Billy Boy (11 page)

“You done sleepin'?” the voice asked.

White folk. Slave catcher.
He takin' me back
. He opened his eyes to the tall and fearful white man looming over him. He would have to fight. He tried to raise his head off the ground, but his weakened body resisted, pulling him down.

“Slave catcher?” Elijah moaned.

“Told you already, I ain't no slave catcher. Why? You a slave?”

“Why you pull me from the creek?”

“I seen you can't swim is all. Thing is, first time at Frog Pond, Josh—”

“You takin' me back?” Elijah cried out.

“I ain't doin' nuthin'.”

Confused, Elijah watched the man lean over and pick up a handful of branches stacked neatly in a pile, tossing them onto a small fire burning in the center of the clearing.

Elijah was suddenly conscious of his fingers fiddling a button—the jacket that was keeping him warm, alive, for the slave catchers. For the reward. “This your jacket?”

“Yeah. You was shakin' bad. Why ain't you gotta shirt?”

Baffled, Elijah shook his head. “White folk don't care if a nigguh got no shirt.”

“You lose it?”

“No, suh.”

“Then why ain't you got one?”

Elijah sighed and rolled over on his side, holding the jacket close around him. His forehead exploded in pain, the woods whirled in rapid circles around him. “Why you keep askin'?”

“Wonderin' is all. You hungry?”

“Yes, suh.”

“You got a haversack?”

“What's a haversack?”

“Ain't you got one?”

“No, suh.”

“Where you keepin' your food?”

“Ain't got no food.”

“How come?”

The white man stood up and walked away from the fire, leaned over, and reached for a leather pouch. Elijah stiffened, ignoring the question. He needed a weapon. Afraid to raise his head, he used his fingers to search the ground around him. He touched a rock the size of his fist, and wrapping his hand around it, dragged the rock close to his side.

The man pulled a knife from his pouch and looked his way. Elijah gripped his fingers tightly around the rock.

“Got some salt pork here.” Holding his pouch, he dropped to the ground, sat cross-legged, and placed the salt pork on his knee. He dug his knife into the greasy meat. “Why you ain't got any food?”

Salt pork. How long had it been? A picture flashed through Elijah's mind—sitting on the steps of the log hut with Pappy, eating chunks of warmed salt pork and moist corn cakes. Pappy telling stories as they ate under the stars, the long day in the fields finally at an end. Hungry, he tried to sit up. Dizziness washed over him. He lowered his head slowly onto the flattened grass.

“No matter. Stay there.”

“What you gonna do?”

“Gonna feed you is all. Harry said I did a good job helping out them fellas in the hospital.”

He inched his way over.

Still, Elijah locked his gaze on the pale blue eyes studying him as a piece of salt pork dangled from the knife. He had no strength to resist; he felt sure he was going to die at the hands of the stranger. But the man carefully picked the salt pork off the blade and slipped it into his mouth. Bewildered, Elijah closed his lips around the meat, his starvation overwhelming his will to fight. He eagerly accepted more. The white man sat beside him, feeding him chunks of the salt pork; then he cut up an apple and
fed him a few slices. Elijah swallowed hard, fighting the longing to close his eyes in sleep. Consciousness slipped slowly from him; his eyelids drooped, blinked open, and finally shut.

“Why white folk save Elijah?” he whispered as he drifted into darkness.

He wakened to find night settling, flames from a small fire crackling and sparking the air. The white man was still there, sitting nearby, his long legs huddled against his chest, arms wrapped around his knees. There was no hint of meanness in his face, eyes blue as a perfect summer sky. Elijah coughed. The man startled, jumped to his feet, grabbed a canteen, and kneeled beside him. Elijah didn't move as a hand cradled his neck and raised his head. Slowly, water spilled onto his tongue. “Go on now and sleep 'til mornin',” Elijah heard him say as he closed his eyes.

