Billy Boy (29 page)

“Is too. Someone's got to win.”

“Ain't never me.”

“Then don't move your checkers in front of mine. Your turn.”

“I'm gonna jump all them black checkers.”

“No you ain't.”

“Am too. You just went and done it.”

“Your checkers was all lined up is why.”

“Then you put yours in a line.”

“I ain't!” Jamie was shouting.

“Boys!” called Mary as she dropped her needlepoint in her lap. “It's late; I think it's time you headed over the fields.”

“We ain't finished the game, Miss Rogers,” Jamie said as he turned his head and looked her way.

With Jamie distracted, Billy hurriedly reached for a red checker and jumped over several black ones, crisscrossing the board in a haphazard pattern. Satisfied, he tossed the jumped checkers beside the board. “Your turn,” he announced.

“Billeeee!” Jamie picked up a red checker and threw it. “Not fair.”

“Do your checker games usually end like this?” Mary asked, shaking her head.

“Yes. Jamie always wins,” Billy said glumly. “It's them black checkers is why.”

Mary placed her hands on her hips and glanced at Jamie as he gathered the checkers. “Might be real nice of you, young man, if you helped your brother understand this game a bit more.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Sulking, Jamie moved away from the table and walked to the front hall. He turned to his brother, resignation in his small voice. “I'll learn you checkers better when we get to the hiding place.”

Billy grabbed their jackets and glanced affectionately at his brother, the tufts of sandy brown hair, the impish blue eyes, the lanky body so much like his own. Without thinking, he leaned over and kissed the top of Jamie's head.

“You only do that to Ma.”

“Just wanted to is all.”

Mary checked the buttons on Jamie's coat, wrapped the wool scarf snugly around his neck, and kissed him lightly on top of his head. “That one's from me, Jamie,” she said. “And don't be telling your friends at school tomorrow,” she admonished.

“I'm tellin' Harry for sure when he gets home.”

Billy took his brother's hand and, opening the door, walked out with him across the moonlit fields.

Finding the schoolhouse dark when they finally arrived, Lieutenant Walker, Hanson, and Waterhouse decided to find themselves a hot meal and a place to stay for the night. Later, over bowls of hot stew at the inn, Hanson stirred uncomfortably and groaned. “I don't reckon we're wanting to hear your answer, but are you figuring on some kind of watch tonight?”

Walker shook his head. “Before first light. There's a ridge overlooking the Laird farm. I'll wager it offers a clear shot of the house, and it's no more than a few hundred yards off the road.
We'll keep watch just until the little fella goes to school. Follow him in—talk with Mary Rogers then. If nothing pans out, we'll ride out and talk with the Rickers and the Halls after that.”

The morning sun lifted, spilling a thin yellow line along the crest of the surrounding hills, the valleys still gray. Hanson and Waterhouse hunched over their saddles. The lieutenant, invigorated by the crisp air, sat upright, eyes fixed solidly on the Laird farmhouse, waiting.

A door slammed, echoing against the hillside. Then voices. Faint. Walker leaned forward. Waterhouse jerked his reins, stilling his mare as she stomped her hooves on the rocky ledge. In the dim light a solitary figure, tall and lean, moved away from the farmhouse, past the barn, walking east over the fields.

“Think it's the father?” whispered Hanson, straining for a better look.

“Can't say. Still too dark. Depends on where he's heading, I'm guessing,” said Walker.

The lone figure crossed one pasture, opened a gate, and continued walking, each step taking him farther away from the farm. Minutes later a light glowed in the kitchen windows. The door opened. Another man, similarly tall, moved swiftly toward the barn.

“I'll be damned!” murmured Walker. “I bet that's the father.” He turned excitedly to his companions. “I think we found our deserter.”

“We going after him, Lieutenant?”

“Not yet. As soon as he hears us, he'll make a run for the woods. Forest's so damn thick, we won't be able to push the horses through.” Walker jerked his obedient bay sideways,
changing his viewpoint on the sweeping outcrop. “I'm not about to risk losing him. We'll follow this ridge until we spot wherever it is he's heading for, then take the road. Wherever he's going, he'll likely stay put until dark.”

