Billy Boy (7 page)

“Naw, they'll steal some other clothes. Head for the woods.” Leaning over to tighten his boots, Leighton cursed loudly when a button popped from his trousers. “Ought to be getting skinny with the rations they feed us,” he added.

“Why they goin' in the woods?” Billy asked.

“Hidin' out, so the army don't catch 'em,” said Leighton.

“But ain't they just cuttin' out for home?”

“Billy Boy, I told you. You can't go home just 'cause you don't like the army. Remember, three years unless sooner discharged?” Leighton picked the button up off the ground and tucked it in his pocket. “Come on, let's get to the cookhouse before the grub's all gone.”

Grabbing his knapsack and jacket, Billy hurried down the trail, following Leighton down the trampled path. “Josh says them fellas gonna get caught,” he said.

“Yeah, well, if they do, the army's gonna shoot them.”

“Shoot them?”

“Articles of War, Billy Boy.”

“Them articles shoot fellas who run off?”

“Sure enough. It's wrong what they done.”

As they walked through the wooded hillside, Billy patted his coat pocket, reached inside, and wrapped his fingers around a hunk of wood, pleased that he had remembered to bring it along. After drills, in the evenings while his friends played cards, he drifted throughout the encampment, lonely and frustrated that he couldn't share in a game of dice or a hand of poker. The fellas tried to teach him, but Billy just couldn't remember the rules. So Billy spent most of his evenings just feeling homesick. Sometimes he would stare at the Potomac and imagine it was the Little River, pretending that he and Pa and Jamie were fishing along its banks. One evening he stopped to watch Ethan, an older private, whittle a corncob pipe. For several nights Billy watched in quiet fascination as Ethan skillfully carved the bowl of the pipe out of a corncob. Finally, the gray-haired private encouraged him to try it, showing him how to do the same thing with the right piece of wood, peeling its bark and shaping it into another life.

Billy ran his forefinger along his carving. He had finished it the night before and was anxious to show it to his friends. He glanced up as Leighton rushed off the beaten trail and ducked into the peach orchard. “Sergeant says we ain't to steal from the farmers,” he shouted, even though Leighton was already out of sight.

Billy waited for several minutes, glancing nervously in either direction. One branch snapped, then another. Breathing heavily, Leighton at last emerged from the orchard, arms filled
with plump, ripened peaches. “Last of the season,” he said with a grin. “Let's go get our breakfast.”

Holding his tray of food and a mug of steaming coffee, Billy sat on the ground beside Harry, Charlie, Josh, and Jeb. Leighton plopped down behind him and carefully lifted the peaches from inside his buttoned jacket. In spite of the muggy air, Billy sipped his coffee, welcoming the bitter taste. He reached into his knapsack and pulled out his whittling. Feeling shy, he fingered the carving, his gaze lowered to the ground.

“You ain't no card player, but you sure can whittle!” Charlie reached for the carving, turning it over and over in his hands.

“Say, that's a mighty fine piece,” said Harry as he snatched it from Charlie's hands. “I didn't know you could whittle.”

“Been watching Ethan.”

“Whittled you a regulation soldier, all right,” said Charlie.

“Well, not quite.” Harry pointed to the soldier's frock coat. “You need two more buttons here.”

“No matter,” Billy said with assurance. “Leighton ain't got all his buttons.” A soft thud landed on his neck—liquid, mushy, and warm, trickling down his back.

“Been meaning to give you one of these overripe peaches, Billy Boy.” Leighton said, leaning over to ruffle Billy's hair. Taking the good-natured joshing in stride, Billy laughed, and using the back of his hand, wiped the juice from his neck.

“Been here more'n a month and seems like garrison duty's only good for drills, poker, whittling, and stealing peaches,” said Harry.

“Yeah, well, I ain't complaining,” said Charlie. “Not sixty miles west of here sits Lee's army. Think about the Twentieth Maine that got the call to strike tents and march four days ago. I reckon they're just about on top of those Confederate boys by now.”
Chewing on a lump of tobacco, he stretched his legs and leaned his back against an elm. “We may be bored and all, but this ridge ain't such a bad place.”

