Gabriel's Journey (9 page)

As we climb, the sun sets and the dark clouds break. The Kentucky soldiers who know the land have been speaking in hushed voices about these mountains. They say if the Rebels don't kill us, the mountains will. I believe they're right. The horses strain with each step, and in the roughest places we dismount and lead them to spare their strength. To lighten the burden, soldiers discard anything they can do without. Soon sodden quilts and mud-splattered food cans litter the sides of the trail. The rain is falling so hard, I can barely see Hambone's rump.

Thunder cracks and lightning illuminates the mountainside. My eyes snap wide. Beside me, so close that my left stirrup scrapes against it, is a steep wall of rock. But below my right stirrup I see
nothing
when the sky lights up again. No ground, no trees, no footing. Just a steep drop into blackness.

A shiver races through me, and I mumble prayers to help me relax. Sassy's jumpy enough. One misstep and we'll both pitch over the edge to our deaths. Earlier, word was passed back the line to “stay on the trail.” But it seems the trail is fading into a trace.

As if sensing my distress, Private Black's voice again bellows comfortingly through the driving rain.

O, I was lost in the wilderness,

King Jesus hand me the candle down.

So blow your trumpet, Gabriel.

Private Murphy chimes in.

O, blow your trumpet, Gabriel,

Blow your trumpet—

Private Murphy's voice abruptly cuts off. I hear a scuffle, a thump, and then a clatter, like rocks sliding off the trail.

Turning, I peer curiously over my shoulder. A bolt of lightning rends the sky, casting a ghostly brightness on the path. Sherman's still plodding behind me, his head bobbing, his mane dripping. But his saddle is empty.

Private Murphy is gone!

I
yank on Sassy's bit, stopping her in her tracks. “Pa!” I scream. “Halt the squad! Private Murphy's off his horse!”

“What do you mean ‘off his horse'?” Pa hollers, three ahead of me.

I strain my eyes, trying to see through the driving rain. Sherman looks wet but unhurt. Yet there's no shadow of a young cavalryman beside him, clinging to a stirrup on the right or hugging the wall on the left. “I mean,
he's gone!”

Then I hear a yell from below. “Help, down here!”

“I think he fell over the edge!”

Instantly Pa's at my right stirrup, holding onto Sassy's mane to keep from toppling off the trail himself. “Sweet Jesus,” he says as dirt and pebbles dislodge from beneath his boots and rattle down the steep drop-off.

Again, a cry for help rises from below.

By now, word of the accident has traveled along the entire squad. The column has stopped. Someone has passed a torch to Private Crutcher, and it sheds a golden glow.

“We'll need lariats,” Pa says. He's carrying his, so I untie mine and hand it to him. “Gabriel, you're the smallest.” His gaze is on the knots. I swallow hard, knowing what he will say next. “We'll lower you down. You'll need to tie the ropes around Private Murphy so we can draw him up.”

“Yes sir,” I say, in as brave a voice as I can muster.

“I need two men!” Pa calls. “Men who can keep their wits and their balance. Others stay mounted and calm. We don't need another fall.” The orders echo up and down the path. Seconds later, Black and Crutcher have inched their way to us, lariats in hand. Pa ties the ropes together and then loops one end securely around Sassy's pommel. My life will be in the hands of three trustworthy men—and one peevish mare.

I dismount carefully, searching for a bare spot in front of Sassy where I can stand. Pa ties one end of the lariat around my waist and under my arms like a harness. Then he gives me a grave nod. “We'll play out the rope slowly. Don't worry if you slip. We'll keep hold.”

“Yes sir.” Taking off my kepi, I hand it to Pa. He tucks it solemnly in his waistband. Rain pelts my bare head.

No one says that this is foolish—as risky as a night march over the mountains—because we hear Private Murphy again, pleading this time. We know there is no choice.

“God be with you, Gabriel,” Private Black says.

Turning, I kneel and begin a backward descent over the trail's edge, my gloved fingers scrabbling at roots and jutting rocks. Immediately, I begin to slide. The leather soles of my brogans cannot find a hold on the muddy mountainside. Faster and faster I fall, my elbows and knees bouncing against jagged rocks and twisted roots. Fear of the dark below makes my heart pound in my chest. Above me, I hear the grunts of the men as they struggle to hang onto the rope. Finally, just as my heart is about to burst, my shoes hit the solid ground of a rock ledge and I land hard.

