Billy Boy (8 page)

“Yeah.”

“That's the Rotunda. It's been used as a hospital since the Battle of Antietam three weeks back. Wounded lying just about everywhere around Washington. Let's take a walk.”

Billy was awestruck by the massive stone buildings around him. Magnificent shade trees lined the walkways that stretched across swaths of bright green grass. As he and Harry drew closer to the Rotunda, they saw several soldiers wandering around aimlessly, bandages covering their faces and bodies. A woman approached them, walking beside a soldier who moved unsteadily on his wooden crutch.

“He's only got one leg,” Billy said loudly.

The soldier stopped and stared at him, a deep frown across his face. “Reckon you boys ain't seen any fightin' yet.” He spat on the ground. “What's your regiment?”

“Seventeenth Maine, Company G, sir,” Harry said.

Pushing his crude crutch hard into the grass, the soldier hobbled closer, his frown melting into a smile. “Seventh Maine,” he said, before he stumbled, falling facedown onto the ground.

“Hurry, boys, help me lift him,” said the woman.

Billy and Harry raced to the soldier's side, each cupping a hand under one of his armpits, and easing him carefully onto a bench a few feet away. The woman thanked them as she checked the man's dressing. His leg had been amputated high above the knee. Trickles of blood seeped through the gauze. The woman sighed and brushed dirt and dust from the front of the man's shirt.

Billy turned his attention to the dark-haired woman. She had deep shadows under her eyes, although the rest of her face was ghostly pale. Her gray dress was stained and wrinkled. She caught his long glance.

“I'm Isabella Fogg. I'm from Maine, too—Calais.”

“You come down here to help the soldiers?”

“My son's in the Sixth Maine Regiment,” she answered. “He came to Washington last year, and I volunteered for the Maine Soldier's Relief Agency to be near him. Now I help tend to the sick and wounded from Maine.”

The soldier glanced at Billy and Harry. “What fort you boys at?”

“Dupont,” said Harry. “Garrison duty on the Potomac. Been here over a month now, but we're finally moving out. You were at Antietam?”

“Yep. My first engagement.” He glanced down at his stump, and sighed deeply. “Took a minié ball right through her. Still, I reckon I'm one of the lucky ones.” He paused, nodded his head toward the Rotunda. “At least I'll be going home.”

Isabella frowned and gently scolded the soldier. “Hush with that talk, Reuben. These boys got a long road ahead.”

“Are there many wounded in the Rotunda, ma'am?” asked Harry.

“More dying than wounded,” answered Reuben instead.

Billy turned to stare at the Rotunda, curious about what lay inside its granite walls.

“It's a terrible sight in there, boys,” said Isabella.

Reuben shook his lowered head. “Make no mistake, there's a devil out there for sure. And it's hell you'll find on that battlefield.”

Isabella smoothed his matted hair.

“There's no mercy. I'm a God-fearin' man, but I was merciless out there, too—all of us—nothing but damned savages on that field. And the blood everywhere; oh Lord, so much blood.”

Turning her back to Billy and Harry, Isabella placed her arm around Reuben and held his head gently against her as he wept inconsolably. She glanced back at the boys. “You best be going now—Godspeed, my Maine boys.”

Without a word, Billy sped off toward the Rotunda, climbing the wide stairs two at a time, stopping only when he'd reached the top. Harry's footsteps clattered behind him. Inside, they stood in silence, staring at the bright paintings that covered the high white walls in the Grand Hallway. The air was putrid.

“Smells like a rotting deer carcass in here,” said Harry.

Slowly they walked into the round hall. Billy grabbed Harry's arm, sucking in his breath at the horrific scene on the marble floor. Men lay crushed against one another, their battered bodies filling the room, their moans echoing off the walls.

“Ain't even got pillows,” Billy whispered. “Just lyin' there in their bloody uniforms.”

Billy watched in stunned silence as women in soiled dresses tended to the wounded and dying; everywhere he looked he saw mangled bodies, torn flesh, and sorrowful faces. Behind him, someone moaned and begged for water. He turned and stared shyly at the soldier. A fair-haired woman, carrying a pan of water, dressings tucked under her arm, nudged Billy's shoulder. She was clearly in a hurry.