“Explains the wet boots, all right. He tracks across the fields after dark, sleeps at home, and heads out before dawn. Not a bad plan.” Waterhouse grunted and rubbed his glove across his beard. “I'm wagering that for a simpleton, he's a pretty smart fellow.”

“Let's go. He'll disappear over that slope soon.”

Billy trudged across the field, tired from not enough sleep. He and his folks had talked well into the night. Jamie was excited about the hiding place, but Pa just kept shaking his head. Billy wished Ma wouldn't cry so much. He was glad he had tiptoed into her bedroom this morning. She was still asleep when he leaned over and kissed her on top of her head. Then Ma opened her eyes, still red and puffy, and smiled at him. Right then he decided to whittle something special, just for her. Most likely a flower; maybe Sweet William, her favorite. Besides, the name would make her think of him. Things was real bad. He wished he'd never signed up for the army. And while Mary was real nice to him, he still missed his friends.

Billy raced the last few yards to the farmhouse and, careful not to waken Mary, quietly opened the door. The kitchen was dark and barn cold. He filled the stove with kindling, struck a match across its surface, tossed it in, and latched the door. He added a few split pieces of wood to the fire, waited until he was satisfied it was burning well, then left the kitchen and headed toward the barn.

The barn door creaked and groaned as Billy pushed its bulk along the track, latching the hook on the outside wall. Sunlight rushed in ahead of him, and the scent of hay filled his nostrils. The pigs squealed and scampered across the floor. He picked up a pitchfork and walked to the haystack.

“Private Laird!”

Lieutenant Walker stood in the barn's doorway, a towering outline against the morning sun.

Air sucked from Billy's lungs. Cold, raw fear devoured him.

The officer's eyes bore down on him like a hawk ready to strike. Then the officer moved slowly toward him.

Billy's hands tightened around the handle of the fork.

Walker took another step closer. “Private Laird, I'm an officer in the discharge of my duty. I'm here to arrest you as a deserter. Drop the pitchfork—that's an order!”

Billy heard the stern command, but he couldn't move. His body felt locked, fastened to the floorboards. He swallowed, but his throat was dry. He looked down at the fork, its prongs now pointed squarely at the officer. His knuckles ached as he squeezed the handle.

Suddenly there was a different voice. Billy jerked his head and saw two other men enter the barn. They weren't wearing uniforms.

“Son,” said Hanson as he stepped forward. His tone was low, almost friendly. “Do as he says: drop the fork.”

Billy stared at the stranger, perplexed. Lieutenant Walker lifted the pistol slowly from his holster.

“Drop it, son. Go ahead, it's all right,” Hanson repeated with a shake of his head at the lieutenant.

Billy loosened his grip, and suddenly the officer lurched forward, yanking the pitchfork from his hands.

Cold, heavy, iron shackles snapped around his wrists. The men were on top of him, grabbing him, pushing him across the yard. His legs weakened. He stumbled. He was jerked back onto his feet.
Pa! Help me. I'm scared.

“We'll watch the prisoner while you get the horses,” Walker said to Waterhouse.

“Can I-I-I see Mary?” Billy heard himself ask as he was dragged across the barnyard.

“Mary who? Does she live here?”

“Mary Rogers. This is her farm.”

“The teacher?” Walker stole a glance at Hanson. “No, you can't see her. Now get moving.”

“Ah, let him see her, Lieutenant. He's ironed,” said Hanson. “He's not going anywhere.”

Lieutenant Walker tugged at the shackles. “All right, Private, you can go inside—but be quick about it. And leave the door open so we can see you.” Billy tried to slow his breathing, stop the trembling in his knees. Slowly, he walked to the farmhouse steps, dazed. Inside, he stood before the mantel. The pistol. It was still lying there, shiny and bright.

Footsteps clattered down the staircase, startling him.

Frightened, Billy picked the pistol up with his shackled hands.

“Billy, whatever is happening? What's wrong?” cried Mary as she ran into the room, pulling the sash of her robe around her. He saw her eyes widen, heard her gasp in shock. “Oh, Lord, Billy, put that thing down!” Mary screamed.

