Free Billy Boy by Jean Mary Flahive

ma’am?” asked Harry.
    â€œMore dying than wounded,” answered Reuben instead.
    Billy turned to stare at the Rotunda, curious about what lay inside its granite walls.
    â€œIt’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.
    â€œThere’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.
    â€œSmells 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.
    â€œAin’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.
    â€œPlease 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.
    â€œWhat you thinkin’ happened to him?” Billy asked as he glanced up and saw Harry standing behind him.
    â€œGunpowder; 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.
    â€œI’m Billy,” he said, leaning over and smiling at the soldier who looked near his own age. Sweat trickled down the youngman’s brow. Instinctively, Billy leaned over and pushed the damp, matted hair away from the soldier’s forehead.
    â€œDavey. 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.
    â€œAm I?” Davey asked again. Billy lifted the man’s jacket and stared at the blood-soaked dressing wrapped tightly around his waist. He