“Over here!” Private Murphy calls. I glance left. Thunder rolls across the mountains, and the sky flickers like a candle flame. I see his face a few feet away. He's hugging the mountainside with one arm, his cheeks white with pain. His other arm hangs limp. His poncho is hooked on an outcropping, which must have kept him from falling farther. “I think my arm's broken,” he says through gritted teeth.

“I found him!” I yell up to the others. “Keep hold until I can reach him!” Taking a deep breath, I tap my foot to the left, feeling for ground firm enough to support my weight. Slowly, I edge over to Private Murphy. When I reach him, I tell him what we must do. He nods weakly.

I take off my gloves and thrust them up inside my jacket. With trembling fingers I loosen the rope, slip out of it, and then tie it around his waist and shoulders. When I yank the knots tight, he winces.

“Pull him up!” I holler. The rope goes taut. Inch by inch Private Murphy is dragged upward. I unsnag his poncho and try to boost him from below. Soon all I can see are his boots. Then, suddenly, I realize I am utterly alone.

Thunder rumbles around me. Rain patters against my poncho. Closing my eyes, I press my cheek against the wet rock, afraid to look down.
The Lord must be on the side of the Confederates,
I think,
since he seems to be doing everything in his power to keep us from reaching Saltville.
One foot slips, but I manage to hang on.
If I fall backward off this ledge,
I wonder,
will I plunge forever into nothingness?

The thought makes me dizzy.

“Dear Jesus, my life is in your hands,” I murmur.

“Gabriel! Call out your position! We're dropping the lariat!”

I holler loud enough to wake bears in their caves. A shower of pebbles rains down, then something whacks me on the top of my head. I reach up and grasp the end of the lariat. The motion makes me sway unsteadily.

I will myself not to fall. Body trembling with fatigue, I snake the rope around my waist. My fingers are so stiff that the knots don't come easy. Finally, it's secure. Raising both arms, I grip the rope and yell, “Ready!”

Bit by bit, the lariat lifts me until my feet no longer touch the ledge. I dangle and twist in the cold rain. A rush fills me and I'm light as a bird in the air, but then my knuckles scrape against rough rock. My cheek smacks against a crag, and the stab of pain reminds me that if the knots don't hold, I won't fly like a bird.

The glow of the torch greets me first. Then I hear encouraging voices and feel strong hands under my arms. They drag me onto an empty bit of trail in front of Sassy's legs. My cheek and chest are bruised, and the skin of my palms and fingers is rubbed raw. For a moment, I curl in a ball and press my body joyously to the level ground.

Pa kneels beside me, looking mighty worried. Water drips from the brim of his forage cap.

“Is Private Murphy going to be all right?” I ask.

Looking relieved, Pa helps me to a sitting position. “The surgeon will have to set his arm,” he says.

I lean my back against the cliff. Pa pulls my kepi from under his jacket and places it back on my head. “You did well, Private Gabriel.”

“Thank you, sir.” Sassy dips her head and blows at my cap, as if inspecting me for injuries.

“Your horse stood fast,” Pa says. “She knew what was expected of her.”

Grinning weakly, I cup Sassy's gray muzzle. She stamps her hoof impatiently, narrowly missing my leg.
Get up and get on,
she seems to be saying,
so we can ride
out of these godforsaken mountains.

I couldn't agree with her more.

The next morning we bivouac beyond a town named Grundy.

Last night's march cost General Burbridge eight men and seven horses. They were the unlucky ones who tumbled off the mountain and could
not
be rescued. Many horses have pulled up lame from the rocky trail, and a number of soldiers are in the hospital tent with fever from the chilling rain, or broken limbs from falls.

They'll be left behind, as will Private Murphy.

It takes a while to get a fire burning with damp wood, but when it flames up, Pa has our squad circle around it. We are wet and weary, but we bow our heads in prayer, thankful that we didn't lose one of our own.

