Gabriel's Journey (6 page)

We walk outside, where he shows me the wheelbarrow and manure wagon. A wooden ramp slants from the ground to the wagon's end gate. “Don't fill your barrow too full or you won't get it up that ramp. Now, I got one more order.” He stoops to whisper in my ear. “There's a plate of syrup-soaked cornbread hidden on top of a trunk in the saddle room, so eat up. Soldier works harder on a full belly.” He winks. “Just don't tell your pa.”

Private Black will be a good friend,
I think when he leaves. As I pick up those wheelbarrow handles, I hear shouting on the other side of the barn. A number of saddled horses are walking two by two in the fenced area in the center of the four stables. A soldier holds the reins of each horse. I see Corporal Vaughn standing slightly apart. Pa's in the front of the arena, mounted on a handsome chestnut. I immediately recognize Hero, Mister Giles's Kentucky Saddler that he gave to Pa in thanks for saving his Thoroughbreds.

“Attention!” Pa shouts. “Stand to horse!”

Instantly, the soldiers line those horses into rows. They stand smart on the left side, right hands holding both reins below the horses' muzzles, and stare straight ahead.

All because of a command from my pa.

Pride fills my heart. I lower the wheelbarrow. Raising one stiff hand to my forehead, I salute him.

F
ive days later finds me still mucking stalls. It's evening, and the horses are in the lots. The stable's quiet as I run the last wheelbarrow full of manure up the ramp as fast as I can. It wobbles unsteadily, tips, and despite my straining, the wheelbarrow pitches into the wagon bed, along with the manure.

I curse the wheelbarrow, curse the army, curse the maggoty bread and rotten salt pork they give us to eat, and most of all, I curse the dirty stalls.

Worn out, I slump on the top of the ramp and bury my head in my arms. Pa ain't let up. Sixteen stalls a day for five days adds up to . . . ? I search my mind, but can't find the sum. To think, it wasn't so long ago that Annabelle and me were counting up my purse winnings—over two hundred dollars, which Mister Giles put in a bank for me.

Thoughts of Annabelle make me wonder what she's doing. I ain't seen her or Ma since I left them that first day. Every night I'm so weary I drop like a feed sack into my straw bed. Perhaps a few days of washing dirty linens sent her scurrying back to Woodville Farm without a goodbye, and I won't ever see her again.

Sorry burns my eyes. The only high point these past days has been grooming Champion. The stallion should be winning races, not locked in a stall day and night. I don't officially have permission, but when I'm alone in the barn late, I slip into his stall. Humming, I brush that horse until his coat shines. I'm sorely tempted to leap on him one night and gallop him in the moonlight. But I reckon that would get me kicked out of Camp Nelson for sure.

“Gabriel? Is that
you?”
a voice calls from the bottom of the ramp.

I jerk my head from my arms. Annabelle's staring up at me, her lips parted in astonishment. I scramble to my feet, slip on the manure-slick wood, and topple head over heels to the bottom of the ramp.

“Oh! Are you all right?” Annabelle's all sympathy as she helps me to my feet. But then she wrinkles her nose and fans her face with her gloved hand. “Have you been bathing in horse droppings?”

“Ain't been bathing at all,” I reply crossly, mortified that Annabelle found me a filthy stable boy instead of a proud soldier. Frowning, I pick up my kepi and whap it against my leg to shake off the dirt. “I thought you'd be long gone from here.”

“Why, no!” Annabelle exclaims. “Why would you think that?”

I shrug, noticing that instead of being beaten down by scrubbing, she's bright-eyed and sweet smelling. Her hair's fashionably rolled in a bun and covered with netting; her faded calico's draped with a comely shawl. Only her dingy gloves suggest she's been working.

“Indeed, I'm having the most exhilarating time!” she declares. Waltzing back and forth beside the wagon, she gushes on and on about the camp “being splendid,” as if we're conversing in a parlor instead of a stable yard.

“Annabelle,” I interrupt, my voice low, “it ain't proper for a lady to be sashaying around the stables unescorted.”

“For your information, I have
two
chaperones,” she huffs, pointing a gloved finger over my shoulder.

I turn around. Pa and Ma are strolling beside the fence enclosing the horse paddocks, their arms linked as if they're courting.

“And your pa's your superior, so you better mind your manners,” she teases, before switching the subject. “Have you met Reverend Fee? He's been running Camp Nelson School for Colored Soldiers. He's helping me establish a school in the tent city where your ma and I live.” Annabelle swings to face me, her eyes glowing. “Gabriel, every day I get to teach! Not in a real schoolhouse, mind you, but in a tent just for learning. Reverend Fee has provided benches, and he's procuring books and tablets. Oh, he's a man of unlimited ambition! He's talking about building a government camp for the soldiers' families, too. Reverend Fee has such heavenly ideas that I believe he may be a saint!”

