Gabriel's Journey (3 page)

I hop from the seat and yank my bundle from the wagon bed, leaving the empty basket as meager payment. “Much obliged for the ride, Mister Pie—and for your company.” Tossing my bundle over my shoulder, I head south on the Pike wishing I'd had more time to set Mister Pie straight about this war.

I keep up a brisk pace. The road is empty. Not a sign of life except a few crows picking in the cornfield beyond a stone fence. As I walk, I sing “Sweet Lorena” to chase away the silence. But the song is Savannah's favorite, and it reminds me how much I miss those horses. I switch to a hymn instead. My singing startles the crows and they flap toward the sky. I hope the black birds circling over my head ain't bad omens. I'm uneasy enough about this journey.

My innards grumble and I eye the drying ears of corn. It's field corn for livestock, I know, but it's long after noon mealtime and right now my stomach ain't particular.

I glance up and down the road, making sure I'm alone. Reaching far over the stone fence, I grab an ear and twist it from the stalk. Then I hunker behind some brush where I can't be seen from the road.

I strip away the husk. The orange-yellow kernels are as hard as acorns in the shell, but I chew a few to a pulp, swallow, and start on a second row. Soon the rumbling quiets in my insides. I'm wishing for a plate of Cook Nancy's cornbread when I hear rustling in the stalks behind me.

My jaw stops in mid-chew.

Dry leaves crackle. A stalk snaps.
Someone's stomping through that corn.

I stare guiltily at the half-eaten cob in my hand. Thieves have been hanged for less!

Q
uickly, I toss the ear of corn over my shoulder. Someone hollers, “Ow!” It's a holler I've heard many times before. I rise from my hiding place and peer over the stone fence. Between the leaves I spy striped taffeta.

A gloved hand pushes a stalk aside and a girl steps from the rows. Her straw hat is askew and corn mold dusts her chin.

“Annabelle? Is that you?”

“It is, Gabriel,” she replies. Her chin is tipped up defiantly despite the sweat trickling down her cheeks and the hair straggling from under her crooked hat brim.

My mouth falls slack. I'd expected to see a riled-up farmer or a vagrant, not a girl in a taffeta skirt. “What are you doing here in a cornfield, dressed for tea?”

“Hush your teasing and help me over this fence.”

Grasping Annabelle's hand, I tug her to the top of the stone wall. She's wearing layers of fabric over petticoats, and the whole affair billows in my face, threatening to smother me. I'm astounded she isn't wrestling a parasol through the corn, too. She teeters a moment atop the fence, then jumps to the ground, falling against my chest. Heat creeps up my neck.

We spring apart, and I notice her cheeks are as flushed as mine. “Thank you,” she says breathlessly as she rights her straw hat. Black-eyed Susans poke from the hatband, as if she'd had time to dally by the wayside and pick them.

“I'd be much obliged if you'd retrieve my belongings.” She waves toward the cornfield, and I see a basket, a valise, and a
parasol
on the ground between two rows.

I hesitate. I want to be gallant, but I know how corn leaves tear at your skin. Since Annabelle is garbed from head to toe, she escaped most of their slashes. My arms and feet are bare.

“The basket's packed with honey, bread, and rabbit pie,” Annabelle says sweetly.

In two shakes I'm over that fence and back, not minding the scratches on my arms. I hand her the parasol and hustle down the pike to a shady tree, carrying the basket and valise. Annabelle takes her time catching up with me. She removes a small quilt from the basket and spreads it out like we're having a noon picnic. She sinks onto the quilt and arranges her skirts in a ladylike manner. After tugging the purse strings from her wrist and carefully pulling off her gloves, she opens the basket and sets out the food.

I kneel next to her, drooling at the sight of Cook Nancy's bread and pie, their crusts flaky and golden. Annabelle's quiet as she rips off a chunk of bread and dribbles honey on it. I'm bursting to find out why she was hiding in a cornfield beside the road to Camp Nelson, but I gather she'll tell her tale when we're both fed.

She hands the bread to me. “Ladies first,” I say despite my hunger.

“Please take it,” she says softly. I hear a catch in her voice, as if she's holding back tears.

Leaning on one elbow, I gobble the bread, my gaze on Annabelle. She keeps her head lowered as she honeys some bread for herself. She takes tiny bites while I wolf down a second slice.

Finally Annabelle dabs her lips with a linen napkin. “I suppose you're wondering why I'm here. And rest assured it is
not
because I missed you.”

I raise my eyes to the heavens. “Thank the Lord.”

She looks up sharply. When she sees I'm grinning, she hurls a wooden spoon, which I dodge. “You should thank the Lord I came along, Gabriel, since it appears you were near to starving.” She serves me rabbit pie on a tin plate. “Go on. I ate a roasted potato while I walked.”

