the news we've been waiting for. Army's forming the Seventeenth Maine Regiment, and they're looking for able-bodied men right here in Berwick. You know, for the war.”

“War? We're fightin' a war here—in Berwick?”

“Billy, this here's President Lincoln's war. Fighting's going on down south mostly. The whole country's been at war for over a year now—since last April. Us Northern folks against them Southerners—you know, them boys I call Johnnies.”

“Why are we fightin' them Johnnies?” Billy asked.

Reaching up to place both hands on Billy's tall, thin shoulders, Harry said, “President Lincoln says we got to keep this country together and free the slaves, and well, down south, some folks don't think the coloreds got a right to be free.”

Billy nodded. He remembered Reverend Snow talked about the slaves not being free and all.

“So, Billy Boy, Leighton and Josh and I are thinking about going in the army.”

“All of you?”

“Look at this! We're gonna get us a bounty of two hundred and sixty dollars just for signing up,” said Josh. “Says a recruiting officer's gonna be in town come Monday.”

“I'm goin' with you.”

Harry shook his head slowly. “Aw, Billy, me and Leighton and Josh are gonna do the fighting. You need to stay here—take care of things for us.”

“Ain't fair!”

“I ain't much for fightin',” Leighton said, placing his hands on his hips. “Thing is, my folks need this money. Believe you me, I'd rather pitch manure all day than go off to this here war.”

“Leastways you won't smell as bad,” said Josh as he turned and punched Leighton playfully in his soft, round belly.

“You puny little bugger!” Grabbing Josh by his rope belt, Leighton swooped him off the floor and threatened to toss him onto the crates of salt codfish. Laughter exploded as Josh hollered for mercy, his arms and legs shadowboxing the air, each swing missing his big friend.

“Like as not, I'm goin' too,” said Billy, crossing his arms and ignoring the tussle and merriment.

“Well, I ain't real sure the army will let you muster, being how you—well, I mean, the learning and all,” Harry said gently. “Remember all the trouble you had at the schoolhouse, with Miss Dame …”

“I been rememberin'.” Billy's black mood returned and fear pulsed through him as he thought of being separated from Harry. What would he do without his friend? The taunts, the name-calling, the loneliness; he didn't want to face all that again on his own.

“Just wantin' to be with you is all.”

“Your folks would be mighty worried.”

“I'm nineteen, same as you!”

Leighton lowered Josh to the floor and glanced at Billy. “Hey, you got any of that ginger candy on you?”

“Been waitin' …”

“Let me see what you got for coins,” said Harry.

Reaching into his trouser pocket, Billy pulled out a fistful of pennies. Suddenly feeling unsure of himself, he dropped them into Harry's palm. “Enough?”

“You betcha,” said Harry. “Did you use your fingers like I showed you?”

Billy nodded.

“Still ain't ready to talk to that ol' sourpuss, eh? All right then, I'll get it for you this time.” Calling out to Mr. Blaisdell, Harry turned and walked to the front of the store.

Billy spun around and stared at Leighton as he ran his finger back and forth along the recruiting poster. As tall as Billy was, he felt small against his giant friend. “What's it say?”

“Says here we gotta muster for three years—unless sooner discharged.”

“I ain't understandin'.”

“Oh, if I was to be wounded or get real sick, then I get to come on home before the three years is up, in 'sixty-five.”

“Likely be home in a fortnight,” Josh said with a wink. “Ain't no graycoat gonna miss your fat ol' body.”

“Scratch your fleas!”

“Go jump in a cow flap!”

“You fellas still at it?” said Harry as he approached and tossed a small bag to Billy.

Seizing the bag in midair, Billy pulled out a flat, honey-colored candy, popped it in his mouth, and licked the sugary coating from his fingers.

“It's for three years, you know, Harry,” said Billy.

“That's right. And when I get back I'm gonna get me a nice little spread with all them free acres so's me and Mary Rogers can settle down.”

“I can fire a musket,” said Billy, reaching into the bag without an upward glance.

“Aw, Billy,” Harry said. “War ain't like firing your musket at a deer. Gonna be aiming at fellas just like us.” Suddenly his voice rose. “Hey, you finish all that haying this afternoon?”

“Well, not all, I reckon,” Billy said in a half-whisper. “Ain't fair I didn't get to go swimmin'.”

“Your pa's gonna take a fit if you didn't turn all the hay. You best go on now so you don't get yourself in trouble.”

“All right then. But like as not, I'm musterin', same as you.”

“We'll go swimming again right soon, Billy Boy.” Leighton pushed his hand into the paper bag and pulled out a piece of candy.

Billy raised a worried eyebrow, peered into the bag, and smiled in relief at the candy still settled at the bottom. He quickly rolled up the bag and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. Harry was right, he figured—if he left now, maybe there was time enough to finish turning the hay. Then he thought about his friends staying in town, laughing and joshing about the war and all, and he hesitated, shifted the weight on his feet, and stared vacantly at the floor.

After an awkward silence, Harry leaned in close to Billy, ruffled his hair, and said quietly, “I ain't got no right to stop you from joining up. Go on and talk to your pa. If he lets you muster, tell him Harry won't let nothing happen to you.”

Soothed by those words, Billy darted a smile at his friends. Harry wouldn't let him down after all. “And I'm gonna buy me a whole bag of ginger candy with all that money when I get back. Ma says I got me an awful sweet tooth.”

The sun lowered over the hills as Billy ran down Cranberry Meadow Road and started up the easy slope to the boulder to
pick up the pitchfork. He circled the lichen-covered outcrop several times. The fork wasn't there. There'd be a tanning for sure. Worried, he started out across the darkening field, suddenly stopping in his tracks. All the hay was turned. Had his pa been here? His heart pounded against his chest. In the gathering shadows of the pines edging the field he spotted a grayish silhouette tossing a forkful of dry grass. He squinted. Jamie? Jamie's gone and done my chores? Billy raced down the hill, relief splitting a grin across his face.

“You turned the hay!”

Laughing, Billy scooped his ten-year-old brother up off the ground and lifted him onto his shoulders. He felt Jamie's small hand slide down the front of his cotton shirt and reach into the pocket.

“I seen you run off,” Jamie said. “You got candy in here?” He opened the crumpled bag and pinched his nose. “This is nasty-tasting, Billy. Ain't you ever gonna buy them licorice strings?” Leaning over, Jamie stuffed the bag back into the pocket.