“Please give that man some water,” she said. “Use your canteen.”

Billy dropped to his knees. Deep blue eyes stared at him through charred skin; pus oozed across the soldier's nose and face. The hair on half of his scalp was singed. Pulling his canteen off his shoulder, Billy placed his hand gently under the man's shoulder and raised his head, careful not to touch the blood-soaked bandage around his neck. He held the canteen to the man's mouth, letting only a trickle of water touch the blackened lips. The soldier drank, raised his eyelids, blinked, and closed his eyes. Billy cradled his head and shoulders for several moments. Then he loosened the buttons on the soldier's jacket. With his face so damaged, it was hard to tell how old the soldier was.

“What you thinkin' happened to him?” Billy asked as he glanced up and saw Harry standing behind him.

“Gunpowder; blast from a projectile, most like. Burned him good. Poor fella.”

Easing the man's head gently onto his rolled coat, Billy took a deep breath and sat down on the floor. He looked around at the other wounded, unsure of what to do, when a soldier raised his arm and motioned to him. Billy went to him.

“I'm Billy,” he said, leaning over and smiling at the soldier who looked near his own age. Sweat trickled down the young
man's brow. Instinctively, Billy leaned over and pushed the damp, matted hair away from the soldier's forehead.

“Davey. One Hundred and Eighteenth Pennsylvania. Am I gonna die?”

Billy turned his head, hoping Harry was behind him. He would know what to say. But Harry was already down another row. Billy turned nervously back to the young soldier, wondering how to answer his question.

“Am I?” Davey asked again. Billy lifted the man's jacket and stared at the blood-soaked dressing wrapped tightly around his waist. He worried that the man would die.

“Reverend Snow says God calls us home.”

“Well, God's about ready to call me, I reckon. You know any prayers?”

“Some.”

“Say one for me—will you?”

Billy ran his fingers through his hair. He took a deep breath. “I-I-I don't rightly know—”

Davey coughed. “Anything, please.”

“Ma reads me one from the Bible. About the Lord being our shepherd.” He ran the lines through his mind and then spoke. “I shall not want. And he lies me down in green pastures—leads me beside waters …”

Weakly, Davey joined in. “Though I walk through the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil …”

“Thou is with you or—or—guess I ain't rememberin' much else. Right sorry.”

“You done just fine. Thanks.”

“Reverend Snow says the Lord hears our prayers no matter what.” Billy wished he had something to give the soldier. He patted his hand against his pockets. Empty. Suddenly he
remembered his knapsack, yanked it off his shoulder, and looked inside. There it was.

“I whittled this here.” Lifting it from the knapsack he placed the carved piece under Davey's trembling hand. “I'm wantin' you to have this, Davey.”

The young soldier fingered the carving, raised it slowly in front of his face. “Thanks. It's real nice.” He winced in pain. “And thanks for the prayer.”

“No matter.” Billy sat beside Davey until the young soldier closed his eyes. Finally he stood, hesitating briefly; hoping Davey was only asleep, he moved on. He found other wounded men, eager to talk, and for a long while he busied himself up and down the rows, meeting a farmer from New York who had lost an arm, a carpenter from Brunswick, Maine, and a blacksmith from Pennsylvania, a burly man with thick shoulders who had taken a bayonet in his side. Billy started to tell the blacksmith about the horse that had spooked from the howitzers when he felt a light tap on his shoulder.

“Time to move out,” Harry said quietly.

Reluctantly Billy nodded good-bye, got to his feet, and followed Harry across the floor. He wished he could stay longer. It surprised him how much he liked talking to the soldiers. It didn't seem to matter that he couldn't remember a whole prayer or have much smart to say to them. Just that he was there.

“You done good in there,” said Harry as they stepped out into the sunshine. You soothed them soldiers down like you done with the mare. You done real good.”

Chapter 8

T
he 17th Regiment marched into the grassy lowland. “We're in Virginia now—enemy soil,” Leighton said as Billy stepped beside him. “We just might be shootin' Rebs before this day is out.”

“Not unless they're bivouacking with us,” said Harry, suddenly appearing in front of them. “Sergeant says we're camping here for the night.”

“In this bog?” Leighton moaned.

