Billy Boy (4 page)

“Billy?” Ma stepped into the entryway, wiping her hands against her apron. “Where you off to without your breakfast?”

“Ain't hungry now, Ma,” he said, hating to tell a lie, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks. He stepped across the floor and, as was his custom, leaned over and kissed her on top of her head.

“Well, then, go and get started on your work. There's a lot of hay to be loaded. I'll keep something warm for you for when you do get hungry.”

“Yes, Ma.”

Billy raced across the farmyard and headed to the far pasture. He followed the granite stone wall built by his grandfather to the edge of the woods, emerging at last onto Cranberry Meadow Road. Sugar maples lined the winding lane. Last spring Pa had tapped all those maples. Then Billy and Jamie had lugged the heavy buckets of sap to the sugaring house and watched over a blazing log fire while the sap boiled down to rich amber syrup. Billy smiled, remembering the morning they had trudged through a fresh snowfall, buckets sloshing with the watery sap. All of a sudden his little brother had stopped, set his bucket down, and grabbed a fistful of snow, packing it into a firm ball. Jamie dunked the snowball into the sap bucket. A sigh rose inside Billy's chest as he thought about sitting on a bare log with his brother, eating handfuls of sweetened, sticky snowballs.

The morning sky threatened rain by the time Billy reached the Berwick town hall. Pa would be fretting about the rain spoiling the dried hay, he thought. He'll likely pull the hay cart onto the field looking for me, long before the afternoon. He rubbed his sweaty palms down the side of his trousers, ran his fingers through his uncombed hair, and opened the door.

Smoke from pipe tobacco and rolled cigarettes stung his eyes and raucous voices bounced off the high tin ceiling and jarred his ears. Sitting at a small desk smack in the middle of the crowded hallway was Frances Porter, the town clerk, laughing with the blacksmith. Around her, clusters of men leaned against the wall in lively conversation. Rows of chairs were
filled with familiar faces; newspapers lay scattered across the floor. Billy spotted one of the Kinsley boys, averted his gaze, and approached the stout town clerk, a shy smile across his face.

“You here to see the recruiting officer?” Miss Porter asked, cheerfully turning away from the blacksmith who walked over to an empty chair and sat down.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Have a seat, young man,” she said, pointing to the back of the hallway. “We've had such a rush of boys already. It's going to be a little while. You'll need to wait your turn, but I'll let you know. You John Laird's boy?”

Billy nodded and stepped away from the desk, sneaking a glance at the half-open door to the recruiting office. He swallowed hard, tore at an already jagged fingernail, and walked to the last row of chairs. Hoping not to be noticed, he crossed his arms over his chest, stretched his legs, and closed his tired eyes.

A finger tapped his shoulder. He raised his head, which felt a little foggy. Frances Porter was looking down at him.

“You can go in now. I hope I didn't startle you,” she said. “You've been asleep for some time.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said, rubbing his eyes. In the chair next to him an older man jabbed him in the ribs.

“You'll be in a heap of trouble if the army catches you dozing on picket duty,” he said with a smirk.

“Picket duty?”

“Oh, an innocent you are.”

Billy said nothing, and walked timidly across the hall. He hesitated at the doorjamb, his gaze fixed on the grooves in the hobnailed floor.

“Don't stop there,” a firm voice said.

Billy stepped warily into the room and stared at the officer in the crisp blue uniform sitting behind a desk, his thick, dark beard falling below a high-buttoned collar, his brown eyes narrow and penetrating. Billy recognized the oak desk as one from the schoolhouse and quietly wondered if his own pocketknife had marred its scarred surface. An American flag hung limply on a wooden shaft in the far corner of the bare room, providing the only color against the dull gray walls.

Billy spoke first. “You the recruitin' officer?”

The uniformed man nodded. “Lieutenant Colonel Merrill. How old are you, son?” He scrutinized Billy from head to toe.

“Gonna be twenty come December.”

“Fair enough. Enlistment's for three years. Are you aware of that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You a drinking man?”

“No.”

“Ever been in trouble?”

Billy hesitated, shifted nervously on his feet. “Well, yes, sir, I reckon I have.”

A frown crossed the officer's face. “What kind of trouble?”