A distant rumble of artillery jolted their early morning calm. Booms thundered down the river. Billy flinched.

Harry leaped to his feet. “That's cannonading—from the west! Battle's going on for sure.”

A bugle sounded, and the boys hastily responded to the call.

“A battle is under way this morning, men, at Sharpsburg, Maryland, near Antietam Creek,” said Sergeant Noyes. “General Robert E. Lee has led his Army of Northern Virginia into Union territory for the first time. We have eighty-seven thousand troops there under Major General McClellan's command—enough to drive the Confederates back into Virginia.

“It's time,” Noyes continued, pacing back and forth, his hands behind his back, “for Company G to be trained in the engines of war. I've sent for an artillery instructor from Livingston's battery to teach you how to use the big guns—howitzers and mortars. You'll be practicing on them today, so move your lazy hides to the clearing behind the ridge!”

Flashing a wide grin, Harry glanced at Billy as they approached the target field. “We ain't likely to be bored today,” he said. “Look at those twelve-pound howitzers! Must be what's firing at Antietam.”

“Ain't likin' them big guns. Only like my musket is all,” said Billy.

They hurried past the tethered horses and moved closer to the howitzers, mingling with the other privates as they circled the large guns. Finally Sergeant Noyes called the company to attention and introduced the artillery instructor, a tall, thin man with thick yellow hair and a jutting chin.

“The Dutchman,” whispered Harry. “Heard one of the privates say he was a miserable ol' skunk.”

The Dutchman ran his hand over the howitzer and stared intently at the anxious men. He cleared his throat, hesitating before he spoke.

“Firing a smoothbore cannon is a team effort. It requires as much precision as your drills. Experienced gunners should be able to load and fire a fieldpiece every thirty seconds.” His eyes were cold. “If you can't, well,” he paused, lowering his voice, “you can be sure the Rebs will see you in Hell.

“The corporal is the gunner—the one who does the aiming.” The Dutchman leaned over and picked up the long sponge and rammer. “On the command ‘Load,' crewman number one sponges the bore—like this,” he said as he rammed it into the cannon. “You men, two and three,” he said, pointing his finger at Billy and the soldier next to him, “for the next two rounds, you will be the load crewmen. Two passes to three, three to four. Four,” he continued as he picked another private for the team, “you will receive the round from three—four places it in the muzzle and ignites the charge …”

The Dutchman helped the load crewmen issue the first round. The smoothbore cannon fired, and the projectile belched from the muzzle and shot across the field, exploding in a grove of pine and snapping branches, scattering them in a haze of white smoke.

Billy clapped his hands over his ears. Horses whinnied, pumped their hooves backward over the ground, straining their reins against the posts. Over his shoulder, Billy glanced at the frightened animals.

The Dutchman stepped back and shouted to the load crewman to begin the next round. Billy turned around, nervous,
uncertain what to do. He froze. One of the privates shoved him into the gun carriage.

“Pick up the projectile, you blasted fool,” the private whispered. “Hurry! Pass it off.”

Billy placed his hands on the projectile and hesitated. Sweat trickled beneath his shirt and ran down the back of his legs.

“Private! Are you daft?” The Dutchman stepped forward, eyes flared with anger. “I said a round goes off every thirty seconds, not thirty minutes.”

“Ain't sure is all.” Billy swallowed hard.

“Oh, you
ain't sure
? You pick up the projectile and hand it off! Lunkhead,” he muttered, loud enough for the others to hear.

Billy tried to ignore the muffled laughter as he lifted the projectile from the gun carriage and handed it off. Moments later the cannon fired. Billy felt the earth shake beneath his feet.

Suddenly one of the horses reared, snapping the leather reins from the post, and bolted across the stony field, the limber and ammunition caisson still hitched to its back. Soldiers scattered in all directions as the ammunition crate bounced loose from the caisson and tumbled onto the ground, tossing shells into the air.

“Watch out for the caisson!”

“Look out! It's gonna hit that boulder!”

“Shoot the blasted horse!”

“She's wild!”

The frantic horse ran straight at Billy. Darting to the side, his gaze steadfast on the horse, Billy recognized her white-eyed fear.

“Don't shoot her!” he screamed. “She's just scared is all.”