“We ain't marched but a mile outta Washington,” said Charlie.

Billy dropped his heavy pack and looked around. It was a dismal area teeming with mosquitoes.

“We're gonna be fightin' all right,” Leighton said as he flapped his blanket at the air.

Like the others, Billy slept fitfully in the heat, buried beneath his blanket as mosquitoes swarmed and buzzed throughout the night. At roll call the next morning the sergeant said they were marching eighteen miles to Ball's Crossroads, the 3rd Brigade's encampment.

By late morning the heat was unbearable. Struggling under the heavy weight of his pack, sweat ran down Billy's back, his legs, and into his boots, soaking the ill-fitting leather that rubbed against his heels and ankles. He watched curiously as other soldiers tossed blankets and overcoats into the ditches alongside the road to lighten their packs in the oppressive heat. Dust rose up on the trampled road, and he sneezed yellow dust and spit brown spittle from his mouth.

By the end of the day, Billy's feet were chafed and swollen, and his legs ached from the arduous march. He groaned in dismay when the corporal suddenly appeared, telling him to report to Sergeant Noyes for picket duty.

“You gonna be all right?” Harry asked. “You ain't been on night sentry before.”

Billy shrugged his shoulders and reached for his sack coat, haversack, canteen, and rifle.

“Make sure you stay awake. You know the sergeant's a real bugger.”

Sergeant Noyes issued Billy twenty rounds of ammunition and repeated the picket instructions as he escorted him to the guard post, an open knoll overlooking the crossroads. “You'll be relieved in four hours, Private Laird. Any questions?” he asked.

“No, Sergeant.”

“Stay alert. We're on Reb soil now.”

The moon was almost full, casting a faint light over the hilltop. Billy listened carefully, trying to separate familiar night noises from anything unusual. Fighting exhaustion from the long march, he stifled a yawn. He blinked several times; his head felt heavy. Soon, his chin fell to his chest. Suddenly he jerked his head upright. Harry's warning echoed in his ears. He needed something to help him stay awake. He ran his hand over his mouth, trying to remember all of the sergeant's instructions.

Walk the perimeter! Check everything!

Grabbing his rifle, Billy walked along the crest and down the slope to the crossroads, wincing as his boots rubbed his blistered feet raw. He walked a short distance down one of the lanes, stopped, and listened for faint stirrings in the surrounding woods. Hearing nothing, he turned and headed down the other road before working his way back up the hillside.
Weariness tore at him, and he gazed across the hilltop. A stand of birch glistened white in the moonlight.

He was curious about birch, wondering if the pale-colored wood carved easily, if it would be soft, like pine. He hurried across the clearing. Leaning his musket against one of the trunks, he broke off a small limb, sat down on the ground, and pulling his knife from his haversack, began peeling the thin white bark, careful not to nick or gouge the naked wood. He decided he'd whittle Daisy, his nineteen-year-old mare, born when Billy was but two months old. Maybe he could send the carving home, surprise his folks. He imagined them opening the package and seeing Daisy all carved from wood. No longer sleepy, Billy ran his hands along the smooth birch and cut into the wood, grateful for the moonlight over his shoulder.

“Private Laird!” Sergeant Noyes loomed out of the darkness.

Billy jumped up from the ground, clutching the half-carved wood and his knife. “Sergeant—”

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Whittlin' is all.”

“Where's your musket?”

Billy scanned the ground around him. The musket still lay against the trunk of a birch, well out of reach. Sergeant Noyes pushed his face close, his jaw jutting out from his neck. “What kind of whittlin' do you think the Rebs will do to a Yankee soldier?”

Billy took a deep breath and lowered his head.

“They'll whittle a bayonet right through your heart! And with our picket killed, well, Rebs might as well walk into the bivouac and slaughter us all! What the hell do you think picket duty is for, Private?”

“Things was quiet,” Billy said meekly.

Sergeant Noyes shook his head. “Private, when we reach our next encampment you'll be confined to your tent. I intend to have you court-martialed for violating the rules of picket. Now get back to your post until I return. And it ain't under this damn tree!”

“Yes, sir.” The sergeant's words terrified Billy. He knew from Harry that a court-martial meant you had done something the army didn't like.