“Well, last time when I didn't finish up all my chores, Pa—”

“Chores?” The officer's bushy eyebrows arched his face into a frown. “That the most trouble you've been in? Not finishing your chores?”

Billy turned away from the officer's stern gaze and stared vacantly at the American flag. He felt a lump in his throat. “Just forgot is all,” he said, wondering if he should leave.

Lieutenant Colonel Merrill rubbed a hand along his beard, and then a faint smile crossed his face. “Farm boy, eh?”

“Yes.”

“This won't be like the farm. You think you can perform the duties of a soldier?”

Billy frowned with uncertainty.

“Duties, young man. Can you handle them?”

“You mean like doing chores and all?”

Lieutenant Colonel Merrill mumbled under his breath and then picked up a piece of paper from the desk. “I guess you could say duty is like doing chores. Only you have to finish your chores in the army.”

“Oh, yes, sir.” Billy bit down on his lower lip. “Then you ain't sore at me? Am I gonna—”

The officer waved an impatient hand as he cut Billy off in midsentence. “What's your name?”

“Billy Laird.”

“Full name.”

“William H. Laird.”

“Well, William H. Laird, you can expect to leave for Camp King on August seventh. Here are the terms of the enlistment.”

Billy leaped down the town hall steps two at a time. The sky was a dark gray, the winds gusting, swirling dust and dirt in the crowded street. He hoped there was time to finish gathering hay before the rain came. Someone shouted his name. It was Harry, waving to him from the porch of Blaisdell's Store, beckoning him over. Beside him, Mary Rogers held onto her hat and smiled.

“Harry!” Billy yelled back as he ran into the street, darting out of the way of a wagon with empty milk tins rattling in the tailboard.

“Hey, Billy.”

Billy stumbled on the stairs, laughed at his own clumsiness, and brushed the dirt from his trousers. He grinned at Mary, beguiled as the wind lifted ringlets of her auburn hair from under her bonnet. “You sure look pretty today, Mary.”

“Why, that's mighty nice of you, Billy.”

“Can I tell him?” Harry asked excitedly as he turned to Mary. She blushed and lowered her eyelids, nodding slowly.

“Mary said she'd wait for me—you know, after the war.”

“Wait for what?”

“We're going to get married!”

“When Harry gets back; three years, most like,” Mary said softly. Dust and dirt spewed from the windswept street. She placed a hand over her mouth and coughed. “I'll be going now, Harry. Why don't you stay and talk with Billy for a while.” Mary turned around, the wind fanning her calico skirt around her ankles as she hurried down the steps. “Billy, tell your brother that I'll be his teacher come the fall term,” she said without looking back.

“Yes, ma'am.”

Harry laughed and shook his head. “Been angling for Mary's attention since she first come to Sunday school all them years ago. Remember how I told her I'd lost my Bible just so she would share hers with me? Walked her home in the rain, and when I offered up my jacket, my Bible plum fell out of the pocket! Been on a chase for near six years. I'm thinking this here war helped me out this time, what with me leaving and all.”

Suddenly he glanced at the white clapboard building across the street and turned back to Billy. “Where were you just now?”

“Town hall.”

“You enlisted?”

“Same as you.”

“Your pa's letting you do this?”

Billy scuffed his boots across the plank steps, and then raised his face to the storm clouds rolling black across the skies.

“Billy—you ain't told your pa, have you?”

“Wanted to be with you and Leighton and Josh and—”

“Billy …” Harry ran his fingers through his hair.

“You sore at me?”

“Look, I ain't sore at you. It's just that you went off and done this …”

The sky rumbled and clapped with thunder. Finally the clouds burst, and in an instant Main Street turned to mud. Billy slapped a hand over his mouth.
The hay!

“I'm needin' to go!”

He raced down the greasy steps, his heart pounding as he stumbled through the drenching rain.

Chores.

Duty.

You have to finish your chores in the army.

“Sit over there, son,” Pa said sharply, pointing to a row of chairs in the empty hallway. Billy nodded glumly and chose a seat that offered a clear view of the office. He could see Lieutenant Colonel Merrill still at his desk, dropping a stack of papers into a satchel. He glanced quickly around the hallway and noticed that Frances Porter's desk was no longer there.

