Billy Boy (27 page)

Mary let out a sigh. “My gracious, Billy, you surely did understand what Harry was writing about. You surely did,” she repeated once more under her breath.

Her eyes scanned the next few lines, and then she quickly folded the letter in half. “I guess that's about all he says …”

Billy saw the color deepen on her cheeks. “You sure like Harry. In the evenings, at camp, Harry most always fingered that pink ribbon you give him.”

Mary smiled warmly. Placing the letter on the side table, she stood. “How about we fix those biscuits now?”

Billy followed her and watched eagerly as Mary lifted the barrel's lid, leaned over, and opened the sack of flour. “I wish it wouldn't snow no more. I ain't seen the stars for a long time, what with it being so cloudy and all. Mary, does it snow in Canada?”

“Yes, it snows, and even more there, I reckon,” she said, carefully sifting a cup of flour into a yellow bowl. “You thinking of Elijah again?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Well, I'm sure he can't see the North Star tonight either.”

“Elijah says we're both right under it, just the same.”

Mary smiled. “He's right, Billy. Even when you can't see it, that old North Star's still up there, shining down on the both of you.”

Chapter 27

T
he commanding general scowled as he read the letter. He shouted to his aide in the outer office.

“Sir?” responded the young lieutenant as he raced into the room. He had been working in Maine as General Deering's aide at Augusta headquarters since the onset of the war, and he could easily recognize the general's moods by the tone of his voice. This time the mood was urgent and filled with loathing.

General Deering waved the letter in his hand. “Seems a deserter, a private from the Seventeenth, was spotted at his home, in Berwick.” He shook his head. “We have a record on him?”

“What's his name, sir?”

“Laird. Private William Laird.”

The aide stared vacantly at the tin ceiling, his razor-sharp memory searching, sifting through countless reports from the field. “Yes, I remember the name from one of Colonel Robert's reports. Laird deserted last October, from Edward's Ferry, this side of the Potomac, if I'm not mistaken.”

“Potomac in early fall? Hell, it was still warm and the soldiers' bellies were still full. Not even a skirmish with the enemy,” he said with disgust.

“Who saw him, sir?”

“A neighbor, Lieutenant. Kinsley's his name. Has two sons in the war. One was wounded but remains with his unit.”

He handed the letter to the aide. “Send this on to Major Andrews at Fort Preble down in Cape Elizabeth. I want this private captured. Major Andrews can detach an officer and whoever else he needs to take with him to Berwick.”

The lieutenant hesitated at the door. “Not an easy feat to make it all the way back from Maryland, I would imagine.”

General Deering nodded. “Tell the major to have his men exercise caution. We don't know what this private's like. You're right; if he worked his way back to Berwick, I suspect he will likely resist arrest.”

“I'll contact Major Andrews, sir.”

“Lieutenant!” shouted the general before the aide disappeared through the doorway. “This may be our first deserter to face a court-martial in Maine.”

“And if he's found guilty, sir?”

“He's guilty, Lieutenant. Make no mistake.”

The general got up from his desk and walked to the window, staring down at the Kennebec River, the large chunks of ice along its banks breaking away in the early spring runoff. From all the reports it appeared that the 17th Maine had endured an unusually cold, wet winter in Virginia. General Burnside had been removed from command of the Army of the Potomac. The infamous Mud March was a complete disaster. Soldiers stalled for thirty hours in ceaseless rain, slipping and sliding in greasy mud as entire regiments pulled lines of coiled rope to loosen mired artillery. Cold, sickened, and desperately hungry, hundreds of soldiers deserted on a daily basis. Given the miserable conditions, he mused that one could almost have a modicum of understanding for the desertions at Camp Pitcher. He fumed over this Private Laird, sitting at home
while his comrades endured such misery. He turned away from the window, staring grimly at the lieutenant.

“Fort Preble may need to assemble a firing squad.”

May 21 dawned bright and warm, the air offering a faint promise of spring. Billy's ma smoothed the folds of his bed and scooped the dirty clothes off the floor. In the early darkness Billy had headed out across the fields to the Rogers farm. The arrangement with Mary was working out well, Ma thought. Mary and Billy were becoming good friends, and Billy seemed to thrive on the attention she lavished on him. Downstairs, the heavy stomping of boots interrupted her thoughts and, taking a last glance around the room, satisfied that it looked undisturbed, she closed the door and headed down the back staircase to the kitchen.