Braving the cold drizzle, Private Black, Pa, and I use our ponchos to pitch a rude tent. While Private Black fixes a meal of salt pork and corn dodgers, I check on Hambone, Sassy, Hero, and Champion.

The four horses are tethered on a picket line between two trees. We've fed them their rations of corn, but we had to leave their hay on the other side of the mountain. I know they're still hungry, so I lead them two at a time into a small meadow in the midst of the woods.

While Sassy and Champion tear hungrily at the grass, I rub each down with a rag, checking for saddle sores and chafed skin. Then I pick their feet, looking for signs of hoof rot and stone bruises. Many of the cavalrymen have eaten and fallen asleep in their makeshift shelters, their horses half-forgotten in their exhaustion. But I can't rest until I've looked out for the animals. I'll always remember Pa's words after I rode my first race:
Your horse ran his heart out for you. Least you can do is see to its care.

As I rub Sassy, I admire Champion's strong flanks and clean lines, and my mind drifts to Woodville Farm. If Champion was one of Mister Giles's Thoroughbreds, he'd have sweet hay, clean straw, lush pastures, and a boy to brush him morning and night. For that, all he'd have to do was run races so rich men could bet on him. Pa said that we've marched over twenty-eight miles since leaving Pikesville. Our horses carried the greatest burden, yet they received no praise and scant food. I wonder how they'll they fare in a battle against the Confederates.

Captain Waite comes by, bulky and damp in his poncho. “I've heard many stories about last night's bravery, Gabriel Alexander.”

I salute him smartly, but I'm too worn out to boast. “It was my duty, sir. Private Murphy was one of us. I remembered your words, sir. ‘Never leave a man behind.'”

“I'm thankful for that. And it sounds as if you weren't the only one who remembered those words. You and the rest of your pa's squad did a fine job last night. Private Murphy is resting well.”

“Captain, permission to ask a question.”

“Permission granted.” He picks up a curry comb and rubs at a smear of mud on Champion's flank.

“What will happen to the horses when we meet the Rebels at Saltville?”

Captain Waite frowns. “From any other soldier, I would say that's an odd question. From you, Gabriel, it makes perfect sense. Your love for the horses is commendable. Many Federals think of them only as transportation. I used to feel that way, too, but I've grown quite fond of Champion. To answer your question: The soldiers will likely fight on foot, and the horses will stay behind the line.”

“Thank you, sir.” His answer soothes me. Using a brush, I work on a stubborn spot of dirt on Sassy's coat. “Captain, have you fought Confederates before?”

“Unfortunately I have not yet seen combat. I graduated from college just this spring.” He chuckles. “I studied philosophy, which prepped me well for the realities of camp life.”

I have no notion of what philosophy might be, but I can tell by the jest in his voice that it has nothing to do with hardtack and leaky tents.

“Army life has been a learning experience for me—one that I could never have imagined when I was in college,” he says, dropping his voice. “So every night I must study the manual on cavalry tactics.” Then his tone turns solemn. “You know, don't you, Gabriel, that officers ride their mounts into battle?”

My gaze shifts to Champion. The soldiers and horses of the other regiments have all seen fighting. Only the Fifth is untried. How will we, and horses like Champion, react when faced with the blaze of gunfire and the sight of blood?

The thought makes me shudder. I attack Sassy's rump with the brush until she swishes her tail. Last night, dangling from that rope, I was more afraid than ever before in my life. Some of the white soldiers say that the coloreds are cowards. They may be right about me. Last night, if someone had given me the choice, I would have hightailed it back to Camp Nelson rather than dangle over that cliff.

And now that I've experienced marching and bivouacking, I believe that maybe next time I'll forgo the adventure and choose mucking stalls and a nice straw bed instead.

A coward?
Yep, that's me.

R
eveille blows. I roll over, bumping into Pa's back. On the other side of me, Private Black mutters the names of his sons. Last night, we slept on damp leaves, fully clothed, our bodies spooned together and covered with two blankets. The three of us were so tired that our slumber was as dreamless as that of the corpses in the dead house.

Pa stirs first. Sitting up, he tucks in his shirt and slips on his jacket. I watch him button it. “Pa,” I whisper. “Do you miss Ma?”