Billy hoped Pa wouldn't tell the officer about how he had spoiled the hay. When he got back to the pasture he had seen
the rutted tracks of the hay cart in the sodden field, where, heavy with rain, haystacks lay flattened. Billy ran to the barn only to find Pa, Jamie, and Ma piling what little hay they had saved into the loft. Ma turned away when she saw him. He was sure Pa would scold him good, maybe even tan him right there, but he hadn't raised a hand. Just told him to get in the wagon. Said one of the Kinsley boys had been by. He'd seen Billy at the recruiting office.

Billy watched Pa pull off his cap and step into the office, his muddied boots heavy across the floor. Resting his elbows on his knees, his chin cupped in his hands, Billy leaned forward and listened.

“Name's John Laird. Understand my son come by and signed up this morning.”

“Hmm—yes, here it is. William H. Laird?”

Billy saw his father nod his head, sit down, and pick at wisps of straw embedded in his overalls. “Mind you, I support the war we're fighting. My son, Billy, though—well, he can't read or nothing.”

Lieutenant Colonel Merrill laughed. “We have many soldiers who don't know how to read—or write.”

“Billy ain't ever gonna read. He can't learn simple things. Well, sir, his mind just don't work the way most folks' do.”

“Mr. Laird,” Merrill replied firmly, “your son is over eighteen and has willingly volunteered. He'll report for training in two weeks, same as the others. In any event, his name is on the draft list. If we don't meet our quota here, your son will be in the army regardless.”

“You mean he's gonna get signed up no matter what?”

“It's entirely possible. No doubt before this war is over.”

It was quiet for a moment. Billy chewed nervously on his thumbnail.

“Of course, Mr. Laird, you have the option of hiring a substitute.”

“A substitute?”

“You pay someone else to take your son's place. I hear that's going now for up to three hundred dollars.”

Billy heard Pa let out a huge sigh. “I'm just a farmer. Only money I know is in the fields I harvest, the woods I hunt. Most ends up on our table. Sell just enough crops and lumber to pay my taxes.”

“I know it's a great deal of money, Mr. Laird.”

“It's just that he ain't like the rest of us. Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?”

“The army needs soldiers, not excuses.” The officer stood and scraped his chair across the floor. “A good soldier needs to have courage and to follow orders. And, I might add, none of that requires reading.”

Pa slapped his cap hard over his knee, over and over again. “Billy don't know how to manage alone.”

Billy could barely hear him now.
What if Pa's telling him about the hay?
His heart pounded against his chest. The officer had told him he had to finish his chores, and right off he went and ruined the hay.

“He'll belong to a company with very capable officers. Colonel Roberts is an outstanding man. Your son will be fine—and he won't be alone.” The straps of his satchel buckled into place, the officer pushed away from the desk.

Pa moved slowly from the chair, glanced into the hallway at Billy, and then hesitated at the door, his fingers fidgeting with the rim of his tattered cap.

“Seems to me every man's alone on the battlefield when there's a loaded rifle pointed right at you! And Billy, why, he—” Stopping in midsentence, Pa put on his cap and stormed out of the office.

Billy leaped from his chair. “Pa? What happened, Pa? Is he sore at me? You tell him about the hay?”

Without so much as a glance at Billy, Pa hurried past, pushed open the door, and stepped out into the dark, his shoulders hunched against the rain.

Frightened, Billy hurried after him, shouting, stumbling in the muddied street.

Finally, Pa stopped, wiped the rain from his face, and waited.

“Pa?”

Pa stared long and hard. Billy shivered but said nothing.

Suddenly Pa reached over and placed an arm around Billy's shoulders. His voice cracked with emotion.

“Let's go home, son.”

“Pa?”

“Billy, I didn't tell him about the hay.”

Chapter 4

B
illy nudged his way through the railroad car as the train pulled slowly away from the station. The noise around him was deafening. Men pushed and shoved, their bodies reeking of sweat and tobacco. Harry and Leighton were at the window, their bodies leaning halfway out. Desperate for a glimpse of his family, Billy wormed his way between them. Propping his elbows on the sill, he looked out across the crowded platform.
So many folks saying good-bye.
Children jumped at the windows and ran beside the slow-moving train. American flags and ladies' handkerchiefs waved and fluttered wildly in the air.