Free Billy Boy by Jean Mary Flahive Page B

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.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œMake 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.
    â€œNo, Sergeant.”
    â€œStay 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.
    â€œPrivate Laird!” Sergeant Noyes loomed out of the darkness.
    Billy jumped up from the ground, clutching the half-carved wood and his knife. “Sergeant—”
    â€œWhat the hell are you doing?”
    â€œWhittlin’ is all.”
    â€œWhere’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.
    â€œThey’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?”
    â€œThings 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!”
    â€œYes, sir.” The sergeant’s words terrified Billy. He knew from Harry that