I fold my arms against my chest, listening with a doubtful and jealous heart.

Annabelle keeps bragging on and on about Reverend Fee. Finally she stops pacing. She turns to me coquettishly. “And how have you fared the past five days? Your ma and I hoped you would visit us.”

My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. I'd love to lie and tell Annabelle I'm too busy fighting Rebels to have tea in her tent. But I've never been a liar, and I ain't going to start now. 'Sides, Annabelle can clearly tell by my shabby britches—the same ones I was wearing when we arrived—that I ain't no soldier.

Still, I don't have to let on that I'm nothing but a muckworm. Setting the kepi on my head, I adjust it at a rakish angle. “I'm the stable hand for Pa's squad,” I tell her. “I help care for their horses, so I ain't had time for social visits.” I want to puff myself up even more, but I'm too yellow.

“My, that sounds like a lot of responsibility.” Annabelle says, and I'm surprised there's no mockery in her voice.

“I can show you the stable,” I venture, doubting she'll accept. I can count on one hand the number of times Annabelle visited the barn at Woodville Farm.

She smiles. “I'd like that.”

“The horses ain't as grand as Mister Giles's Thoroughbreds.” As we walk down the aisle, I shy away from her, since I'm grimy from head to toe. But when we reach Champion's stall, she moves so close that her skirts brush my toes.

“Except for Captain Waite's mount, Champion, who appears h-highly bred,” I stutter.

She peers through the bars. “Oh, he is so handsome!”

“As handsome as your Reverend Fee?” I blurt out the words before I can stop myself.

She slants her eyes at me, a smile playing across her lips. “Why Gabriel Alexander, I do believe I note a hint of jealousy in your voice.”

My cheeks flame beneath the smudges of manure. “That's because he's all you've talked of so far!”

“Or perhaps his name was all you heard,” she murmurs. “I also spoke about teaching. Every day my thoughts get stronger on the matter,” she continues. “You
soldiers
may believe that fighting and killing are the way to freedom. But I believe reading and writing are more powerful. That's why white folk don't allow us to be taught. They're afraid that if coloreds are educated, we'll refuse to be kept as slaves.”

I stare at Annabelle, speechless. She has no idea of the importance of the soldiers she mocks, and yet I can't find the words to argue. Why does she always render me mute like this?

Fortunately, Champion saves me from further humiliation by crashing against the door. Startled, Annabelle screams and stumbles backward, and for a moment I grasp her elbow to keep her from falling.

“My, he's rather fierce,” Annabelle declares as she backs away.

“Naw, he's a lamb,” I boast to hide my awkwardness. Mustering a dust-speck of courage, I say, “After I show you the horses, I'd like to walk you home. That way you can show me your teaching tent on the way.”

Annabelle smiles. “I'd like that, Gabriel. You know, your ma and I have missed you.
I've
missed you,” she says softly.

I stop dead in my tracks. Annabelle continues up the aisle, sashaying from one side of the aisle to the other as she peers curiously into the stalls.

I open my mouth, wanting to say that I've missed her, too. But all I can do is stare, spellbound by the tuck of her waist and the flare of her skirts as they sway with each delicate step.

The next evening I work like fury to finish those stalls. Tonight, I'm determined to see Annabelle again
and
get a glimpse of that know-it-all do-gooder Reverend Fee. Annabelle's teaching a class, and I aim to be in the first row. Not to learn, mind you, but to keep an eye on the reverend.

I've one last stall to muck, and then I'm heading to the wash tent for a bath and change of clothes. Private Black's promised me a chunk of soap and a tub of clean water, not scummy thirds.

I'm forking wet straw into the wheelbarrow so fast that I barely hear someone call my name.

“Gabriel, could you assist me?”

Without stopping my work, I glance up. Captain Waite is standing in the aisle. A saber in its scabbard hangs from his sword belt at his left side. On his right side, the grip of a revolver juts from a leather holster. Sharp spur rowels poke from the heels of his polished boots, which rise to cover his knees, and a slouch hat covers his head.

Dropping the pitchfork, I snap to attention, even though I ain't a real soldier. “Yes sir! I await your orders!”

“I need Champion tacked up, but Private Black is nowhere to be found. And I've heard enough stories from your pa to know you're right handy with a horse. He even showed me a newspaper clipping about your win in Saratoga.”