The rustling of leaves wakened Elijah. Opening his eyes, he turned his head as a gray squirrel darted into the thicket, his teeth clamped on the small haversack. In an instant Elijah was on his feet, crashing through the dense brush, suddenly aware that his legs were no longer trembling and the dizziness was gone. Relieved, he grinned as the squirrel abandoned the pouch and scurried up the pine. Leaning over, Elijah grabbed the haversack and pushed his way through the tangle of brush back to the clearing. He stepped over to where the man lay sleeping and studied him, and then he scanned the ground for a rifle, perhaps hidden under the brush. Other than the canteen and knapsack resting by his side, there was nothing else, not even a blanket. The man's dark clothes were crusted with dirt and mud. For a moment Elijah thought about running, but
instinct told him to stay, to see what would unfold. Without a weapon, the thin white man posed little threat. He tossed the pouch down to the ground. The man stirred, blinked his eyes at Elijah, and rolled over on his side, back to sleep.

Elijah gathered a handful of branches, feeding them onto the smoldering fire. Slowly the coals rekindled into life. He breathed deeply in the crisp morning air, feeling hopeful for the first time in days.

Lord, give Elijah one mo' chance. But why, Lord, you send Elijah white folk?
Leaning over, he picked up the rock he had hidden earlier by his side and tossed it into the middle of the creek.

This time the man groaned awake and looked his way, staring at him for several moments before breaking into a smile. Elijah offered a shy smile in return.

“You feelin' better?”

“Yes, suh, sho' am.”

“Reckon you're still hungry.”

“Yes, suh.”

“We got us two apples and some beef is all.”

Sitting up, he reached for his haversack and took out an apple, tossed it to him, and taking out his knife, pulled out the meat and cut it in half.

Elijah ate the apple first, licking the juice from his fingers, staring intently at the stranger who kept sharing his food.

Elijah waited and then spoke. “You be thinkin' 'bout takin' me back?”

“Back where?”

“Mastuh Fowler.”

“Don't know no Master Fowler. You just run off?”

“Yes, suh.”

“Name's Billy.”

“Billy, suh.”

“Ain't you got a name?”

“Elijah.”

“Elijah,” Billy repeated. “Reverend Snow read that name afore—in the Bible.” He tossed the apple core into the fire. “Thing is, I run off, same as you. Cut out from the army.”

Shock jolted Elijah to his feet. “Army, suh? They lookin' for you?” he asked, blowing air out of his cheeks. “Oh, no, suh.”

“You sore at me? I mean, 'cause I deserted and all?”

Elijah stared at Billy in disbelief, then glanced at his clothes, badly soiled but the jacket distinctly blue. “What army you in?”

“Army of the Potomac, Seventeenth Maine Regiment. Leighton says the army'll likely shoot me.”

“And where is this Leighton?”

“He's my friend.” Billy let out a deep sigh. “Leighton and Harry and, and—all of them back there, 'cept me. You got a friend, Elijah?”

Nodding his head, Elijah gazed into the woods, a vacant stare across his face. “Ol' Joe, he my friend. Elijah never gon' see Ol' Joe again.”

“Then you ain't got a friend?”

“No mo', suh.”

“You wantin' to be my friend?”

Elijah's eyebrows arched. He turned away and looked out across the creek. “White folk don't be makin' friends with no slave,” he said a few moments later.

“Why not?”

“That just the way it be.”

“Reckon it ain't needin' to be that way.”

“When you leave these woods, maybe you tell slave catchers about Elijah. Slave catchers pay you money.”

“I ain't tellin' no slave catcher.” Billy shouted. “Besides, I'm needin' to stay here. Leighton says if you desert, you got to hide in the woods for a time.”

“How far you run from?”

“Other side of the Potomac—crossed it and came into these here woods.”

“Why you run away no how?”

“Wantin' to go home is all. Ain't we gonna be friends?”

They stared at each other in awkward silence. Finally, Elijah turned away without answering. He paced a few steps, paced back, and turned away again. From the corner of his eye Elijah watched Billy walk to the creek, plop down on the bank, and cup his chin in his hands. Billy sat there, never once turning around for most of the long afternoon as Elijah stayed and tended the fire, staring vacantly, occasionally shaking his head in frustration. Finally, with a push of his hands on his knees, Elijah got up and walked to the bank.

“Billy, suh?” Elijah sat down on the grass beside him.

“Yeah?”

“Elijah never had no white folk be his friend. Why you want this nigguh fo' a friend?”

“Needin' one is all. Like my friend Harry. Thing is, I ain't always sure what to do. Harry figured things out most times.”

