Authors: Jean Mary Flahive
Billy Boy
B
ILLY
BOY
T
HE
S
UNDAY
S
OLDIER OF
THE
17
TH
M
AINE
Jean Mary Flahive
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B
ILLY
BOY
T
HE
S
UNDAY
S
OLDIER OF
THE
17
TH
M
AINE
Jean Mary Flahive
Y
ARMOUTH
   â¢Â   M
AINE
Islandport Press
P.O. Box 10
Yarmouth, Maine 04096
207.846.3344
Copyright ©2007 by Jean Mary Flahive
Islandport Press edition September 2007, October 2013
ISBN: 978-1-939017-28-4
Library of Congress Card Number: 2007934609
Book cover design by Karen F. Hoots, Hoots Design
Book design by Michelle A. Lunt, Islandport Press, Inc.
To Billy Laird
who sleeps beside the Little River
and to Bill
for finding him
Sunday Soldier
(Civil War slang for a soldier of little merit)
A sudden death, a striking call
A warning voiceâwhich speaks to all
To all to be prepared to die,
And meet our God who dwells on high
To meet our friends now gone before
â
Epitaph on the gravestone of William H. Laird
Contents
Acknowledgments
I first want to thank the handful of strangers who answered my queries and helped enormously with the many technical questions I asked about life in 1862: the National Railroad Historical Society folks for their information on the rail lines and stations; the Sandy Spring Museum staff in Sandy Spring, Maryland, for providing a historic glimpse of their community and the early Quaker settlers, also referenced in the Chronicles of Sandy Spring Friends Meeting and Environs; the director of reference services, Maryland State Archives; Maine State Archives, the archivists at the National Archives and Records Administration; and the William Still Foundation, particularly descendants Derrick and Clem, for giving me insight into their remarkable ancestor, William Still, and whose book,
The Underground Railroad
, was the source for Elijah's interview.
A very special thanks to David Madden, novelist and Louisiana State University professor, for believing in me when I needed it most; Emily Staat, David's assistant; Betsy Dorr for her insight on people with developmental disabilities; Jean Wilhelm, retired Goucher College professor, for her unflagging support; my literary mentor, Nancy Heiser, who read my first draft and inspired me to continue; Elizabeth Pierson, for her excellent copy editing of a very messy manuscript; Laurel Robinson, copy editor on a later draft; Fathers John Phelps and Paul Sullivan, my “Reverends Snow”; Pauli Caruncho, for cheering me on; Robert Stillings of Berwick for helping me research the historical facts and taking me to William Laird's grave; Robert's late brother Richard Stillings, who chronicled
the veterans of Berwick, Maine; my sister, Judith Thyng, for painstakingly reading my early drafts, page by page; my stepson Billy and the late J.D. Ferguson, for helping me choose the title of this book; to my loving, supportive husband Bill, who, upon hearing about William Laird, knew he had found the story that would become my first book; and finally, to my late mother, Mary, whose spirit was in every word.
To the good people of Berwick, Maine: I have taken liberties beyond what we know of the facts about William Laird. I hope you will accept this story as just that.
Prologue
July 13, 1863
P
resident Lincoln escorted the young mother and her child into the Grand Hallway, politely bade them farewell, and then beckoned John Nicolay to follow him into the Oval Office, smiling as he watched his loyal secretary leap from his swivel chair and scoop several papers into his hand.
“Nicolay,” said Lincoln as he riffled through the mass of papers scattered on his desk, “I was reading some correspondence before the last visitor arrived. There was another letter from a mother asking for a pardon for her son. Oh, yes, here it is.”
Picking up the letter, Lincoln placed his short-shanked gold spectacles low on his nose and began reading. “The lad is only twenty. From her description of him, he sounds quite ingenuous, simpleminded. Hmmm ⦔
Lincoln finished the letter in silence, folded it, and looked at his secretary. “His name is Billy Laird. A private in the Seventeenth Maine Regiment. The mother says he mustered to be with his friends, without a sense of what he was doing.”