“With all my heart.”

“Captain Waite says we may face Rebels today. Are you afraid?”

“I'd be foolish not to be.” He gazes down at me as he wrestles with his boots. “Last night when I had to lower you over that cliff, my fear for you almost won out over my duty as a soldier. I should have gone in your place, but I doubted the men could hold my weight. Yet knowing I put you in harm's way nearly bested me. So, yes, Gabriel, I have been afraid every moment of this march.”

He clears his throat and says in his sergeant's voice, “Wake Private Black. He needs to stoke the fire and fix breakfast. I'm going to roust the men. And then you need to help feed the horses.”

“Yes, Pa. I mean Sergeant Alexander.”

He smiles gently and, putting on his cap, slips from the tent.

For a moment I lie still, listening to Private Black's snores. I consider Pa a courageous man. How can a man be full of fear and yet be courageous?

I hear Captain Waite talking to Pa outside the tent. “We've another hard march, over more mountain passes. Not as tough as Laurel Mountain, but challenging nonetheless. And scouts are reporting increased Confederate activity ahead. We may encounter fighting today, so make sure the squad's rifles and ammunition are dry and ready.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Is Gabriel awake?”

I crawl from the tent as fast as I can and jump to my feet. When I salute, my britches fall around my knees. It's barely dawn, the mountains are hidden with fog, and the only light is from the coals of the fire.

“Private Gabriel, please ready my horse,” Captain Waite orders. “After you secure your trousers,” he adds with a grin.

“Yes sir.” I grab the waist and hoist them back up. Captain Waite strides off, and Pa heads to a stream to fill the canteens so we can wash up. By now Private Black is awake, too, stretching and complaining about the early hour. “Even mules don't rise before the cussed sun,” he grumbles.

“We might meet Rebels today!” I exclaim, my cowardly thoughts chased away by visions of a skirmish.

He pretends to sniff the wind. “Thought I could smell 'em. Now let's see, what can I fix for breakfast?”

I pat my stomach. “I'm hungry for flapjacks and bacon doused in syrup.”

“How 'bout last night's corn dodgers fried in pork grease?”

“Dodgers
again?”
I pick up my saddlebag of corn. “Seems the horses get better feed than we do.”

Too quickly, the sun peeks through the mist. Tents are struck, saddles are packed, and the trumpeter sounds “to horse.” Since word's gone round that Confederates are likely to strike at any time, tension is high. Horses dance and riders yank reins. Sassy seems quiet in comparison. Her left front hoof is warm, and I worry that yesterday's journey has lamed her.

Sticking my toe in the stirrup, I swing into the saddle. I'm stiff and bruised, but as orders ring down the column, my blood begins to flow hot.

Rebels are ahead and Saltville is only two days away.

Clinch Mountain. Colonel Glitner. 10
th Kentucky.
As we saddle up the next morning, those names are on every soldier's tongue, though the words mean naught to me. During yesterday's march, a small Rebel cavalry regiment plagued the front lines, but our brigade under Colonel Ratliff's command never heard a shot. Company B's ride was rough only due to the long hours on hard saddle seats.

Last night we camped at a farm tucked in a valley. By the time the Fifth arrived there, another Kentucky brigade led by General Hobson had already swooped like vultures upon the house and barns, cleaning out all the food from the larders and grain from the bins. The Fifth camped in a pasture on the outskirts with the rest of Ratliff's brigade, so at least there was grass for the horses.

As we ride out this morning, we pass by the farmhouse that was raided. The family's slaves are bunched by the gate, their meager bundles slung over their shoulders or balanced on their heads.

Their eyes bug as we jog past in twos, and I straighten in the saddle. Private Black rides on my left. In front of us, Private Morton has taken the place of Private Murphy, and next to him, on the left, is Private Crutcher on Whistler. Pa and Hero are in front, to the left of us.

The slave family falls into step beside us. “If black men be ridin' horses and carryin' rifles, den Jubilee must be here!” a gray-haired man calls up to us.

“It soon will be, old uncle,” Private Crutcher replies.