Pa and Jamie ate hungrily, sopping thick slices of bread in the rich gravy, sausage heaped on their forks. Ma leaned against the counter by the window, warming herself in the sunlight. She spotted a movement in the lane. Squinting against the glare, she shaded her eyes and leaned closer to the windowsill. She watched in stunned silence, straining to identify the three men approaching on horses. As the sharp blueness of an army uniform came into view, Ma gasped.

“John!” she cried. “It's them! The army!”

Pa pushed his chair back, the thrust knocking it on its side as he ran to the window. He turned to his son, a look of fear flashing across his pale face. “Get your books and be off to the schoolhouse, Jamie.”

“Are they gonna take Billy?”

“Hush, Jamie,” said Ma. “Not a word, do you hear? Now do as you're told,” she whispered, twisting her hands in the folds of her apron.

Pa hurried to the entryway, pushed open the door, and stood in the threshold, his jaw tight, knuckles white from the pressure of his clenched fists. He stared in silence as the three men, only one wearing a uniform, stopped in front of the doorway.

“Mr. Laird?” asked the man in the officer's uniform as he slid off his saddle.

John Laird nodded, his eyes fixed on the officer.

“Mind if we come inside, Mr. Laird?” The officer hitched his horse to the post and waited for his civilian companions before he entered the house.

The strangers stepped confidently into the kitchen, their eyes darting around the large room. Removing his gloves, the officer stepped forward and extended his hand to Pa. “Lieutenant Nathan Walker. Attached to the Fifth Regiment, Maine Volunteers, at Fort Preble.” He glanced at Ma and nodded his head. “Ma'am.”

Ma did not move. She stood rigid, not returning his greeting. Pa looked directly into the lieutenant's eyes but said nothing.

“Mr. Laird, headquarters in Augusta received word that your son William arrived back in Berwick. He's under court-martial for desertion and, sir, it's my duty to take him into custody.”

“What do you mean, you've received word that my son is here?”

“Ma'am, Major Andrews was informed by headquarters, that's all I know. Most likely someone here in town reported it.”

“I don't believe you, Lieutenant. No one's reported anything,” Ma said, breathing heavily. “Billy ain't here.”

“Ma'am, I know this must be hard for you—”

“Hard for me? My son never belonged in your army.”

Pa reached for his wife's arm. “Lieutenant, I tried to tell the army about our boy. He ain't smart like most other folks.”

“He volunteered, Mr. Laird,” said Walker, “and he's over eighteen.”

“Oh, he mustered on his own, all right—against our wishes. He only wanted to be with his friends. Billy knows he done wrong, Lieutenant. But he ain't got the ability to figure out the why.”

“So you have spoken to him?”

Pa bristled at his obvious mistake and lashed out at the lieutenant. “You're just like the recruiting officer. Don't want to hear what I got to say about my boy. Like the wife said, he ain't here.”

Pa marched over to the back door. “It's time you left now.”

“Mr. Laird, I understand your desire to protect your son. But as an officer of the army, it is my duty to arrest Private Laird for desertion. And I will find him,” said Lieutenant Walker.

“How can you expect a mother to turn her son in?” Ma fell against Pa's shoulders and sobbed into his chest.

“Lieutenant Walker, you're upsetting my wife. My boy ain't here. Now I'm asking you again to leave my farm.”

The young lieutenant stiffened. “Don't make this more difficult than it already is, Mr. Laird. I intend to find your son, with or without your help. If he's on this farm, you need to turn him over to us now.”

“He ain't on the farm, Lieutenant, as God is my witness.”

“We'll have to take a look around. Mr. Hanson and Mr. Waterhouse will check the barn. I assume you'll want to accompany them. Mrs. Laird, ma'am, why don't you walk me through the house.”

Without a word, John Laird gently released his wife from his arms, grabbed his jacket, and followed the other men out the back door.