I bite back a grin, pleased that he saw my name in the paper. “I'm at your service, Captain,” I say, all thoughts of Annabelle wiped from my mind. Eager to get the job done before Private Black appears, I dash to the supply room. I know exactly where to find Champion's tack, since I oiled the Grimsley saddle this morning.

I slip the saddle from the rack and grab a clean blue blanket with a gold outline. Captain Waite has picked out a cumbersome bridle with two sets of reins and a bit with a high port and long curved shanks. I shudder at the sight of it. From all my work with Champion, I've learned two important things: The horse is smart and sensitive, and he reacts to pain with meanness. Sharp rowels and long shanks? No wonder he bucks.

Do I dare make a suggestion to the captain?

I think back to Pa's words from my first visit to Camp Nelson:
Most officers don't want advice from a colored man.
But then I remember something else Pa told me.
You've got to have a man's respect before you can teach him anything.
I glance at the captain, who's unbuckling a bridle strap. I gained Champion's trust and respect, so now I need to take another gamble. If I can win the captain's respect, I might not have to muck stalls forever.

I clear my throat. “Captain, sir. Permission to speak.”

“Permission granted.”

“I . . . um . . . it's about . . . it's just that—”

“If you have something to say, Gabriel, spit it out.”

“Yes sir. I've been grooming Champion every night, getting to know the horse. The others call him ‘Devil', but I don't agree. I might have a few ideas to help you ride—”

I cut off my words quick. Now I've done it. I've dared to suggest that an officer can't ride his own horse. I might as well join the corpses in the dead house.

Shifting his gaze from the bridle, Captain Waite says, “Go on. I'm listening.”

“Y-you don't mind?”

“What I mind is looking like a fool in front of my men because I can't handle my animal. I grew up riding iron-mouthed livery nags. I know Champion is highly bred, so—”

I don't even let him finish. “Sir, Champion don't need this fierce bit.” I pluck a different bridle with a snaffle bit off the hook. “He don't need spurs.” I glance at the rowels on his heels. “And for tonight's ride, he don't need a scabbard slapping his belly. The horse is strong and smart, but he's flighty and tender-mouthed, like many other Thoroughbreds. He needs a gentle, confident rider.”

“Well, I'll be.” Captain Waite pushes back his slouch hat. “Are you saying that all this time I've been riding him contrary to what he needs?”

“Yes sir. I mean,
no
sir. I mean, you're right. The pain is what's making the stallion buck.”

“All right then, Gabriel. I guess it's worth trying it once your way.” Captain Waite tosses the bridle with the curb on the top of a trunk. “Thank you for your horse sense.”

“Don't thank me yet, sir. Your ride will be the proof.”

“Perhaps you can join me in the paddock to guide me.”

I gather this is an order, but I'm feeling nervous again as together we stride to Champion's stall. The horse flattens his ears until he sees it's me. Then he whickers, and when I go into the stall, he snuffles my hair. The sight stops the captain in his tracks.

“By golly, if I didn't see this with my own eyes, I wouldn't believe it. You've turned this devil into a kitten.”

I fold the blanket into six thicknesses—just how Private Black taught me—place it on Champion's back, and flatten out the wrinkles. I slide it back, careful to smooth the horse's hair underneath. Then I heave up the saddle, adjust everything, and ease tight the girth. While I bridle Champion and lead him outside, the captain removes his spurs and scabbard.

It's dusk, and a few soldiers and stable hands are still working. As we stride toward a fenced paddock, Captain Waite and the stallion quickly attract attention. Several men jump from wagon seats and haymows; others swarm from the nearby barns. Hurrying over to the fence, they lean on the top board and begin swapping bets.

The captain sighs. “It seems the stories of my mishaps with this animal have spread through every unit.”

I halt Champion in the middle of the paddock and run my hand down his neck. His muscles quiver, and his eyes are white rimmed. “The horse is riled up, Captain, so it's up to you to stay calm. That'll keep him calm, too.”

“I will do my best.” Gathering the reins, Captain Waite mounts. Instantly Champion throws his head and prances sideways. I talk to the horse in a low voice until he's quiet. “He may still want to buck from habit,” I warn.

The captain leans down as if adjusting his stirrup. “I'm all ears. Got any last-minute advice on keeping my seat?”

“Just remember, this horse bucks because he's afraid of pain. So keep a soft hold on the reins and a light leg on his sides.” I think back to when Pa taught me to ride. “Use steady aids, not jerky. And don't canter. If he even thinks about bucking, sit deep and keep him moving forward.”