“Then glory be to God!” the old man shouts. “C'mon, Sylvie. C'mon, Dade.” He motions to the others. “C'mon and join dese soldiers marchin' to freedom!” The slaves fall into step beside us, chanting
Jubilee! Jubilee!

My heart swells.
This is why we're fighting.

The wagon road grows steeper, and soon the name Clinch Mountain begins to hold some meaning. After an hour of traversing switchbacks and jumping gullies, I feel like this mountain has us in its clinch, all right. But it's daytime, and the rain has slacked off to a mizzle. This climb ain't near as tough as the one over Laurel Mountain.

As we ride, Private Black keeps his gaze trained on the outcroppings of white boulders that loom over us from the steep hillsides on my right. I finally get up the nerve to ask him what he's looking for.

“Perfect spots for Rebel ambushes,” he says.

“What's an ambush?” I ask, still ignorant of much of the army talk I hear.

“That's when the enemy is too scared to show his face,” Private Crutcher calls over his shoulder. “The cowards hide and shoot from behind cover.”

“I call it the worst way to die,” Private Black adds. “A shot from an ambusher don't leave you time to get revenge—or say your goodbyes.”

Turning in his saddle, Pa adds, “Captain Waite says the pesky regiment trying to keep us from reaching Saltville is the 10th Kentucky Cavalry, commanded by Colonel Giltner. They're Kentuckians who cotton to the Confederates.” He shifts back to face the front. “Boys, that means we may find ourselves grappling with Kentucky slaveholders.”

“Huzzah!” the soldiers around us cheer.

But a chill jitters through me, and I aim my eyes on those boulders, too.

Suddenly, sharp pops echo up the lane, far ahead of us. All talk stops. I tense, and Sassy nervously tosses her head.

More shots ring out, closer this time. Two rows in front of Pa, a cavalryman topples off his horse. An instant later, bullets rain from the boulders above us, and the riderless horse drops to his knees with a groan.

I stifle a scream.

“Find cover! Prepare to fight on foot!” The order blasts from the front of the platoon. The soldiers spur their horses into the trees to the left, crashing over rocks and into each other in their haste.

Sassy scrambles down the mountainside. I jump off, stumbling along beside her before pulling her to a stop. Pa, Black, Morton, and Crutcher have dismounted, too. I grab their horses' reins while the men dive behind outcroppings and tree trunks, grabbing wildly for their rifles.

I lead Sassy and the other horses farther into the woods, doing my best to hurry them along without starting a panic. Corporal Vaughn, also a horse holder, hastens with me. I calm the horses with soft words, trying to keep from being trampled as they bunch into each other. My breath is coming in gasps. Bullets continue to hail from the boulders beyond the road, splintering bark and pinging into the dirt, but I hear no order to fire from our side.

“Private Alexander,” Corporal Vaughn dares to whisper. “What's happening?”

Before I can respond, I hear the clattering of what seems like hundreds of iron-shod hooves as a company from the 11th Michigan races up the road toward the mountaintop, pistols drawn. Their bugler trumpets, and my heart races with them.

They gallop by in a stream of puffing horses. Then it's silent for several minutes, until I again hear gunfire, shouts, and yells.

While our company waits behind cover, Corporal Vaughn and I do our best to keep the horses calm. Finally, “all clear” drifts through the forest.

Relieved, we lead the horses forward. As I watch the men rise from the shadows, it hits me: While the 11th Michigan charged forward to meet the enemy, the Fifth stayed in the brush like cowards.

Private Black strides over to get his and Crutcher's mounts. Private Morton takes his horse, his face pale under his cap. I long to talk to them about the skirmish, but their thoughts seem far away.

Pa walks solemnly toward me, rifle in his hand. When I give him Hero's reins, I ask, “Pa why didn't the Fifth go after that 10th Kentucky?”

“Because that wasn't the order.”

“But ain't soldiers supposed to fight?”

Pa levels one eye at me. “Soldiers are supposed to obey orders.”

“Sergeant Alexander!” Captain Waite calls from the road. “Have your squad form a detail to bury Private Huston!”