Nicolay dropped his handful of papers onto the president's desk and leafed meticulously through the stack, carefully pulling out a half-torn sheet. “And that is echoed by one of the private's friends, Corporal Harry Warren,” said Nicolay. “His passionate plea caught my attention. I took the liberty of checking with the War Department about Warren's record. From the regiment reports, he received a promotion on May 8,
1863, as well as the Kearney Medal of Honor following his acts of valor at Chancellorsville.”
“Tell me more of what you learned about this soldier, this friend of Billy Laird,” said Lincoln as he leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and rested his forearms on his chest.
“Apparently when the Federals were pulling back under heavy fire, a shell exploded beneath a caisson, wounding several men. There was heavy cross fire of artillery and musketry up and down the plank road, but Warren ran to the caisson and dragged the wounded to cover, firing and reloading each of their muskets.”
Lincoln lowered his head and sighed. “Undaunted bravery,” he said in a low tone. “You have this letter from Warren?”
Nicolay held the torn paper in his hand and cleared his throat. “It is dated June twenty-third, 1863.
Dear President Lincoln:
I'm a soldier who's honored to serve in the Army of the Potomac. I don't know if I've a right to ask you this, sir, but I hear talk that you sometimes pardon a soldier who has violated the Articles of War. Well, Mr. President, my friend, Private Billy Laird, is facing a court-martial back in Maine for desertion. My superior officer said that Billy is almost certain to face a firing squad.
Mr. President, Billy Laird never belonged in this great army. I've known Billy most all my life and I'm going to be plain honest with you about him: Billy never learned to read or write or understand even the simplest things, like playing checkers. I know he only mustered in the army to be with me, most likely because I've always watched out for him, protected him. Now, what he has done falls heavy on my shoulders. In my heart I believe that Billy would still be at my side, carrying his
musket, had he not been sent to another unit.
Mr. President, if God permitted, I would change places with my friend. But failing that, I pledge to fight under our flag as if two souls breathed in me. His picket duty is my duty. His musket is my musket. He stands before the enemy as I stand.
Billy is no stranger to battle. He's struggled his whole life to be like the rest of us, and he just can't understand why God chose him to be different. But I believe God also chose me to watch over Billy and to fight his battles. And in that, I will not fail my friend, or you, Mr. President.
Your humble servant,
Corporal Harry Warren
17th Regiment, Company G, Maine Volunteers
Deep lines cut across Lincoln's brow, and a heavy sadness fell across his face. He raised himself slowly from his chair and pushed it aside with his foot. Hands fisted behind his back, he walked to the long-paned window, gazing out at the summer garden. He spoke haltingly in a near whisper.
“Sleep eludes me on many nights, Nicolay. In my mind's eye I see so many boysâyoung boys, lying dead or wounded in trampled fields stained red with blood. I hear their mournful wails and I bear a mother's agony. I am haunted by such images ⦔
Lincoln stared silently for several moments and slowly turned back to his desk, glancing at Nicolay and the letter he held in his hand.
“It seems by his valiant actions our young corporal honors his pledge.” Lincoln paused and looked over his spectacles. “There are mitigating circumstances here, and I find no justice served in executing Billy Laird. What do we know of his trial?”
“The War Department reports he was tried over a week ago and found guilty. He's being held at Fort Preble in Maine and is to be executed in three days' time, on July fifteenth,” said Nicolay.
With a shake of his head and a sigh, Lincoln said, “Then we must move quickly. Have the commander of Fort Preble telegraphed at once.”
He reached into a pigeonhole in his desk and withdrew a slip of paper. Dipping his pen in the inkwell, he scratched several lines and handed the note to his secretary. “Take this to the War Department. It should be enough to grant a pardon on such short notice.”
“A compassionate act, Mr. President.”