Holding his schoolbooks, his face frozen in fear, Jamie stood on the front hall staircase as the man in the blue uniform entered the room. The officer appeared startled but said nothing as he hurried up the staircase. He entered the first room. A pile of clothing lay heaped on the seat of a caned chair, and Walker quickly rifled through it, acknowledging to himself that the clothing belonged to the young child downstairs. He scanned the single shelf that ran across the inside wall, examined the casing of a small pocketknife, and glanced briefly at the books. His eyes rested on the unusual carving of a fish with a spear pierced through its belly.

“Your boy whittle this?”

“Yes. His pa taught him,” Ma said.

He walked to the bedroom across the hall.

“This is Billy's room,” Ma said harshly.

The room was tidy; a worn comforter lay smoothly across the undisturbed bed. The lieutenant walked immediately to the closet and looked closely at the clothes, finding only a few flannel shirts, a pair of tow-cloth trousers, and a light jacket. He poked around the dark corners of the narrow closet but found nothing. His right hand brushed across a pair of boots, half-laced and cold to the touch. His fingers slid along the toes and soles. He yanked them out of the closet and held them to the light. The soles of the boots were damp. He peered into the closet again. There was a pool of muddy water on the closet floor. “Are these his boots?”

Ma nodded.

“They're wet.” Walker stood and hurriedly walked to the dresser, yanked opened the drawers, tossing socks and underwear aside. Finding nothing else, he closed the bottom drawer and headed for the last bedroom.

Hanson, Waterhouse, and Pa stood uneasily next to the horses, no one choosing to speak. As Lieutenant Walker came out of the kitchen door, he stopped directly in front of Pa and said firmly, “I know you're hiding him, Mr. Laird. And the three of us will stay in Berwick for as long as it takes to find him.”

Nodding to his partners, the lieutenant mounted his horse. John Laird remained silent as the three men turned their horses and headed back down the lane.

“I heard what he said.” Jamie's eyes were red and swollen as he met his folks in the kitchen.

Ma pulled a handkerchief from her apron pocket. “The lieutenant found Billy's old boots, the ones he wears in the snow. He wore them over here last night. They were still wet.”

“Then he knows. Just a matter of time, I reckon,” said Pa as he slumped into a chair.

“Jamie, you need to tell Mary that the army's in town looking for Billy,” said Ma. “You think anyone to school knows Billy's hiding out at the Rogers farm?”

“I don't know, Ma.”

She hugged him tight. “I prayed this would never happen.”

“Billy didn't do nuthin' wrong, Pa,” said Jamie.

Pa shook his head and sat down at the table. “It ain't right what Billy done. He broke the rules, son. And now the army says he got to pay. He made a mistake, and even though he didn't mean to do nothing bad, he still done wrong just the same.”

“You think Mr. Kinsely told them?” Ma asked.

“Can't think of anyone else,” said Pa. “Don't much matter now. We've got to keep the army from finding Billy is all.”

Jamie looked at his parents. “After dark, can I go to Miss Rogers's house and fetch Billy?”

“Ain't a good idea for Billy to come back home tonight, but we're needing to talk to him right away and work out another plan,” said Pa. “Cut through the fields and stay off the roads. There's a full moon out tonight, and the fields are more passable now. I'll wait up for you both, son.”

Jamie silently put on his jacket and picked up his schoolbooks.

“You tell Billy we'll do what we can,” Pa continued. “Tell him the good Lord must have a reason for this here to be happening.”

Sniffling, Jamie walked out the door, his small shoulders braced against the morning sun.

Chapter 28

L
ieutenant Nathan Walker walked into Blaisdell's Store, his stride heavy and purposeful. After talking to Laird's parents, he was convinced that the private was hiding in town. Colin Elkins, Freddie Biggs, and Tom Piper were sitting in chairs around the unlit potbellied stove, pipes fixed in their hands. They exchanged curious glances when the imposing man in the dark blue uniform entered the store. The lieutenant rested his gaze on a plump, gray-haired woman who was busy stacking loaves of warm bread. Aware of his penetrating stare, Harriet Blaisdell nervously wiped her hands across her gingham apron and hurried behind the counter.

“Ma'am.” Walker tipped his hat, his face unsmiling. “I'm Lieutenant Walker, Fifth Maine Regiment, attached to Fort Preble. I'm looking for Private William Laird. I understand he's a Berwick boy, and, well, I'm wondering if you might know him, or where I might find him.”