I pick up the wooden spoon and dig in. “If you didn't follow me, how'd you know the way?” I ask between chews.

Her nostrils flare. “I can read road signs and maps, of course.”

“Then how'd you get lost and end up in a cornfield?”

“I wasn't
lost.”
Even when Annabelle frowns, she's rose-garden pretty. “I was being careful. At the crossroads, I spied two white men approaching from the north. They were still off quite a distance, but I felt uneasy. A girl traveling alone can't be too cautious.” She trails her fingers down her skirt. “I wore one of Mistress Jane's outfits, hoping that dressing like a lady would keep menfolk respectful. As the men drew nearer, though, I grew faint of heart and ducked into the cornfield.”

I eat slowly, entranced by her story.

Her voice quivers. “I kept one eye on the stone fence as I headed south, hoping I wouldn't lose my way. But those jagged cornstalks dragged at me like claws, and the roots grabbed at my feet. My limbs and my courage were about to give out when I heard you singing ‘Sweet Lorena'.” She presses one palm against her bodice. “Oh, Gabriel, you have no idea how glad I was to see you.”

I redden, flustered by her declaration. “How'd you catch up to me so fast?”

“Fast? That peddler's cart you were traveling in was moving as slow as a turtle in a strawberry patch.”

“Some would say you were a dad-burned fool to set out alone, but I think you were brave. That still don't explain why you followed me.”

“Who says I followed you?” Annabelle busies herself with tidying up. “I'm traveling to Camp Nelson as well.”

“To visit?”

“To stay.”

“But I thought you were happy being Mister Giles's secretary.”

“I was, but I realized as long as I live in that house, I'll never feel free.”

I shake my head. “Annabelle, it took me more than a fortnight to decide to leave. You made up your mind in a finger snap.”

“So?” she huffs.

I know by her tone that it ain't no use arguing my point. Instead, I stuff the last of the rabbit pie into my mouth and belch heartily.

“Gabriel! Such un-gentlemanly behavior. Excuse yourself.”

“I won't. And stop bein' bossy on me, Annabelle. Just 'cause you're
dressed
like Mistress don't mean you
are
one.” I boldly reach out and flick a bread crumb off her bottom lip.

She slaps my hand away. “Of all the impertinence!”

“Don't know what that word means and don't care.” I jump to my feet. “But if we're traveling together, you need to stop being so high and mighty. 'Sides, at Camp Nelson, all coloreds are equal.”

“We'll see about that.” She starts packing bread and pie back in the basket, her mouth pressed in a line.

“What's that mean, ‘we'll see'?”

She pats the purse in her lap. “It means
I
have a letter from Mister Giles addressed to Brigadier General Speed S. Fry respectfully recommending that the Union army employ me as a secretary.”

I stare at her in disbelief. Mister Giles would never give her such a letter, let alone allow her to travel on her own.

“You doubt me?” she challenges.

“I do.” Bending forward, I snatch up her purse and loosen the strings. Ladylike no longer, she squeals like a poked pig and lunges for it, knocking me flat.

I scrabble backwards, pull the letter from the purse, and unfold it. I may not be as smart as Annabelle when it comes to reading, but I've seen Mister Giles's writing enough to recognize it ain't his signature at the bottom. “You forged this letter
and
his name. That's a federal offense.”

“Only if the authorities catch me.” Plucking the letter from my grasp, she tucks it into her purse and draws tight the strings. “Besides, as Mister Giles's
secretary
I've been writing and signing all his letters.”

“Did you forge your free papers, too?” I ask.

She shakes her head as she slips her gloves back on. “I went to the courthouse with Mister Giles for that.” Rising primly, she ruffles her skirt and adjusts her hat. “Now we'd best be on our way,” she says, and pops opens the parasol.

Annabelle sashays off, basket in one hand, frilled parasol in the other. Dumbfounded, I stare after her. I can't fathom if she's courageous or downright foolhardy. Annabelle knows nothing of Camp Nelson, but from my prior visits I can say for sure that the place ain't for a lady, especially one with black skin. Ma's got Pa, and even she is living in a tent and washing soldiers' underdrawers.

With a shake of my head, I stand and pick up Annabelle's valise and my bundle. Raucous cawing comes from overhead. Four crows have gathered in the tree boughs. They peer down at me, silhouetted against the sky like haunts.

I've heard tell that crows are harbingers of death.

I start after Annabelle, my mind awhirl. What awaits her at the end of this journey, I don't know, but I say a silent prayer that she won't regret her decision.