“I-I-I … Mary—the army …”

He saw her turn and run from the room and out onto the porch. He thought he heard her voice shouting in panic, then footsteps loud, heavy, racing up the steps.

He tried to cock the pistol, tried to place his thumb on the hammer.

“Put the gun down, Private Laird.” Lieutenant Walker moved cautiously into the room, his eyes fixed on the barrel.

Billy stared at the gun in his hand. It looked so shiny against the heavy irons around his wrists. He tossed the pistol from his hand, heard it crash against the chair.

Then pushing, shoving. Sunlight. He was hoisted in the air, legs lifted over a saddle, boots pushed into a stirrup. Where was he going? He blinked, but everything was still blurry. His horse lurched forward. Billy closed his eyes and slumped forward.

It was all over now.

Chapter 30

“M
ajor Gardiner, sir?” said the lieutenant as he knocked on the door to the provost marshal's office. Provost marshal John Gardiner glanced up from his desk. “Come in,” he said briskly. “Have we finally received word from the Department of the East about the disposition of our prisoner?”

“Yes, sir.” Lieutenant Libby flashed the letter in his hand. “General Wool's adjutant, Christensen, dispatched the orders.” He looked at his superior officer. “Would you like me to read it to you?”

“Go ahead.”

“Special order, number seventy-five,” he began, clearing his throat. “A general court-martial is hereby appointed to meet at Augusta, Maine, on the third day of June next at ten
A.M.
for the trial of such persons as may be brought before it by authority from these headquarters—”

“Three June?” the major interrupted. “We've been waiting for over a month to hear anything, and suddenly we have orders to hold this court-martial in a matter of days?” The provost marshal pushed away from his desk and paced heavily across the floor. “Is there a detail of the court?”

“Yes, sir, the representatives have been named. All from different regiments. And First Lieutenant Frederic E. Shaw of the Seventh Maine, Artillery, is the judge advocate.” The aide continued reading. “No other officers than these named can be assembled without manifest injury to the service. Should any of the officers named in the detail be unable to attend, the court will nevertheless proceed to and continue the business before
it, provided the names present be not less than the minimum prescribed by law.” He folded the letter in half. “That's it, sir.”

Major Gardiner turned back to his desk. “Notify this adjutant that we have received the special order. Tell him, however, that it will be impossible to assemble the names listed on the detail of the court by June third, and that I will forward the earliest date for the court-martial thereafter.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Private Laird's been held here for a long enough time as it is. How is the prisoner doing?” asked Gardiner.

“Lonely—pretty low since his folks' last visit. Doesn't talk much. But he is slow, after all.”

“I'm not sure they'll be back in Augusta again. Quite a scene we had with them. I told the father the matter was out of my hands. Suggested they write the president—had to give the old farmer some hope.”

“Shall I start contacting the names listed for the detail of the court?”

“Absolutely; but with the troop and supply movements toward Gettysburg, we'll be lucky if this is over and done with in a month's time.”

The court-martial convened on July 2.

“Having the case of George W. Kimball, Fifth Battery, Maine Volunteers, disposed of, the court will now proceed to the trial of Private William H. Laird of Company G, Seventeenth Maine Regiment, Maine Volunteers,” said the clerk of the court as he read the special order.

First Lieutenant Frederic Shaw, 1st Maine Volunteers, Artillery, leaned forward in his chair. “The court will excuse
Lieutenant Nathan Walker from serving as a member of the court in the case of William H. Laird, being that he serves as a witness to this case,” he said. “The clerk may call Private Laird into the court at this time.”

Billy walked beside his attending guard and stood alone before the table of men in blue. It was just like Pa had told him it would be. He sat alone, facing a table of officers. Pa said the officers would hear him out, and then decide if Billy was guilty or not. Pa said he could ask for something, so he wouldn't be alone, but in his nervousness, Billy couldn't remember what to ask for. He lowered his head when the judge peered over his half-rim glasses and looked at him. The judge spoke in a heavy, slow voice as he read the special order, and the names of the men who sat at the long table in front of him.

“This court is now convened,” Judge Shaw said. “Private Laird, do you have any objections to any member named therein?”