The sorrel mare angled past the boulder, but the caisson smashed against the rocky outcrop and overturned, throwing
her to the ground. Pinned, with the limber pushed against her side, the spooked horse thrashed her legs wildly in the air.

Outraged, the instructor pushed through the crowd of soldiers.

“Corporal, shoot the damn horse. She's useless to us.”

The corporal raised his musket and aimed at the mare's head.

“No! Don't shoot,” cried Billy as he ran in front of the corporal. “She ain't hurt. Scared is all.”

“Out of the way, farmer,” shouted the Dutchman.

Ignoring the officer, Billy inched toward the horse, crooning softly. Nostrils flaring, the mare panted wildly, ears flattened against her head. As Billy crouched down next to her on his knees, the horse made a high-pitched squeal. Still, Billy moved slowly to her, stroking her between the eyes, careful to dodge her thrashing legs. He caressed the mare's long damp neck, applying pressure until her head stopped whipping back and forth.

Around him, the men grew quiet. Billy glanced nervously at the corporal. The corporal frowned in response, grunted, and slipped his finger from the trigger, his gun still aimed at the horse.

Slowly, Billy reached for the reins, his crooning growing softer. He signaled to Harry. Nodding, Harry moved in slowly, unhitched the horse from the gun carriage, and backed away. Then Billy raised himself off the ground and, standing stock-still, gave a firm tug on the reins. The mare seemed to calm completely, settling her legs slowly to the ground.

Billy looked up as the Dutchman placed a hand on the corporal's arm and lowered the musket. Billy smoothed the horse's neck and spoke to her firmly, tugging on the reins and prodding the horse to her feet. He stood square to her, then turned sideways and took several steps forward, aware that the horse
shadowed his footsteps across the field. When he reached the line of posts, he walked to the one farthest from the big guns and tied the reins securely with a double knot.

“What's your name, farmer?” The Dutchman was suddenly behind him.

Billy turned and quickly lowered his gaze to the ground. “You sore at me, sir?”

“What's your name?”

“Private Laird.”

“You work with horses much, Private Laird?”

“Sometimes. Like when Mr. Hall—”

“Horses spook easily around heavy artillery. Nice work just then.”

“Ain't no need of shooting her. Scared is all.”

The officer stared at him, contempt written plainly on his face. His jaw tightened. “We'll be firing all morning. You'll remain here for the rest of the drill and mind the horses. It's about the only thing you're good for,” he said as he turned abruptly and strode off.

Billy walked along the posts, checking the ties on each of the horses. Earth spattered on the ridge beyond as the large guns erupted in thunderous roars. He moved among the horses, stroking their heads and necks, relieved that he was no longer part of the loading crew.

As evening gathered over the ridge, Billy stared out across the Potomac, turning up his collar and buttoning his jacket. The last rays dropped behind the western hills. It was strangely quiet, as if something was missing. The distant cannonading had ceased. He wondered if the battle was over or if the cannons would fire again at dawn. As darkness settled around him, he leaned his head back and studied the sky. He hadn't remembered to look
for the North Star since coming south. Excited, he searched first for the now-familiar place in the sky to locate the Big Dipper. Panic rose in his throat.
Why ain't she there
? Confused, he spun around, trying to remember her place among the myriad stars. He must have missed it somehow. He raised his eyes above the Potomac River.
Nothing
. Frantic, he ran to higher ground, spun in circles as he stared at the sky. Then he lowered his gaze.
I see it!
The Big Dipper was well below the treetops, much lower in the sky than he remembered. And then he spotted the North Star—almost in front of him. In the darkness, Billy called out a silent hello to his pa.

Chapter 7

T
he next morning, October 7, the 17th Regiment moved out. President Lincoln had given orders to General McClellan to cross the Potomac and find the enemy. The company wasn't headed too far, too fast, though. The sergeant ordered the men to march to the Capitol grounds, stack arms, and wait there for further orders.

Throughout the morning the sun blazed tirelessly.

“I'm tired of sitting,” said Harry. “Been here all morning. Besides, there ain't an officer in sight. See that round building, Billy?” Harry pointed a finger down the long walkway.