As we travel south, the bright sun chases away the thoughts of haunts. Having Annabelle along slows our traveling. Every mile she stops to pry pebbles from her shoes and slap dust off her skirt. Still she joins in when I sing “Camptown Races” and listens eagerly to my stories of Saratoga. I'm glad for her company.

The sun is dropping behind the trees when we finally come upon the first of the many refugee camps that dot the roadsides before the entryway into Camp Nelson. Annabelle has never heard of refugees, so I explain that these are slave women and families who followed their husbands or fathers to Camp Nelson, or who were thrown off their masters' farms. I warn Annabelle about the stick-skinny black children, and when a horde of them clusters around us, grabbing at Annabelle's skirts, purse, and valise, she tries not to shrink against me.

I've learned some tricks from my other trips to the camp. Pulling pennies from my pocket, I toss them into the grass and weeds. The children scatter like chickens after corn, and we hurry past the shanties and makeshift tents. A bone-weary black lady stooped over an iron pot calls to me, “Boy, are you entering Camp Nelson?”

“Yes ma'am,” I reply.

Dropping her wooden spoon, the woman hastens over. She clasps her fingers around my arm and begs me to find her man, Private John Barrett. “Tell him baby Ellen has died of the fever,” she says.

A dozen more women quickly gather round me and Annabelle. Their homespun dresses are threadbare, their cheeks are hollow, and there's desperation in their eyes as they implore us to take word to recruits, laborers, and soldiers inside the camp. Annabelle repeats names, trying to remember them. But I notice that the women direct their urgent messages at me and cast suspicious glances at Annabelle.

When we finally break away from them, Annabelle is breathing hard. She presses a handkerchief to her mouth as we hurry the last few yards toward the entrance.

“Gabriel,” she whispers from behind the white lace hanky, “I've never seen such dirt and hunger and sadness. I tried to be polite and helpful, but no one would even grace me with a look!”

“Perhaps they've never seen a colored girl wearing taffeta and carrying a parasol,” I say, my voice low, too. “Nor heard one who speaks like a white lady.”

Halting in her tracks, Annabelle stares at me. “Am I so different?”

I curse my tongue. No matter what I reply, it will not suit Annabelle. To my relief I'm spared further questions by the approach of a guard in Union blue.

“State your business,” he says, his young face grave beneath the brim of his forage cap.

I pull a telegraph from my bundle. “I'm here on orders from Captain Waite. I'm to work with the colored cavalry.” I try to sound official, but my knees knock. Mister Giles personally telegraphed Captain Waite, who telegraphed this message in reply. The two became acquainted when Captain Waite's white company of soldiers helped saved Woodville Farm from One Arm and his raiders. But what if this picket doesn't let me in?

He passes the telegraph back to me. “You'll bunk in the tents of the colored cavalry,” he snaps, “on the hill behind the colored barracks.”

I exhale in relief.

Giving him a pert smile, Annabelle hands him her letter. “And I am here to meet with Brigadier General Speed S. Fry.”

He skims the letter, then hands it back to her with a dismissive snort. “The brigadier general doesn't need a secretary.”

“Oh, but I write letters in the finest hand,” Annabelle explains.

“Except it's a
colored
hand,” he says curtly. “Brigadier General Fry is plagued with Negro women sneaking in to camp. He sure ain't going to invite one in. Even a
lady,”
he adds with a smirk, “who's wearing fancy clothes—likely stolen from her mistress.” He jerks his thumb toward the refugee shanties. “Be on your way.”

Annabelle opens her mouth to protest, only for once, she's speechless.

A commotion causes all three of us to look toward the entrance. A cluster of black women, tied together with ropes around their waists, is being herded from the camp. Union soldiers flank them. When one woman stumbles, a soldier prods her with his rifle butt. “Quit stalling,” he snarls. “Mister Wilkes will be here any minute to fetch you.”

Just then, an open-bed wagon rattles down the pike from the direction of Lexington. A ruddy-faced man with a clipped beard and derby hat is driving the team, cracking a whip over the horses. I hear sobs from the women and one cries out, “Lord save us!”

The wagon thunders toward us. Grabbing Annabelle's elbow, I swing her out of the way. Her parasol slips from her grasp, and the wheels crush it flat.

“Whoa!” The man saws on the horses' bits with the reins until the animals halt in front of the soldiers and women.

“Gabriel, what's happening?” Annabelle asks.

I shush her with a finger in front of my mouth. The unfolding scene reminds me of the first time I visited Camp Nelson. That day, slaves were marching into camp as recruits, and masters were demanding that they be returned. There was a heap of confusion. If this turns into a ruckus, too, I aim to take advantage.

“Thank you, Lieutenant Sawyer, for securing my property,” the man tells one of the soldiers. “They all belong to me. Load 'em up.”