“Yes sir!” Pa responds, handing me back the reins. I lead Sassy and Hero up onto the road. In front of us a bulky mound lies in the center of the lane. The horse that was shot is dead. Blood oozes from its neck and shoulder. Already someone has stripped it of bridle, saddle, and gear. Soldiers lead their mounts around it or step over it. No one but me pays it any mind.

I remember Jackson's words when we first visited Camp Nelson and saw the broken-down remounts:
Horses don't choose to fight, and they sure don't get no enlistment fee.

And no glory neither, I see now. The body will be left for vultures and other varmints.

My eyes blur. I lead Sassy and Hero around the fallen horse and say a silent prayer.

The sun breaks through the clouds as Burbridge's army descends Clinch Mountain and follows Laurel Creek. The story making its way down the column is that three of Colonel Hobson's regiments dismounted to fight the 64th Virginia, sending the Rebels scattering into the hills. The Fifth hasn't been threatened again, but as we jog alongside the creek, I can't shake thoughts of that dead horse and rider from my mind.

We make it through Low Gap without any more encounters with graycoats. Saltville's only a few miles away. A fever seems to infect Pa's squad, and I'm catching it, too. Something has us riled for battle. Might be the dead comrade we buried on Clinch Mountain. Might be the salty smell of the town wafting our way. Might be the sun falling behind the hills, covering our approach.

General Burbridge must be blind to the men's eagerness, though, because after we ford the Holston River, he halts the division and orders the army to make camp. I dismount, and as Pa's squad untacks their horses, the grumbling begins.

“Why're we stoppin' now?” Private Black complains. “We need to attack Saltville while them Rebels are eatin' dinner.”

“And while they're whittlin' and playin' cards,” Private Crutcher joins in. “A night's delay'll just give their regiments time to regroup.”

“Pa says a soldier always obeys orders,” I tell them.

Private Black snorts. “Long as the order comes from Cap'n Waite, I'll follow it. But them other officers?” He hawks up a mouthful of saliva and spews it out on the ground. “Their regiments have been taunting us this whole march. Them white soldiers don't care spit about us coloreds. And I ain't plannin' on takin' a bullet for 'em neither.”

“We ain't taking bullets for them,” I say. “We're fighting for the slaves. Like those men at the farm that followed us—to find Jubilee.”

“Ha!” Private Crutcher barks a laugh. “Only they ain't slaves no more. President Lincoln freed the Virginia coloreds long ago. They were just too scared to leave before.”

“They were not too scared!” I protest. “They needed someone like us to lead them.”

“Take a look, boy.” Private Crutcher waves his arm around the camp. “You see 'em anymore?”

I think back, realizing I ain't seen a single one of them since we started up Clinch Mountain.

“Soon as the Rebels started firin' on us, them gutless coloreds ran back to their master's farm like frightened sheep,” Private Crutcher declares. “Nope, we're fightin' for ourselves. And me, I don't aim to be buried under a pile of Virginia rocks like Private Huston.”

Private Black's “Amen!” puts an end to the discussion.

When Private Crutcher leads his horse to the river to drink, Private Black draws me aside and pulls something from underneath his jacket. It's an envelope, stained and tattered as if it's traveled a long way. “Gabriel, unless them Rebels wave the white flag, we're marchin' on Saltville tomorrow. Unlike Private Crutcher, I ain't fightin' for myself. I'm fightin' for my sons so they'll have a better life than me. This letter's to them in case I . . .”

I glance sharply up at him. “Die? Why, you're too ornery to die, Private Black.”

He leans closer, and for once there's no jest in his face. “I know something of life, Private, and I don't need no white colonel to tell me them Confederates will defend their town with every ounce of their strength. Word from Cap'n Waite is that the Fifth is goin' into combat right along with Ratliff's brigade.”

This is the first I've heard of going into battle. I think of Pa and the rest of the squad, and I don't know whether to be thrilled or scared out of my britches.

“I've driven many a mule team into the South,” Private Black goes on, “and I can tell you one sure thing: When them Confederates see our black faces charging 'em with rifles and bayonets, they're goin' to attack us with a vengeance. So if I die, I want my sons to know how much I love 'em. I want my sons to know I thought about 'em every step of every day.”