“Maybe Elijah try.”

“Figurin' things out and all?”

“Yes, suh.”

“Then you'll be my friend?”

“Only some.”

“Why only some?”

Elijah pointed a finger at his dark skin. “Elijah no white folk like this Harry. So Elijah only some.”

A hint of a smile crept across his face.

Billy grinned. Tension collapsed into relief, expressed in a fit of giggles, and he folded his arms across his stomach. Embarrassed, he erupted into another burst of explosive laughter.

Elijah couldn't remember a time when he'd ever heard someone laughing out loud like that. The sound was infectious; without warning, he found himself chuckling, too, even though he was in the middle of chewing his share of Billy's beef. In seconds he was mimicking Billy's laughter, heavy chortles exploding from his throat. Tears spilled down his cheeks, and he doubled over and hugged his belly. But then his laughter collapsed into a hacking cough; his eyes bulged as he gasped for air, and he fell onto his hands and knees.

Elijah heard footsteps rushing toward him. Still coughing, he raised his head to the noise, but his watered eyes saw only a blurred figure moving quickly to his side, now looming over him. He saw only a hand arched as if to strike him. His scream echoed across the clearing.

“No, suh! No, don', don', suh!”

“You're chokin'! Gonna slap your back is all.”

But Elijah heard only the sharp cracks of the whip that had snapped against his back, one after another, each violent lash tearing open his flesh. He cried out, his body twitching at each imagined lash. He collapsed, falling limply to the ground.

Elijah knew his head lay against the white man's chest, but he lacked the strength to resist. He didn't move as arms enfolded him, rocking him slowly, back and forth, before exhaustion crumpled him.

Chapter 12

“Y
ou ever been fishin', Elijah?” Billy sat on the bank, warmed by the late October sun, elbows propped on his knees as he stared at the sluggish creek. The water was considerably lower than it had been the day before when it was swollen from the rain.

“No, suh.” Elijah picked up a stone and tossed it into the creek.

“Pa taught me. Thing is, I ain't much good at it.” Billy glanced at Elijah. “We ain't got nuthin' to eat. One apple is all,” he said, wrinkling his brow. “Wish we had us a fishin' pole.”

“Mebbe we just catch 'em with our hands.” From his rocky perch Elijah leaned over and peered into the shallow water.

“Too hard, I'm thinkin'.” Billy twisted to his side, leaned over, and picked up a branch. “Hey, I could whittle us a spear.” Excitedly, he pulled his knife from his trouser pocket and dug into the limb, furiously shaping its broken end into a fine, sharp point.

“Look!” Billy exclaimed, overwhelmed with self-satisfaction as he held up the spear. “Learned me to whittle from Ethan.”

Elijah let out a low whistle and grabbed the spear, touching its pointed end with the tip of his finger. “Ooh, suh, that be mighty sharp.”

Within minutes Billy had carved another one, jumped to his feet, threw off his socks and boots, and waded into the water, striking his new weapon erratically at the air.

“We're needin' to fish where the water ain't movin' so much,” he said, and led the way downstream until he found an
eddy wide enough for the two them. He glanced up at a wide-trunked oak, its yellow leaves shadowing the water's edge. “Pa says to always fish in the shade.”

Holding the spears above their heads, they positioned themselves at opposite ends of the eddy, each poised to strike the first trout. At each imagined movement, Billy repeatedly jabbed his spear beneath the surface, stirring mud and gravel from the creek bed. “Them fish just skedaddlin'.”

Elijah shook his head. “You just scarin' them fishes away. Let Elijah do the fishin'.” Billy lifted his spear out of the water, uttered his dismay at the flattened tip, and waded out of the eddy.

“Bad luck is all,” he groused as he stepped onto the red bank of mud under the oak, tossing his ruined spear to the ground.

“Billy, suh, you be listenin' and watchin' them woods while Elijah fish.”

“You mean like picket duty?”

Elijah shook his head. “Don't know nuthin' about this picket duty. Maybe you just whittle sumthin' for Elijah.”

Billy's spirits immediately brightened. He turned and studied the oak tree and snapped off a low branch, its decaying leaves crumbling in his hands. “I'll whittle a fish. Don't worry none, Elijah. I'll watch them woods, too.”