Gabriel's Journey (10 page)

“Yes sir,” I whisper, trying to swallow the lump in my throat.

He places the letter in my hand and closes my fingers around it. “Promise on the Bible?”

I barely choke out a weak “yes.”

After tomorrow,
I suddenly realize,
when the Fifth marches on Saltville, none of our lives will ever be the same.

A
rapid burst of gunfire echoes across the fog-shrouded hills. It's scarcely dawn, but the men are already up, moving about sluggishly. All have slept fitfully. As Pa walks among his squad, he tells us that the shooting is from Burbridge's skirmishers, sent ahead to sound out the enemy.

The men are quiet as they saddle their horses. I'm checking Sassy's girth when Private Crutcher leads Whistler over. “Gabriel,” he says, his voice low. “I've pinned my name to my pocket.” He taps a slip of paper with a name penciled on it. “If I die, don't let me rot on Rebel soil.”

This time I don't protest, because I know it might be true. I nod instead, hoping I can keep all my promises. Then I glance at Pa. What if
he
should get shot?

Before we ride off, I want to tell him how proud I am of him and how much I love him. But now's not the time. He's inspecting a rifle, acting as Sergeant Alexander, not my pa.

I bend to check Sassy's leg and spy a hawk feather on the ground. Stooping, I retrieve it and hold it up in the misty morning light. It's a good-sized one, striped brown and white.

When Pa passes near, I reach up and tuck the quill of the feather into the chin strap that's in place over the brim of his forage cap. “So I know,” is all I say in a thick voice, and he gives my shoulder a gruff squeeze.

The bugles announce it's time to mount. My guts twist as the cavalrymen swing into the saddles. I'm riding with them this time. Not as a soldier, but as a horse holder. Captain Waite gave the order on my behalf, so I didn't have to convince Pa, who would have said no.

Pa's angry about the decision. He wants his son here in camp, far from Rebel gunfire. But I don't want to be left behind. The squad has drilled and marched together for more days than I can count. These soldiers are my family now, too.

When the sun peeks over the hills, the division heads toward Saltville. We ford the Holston River, the water splashing our horses' bellies. Ahead of our company, Captain Waite rides on Champion.

This journey ain't been easy, but I've learned much. I've come to believe the captain's done his best to be a good officer, despite his scant experience and head full of philosophy. Company B will follow him wherever he leads. But like all the soldiers around me, I don't know what lies ahead. We're following the orders of our captain, who's following the orders of Colonel Wade, who's following the orders of Colonel Ratliff, who's following the orders of some general I've never laid eyes on. Here's a harsh truth: A soldier must obey as blindly as a slave.

Maybe Annabelle's right. Freedom for coloreds
is
about reading and writing. As Sassy carries me closer to Saltville, I say a prayer that Annabelle will continue to be a fine and fierce teacher. I only hope that I will see her and Ma again.

I glance at Private Crutcher, riding in front of me with his name pinned over his heart so he won't die forgotten in Rebel territory. Then I look at Private Black—his gaze straight ahead, his handsome face showing no emotion, but I know inside he's hoping with all his might that he'll live to see his sons again.

Lastly, my eyes cut to Pa and the hawk feather poking from his forage cap. As he rides toward a faceless enemy, is he thinking about Ma and their unborn babe—one he may never know? And suddenly, as Company B halts at the bottom of a hill, I discover another truth: Men
can
be courageous even when they're filled with fear.

A bugle sounds across the field. From the distance I hear Captain Waite's voice, strong and clear: “Dismount—prepare to fight—on foot!”

My last truth ain't about learning or obeying or being brave. It's the sorrowful realization that I never got a chance to tell Pa I love him.

Folks love to speak of the hardest thing they've ever experienced. Take Mister Pie and his missing eye. For him, the loss of that eye was so grand that it's become a shifting tale of truth and lies.

For me, the hardest thing is standing at the bottom of Sander's Hill holding the horses while Pa, Captain Waite, and 400 soldiers of the Fifth advance up the side. I watch them proceed in wavy rows of blue, six paces between each company, the way we drilled so many times at Camp Nelson. To the left of the Fifth marches the 12th Ohio, and on the right is the 11th Michigan. These are the regiments of the 4th Brigade.

Captain Waite, with Company B behind him, is one of the first to reach the summit. For a moment, he and Champion are silhouetted against the morning sky, and I hear his rallying cry. I strain for a glimpse of Pa or Private Black, but they're too far away. The ranks of soldiers crest the hilltop, the colors of the three regiments snapping in the wind, and then flow like a blue river over the top and disappear on the other side.

A volley of gunfire and the boom of cannons ring in the air.

My insides tighten. All I can do when the soldiers are out of sight is to soothe the horses, even though Sassy, Hambone, Whistler, and Hero are too jaded to dance.

The sun creeps above the horizon. Long hours pass.

I wait with the other horse holders staggered along the bottom of Sanders Hill. I've led my horses under a shady tree so I can rest my back on the trunk. They're hungry and they pick around at the grass, but they can't eat much. I don't dare drop the bits from their mouths in case of a hasty retreat.

The far-off sound of shooting never ceases. Patrols gallop constantly over the hill and across the river, bringing messages to and from the battlefields and camp, occasionally splitting off to relay information to the other brigades fighting west of the Holston River. No one tarries to tell us news.

All that's left is waiting and wondering.

Hours later my body still flinches with each gunshot.
Did that Rebel bullet hit Pa? Or did it find Captain Waite?

I try and trick my mind into forgetting about the raging battle. Closing my eyes, I pretend I'm riding Aristo bareback, racing along Mister Giles's grass track. The wind pummels my cheeks as he gallops, his long legs grabbing the earth with each stride. I imagine Short Bit and Jase racing Savannah and Captain alongside us. Lord, how I miss them all! But a series of sharp pops cuts into my dreaming, and my eyes snap open. Atop the hill, I see smoke from gunpowder drift skyward, and then I hear the scream of a horse and the distant cries of men. My thoughts are once again riveted on the other side of that mountain.

Booms and cracks are also coming from the west, across Holston River. From the urgent shouts of the patrols I gather that Hanson's and Hobson's brigades are fighting the Rebels along Broddy Bottom and Little Mountain.

As the day lengthens, Union guards begin to return, driving groups of Confederate prisoners in front of them. I gape as they pass. It's the first time I've seen Rebel soldiers, and I stare, remembering tales of their fierceness in battle. But these prisoners appear defiant boys, no older than me. Their ragtag uniforms look as if they were cobbled together from their mothers' clothes trunks. One of the prisoners is a gray-haired gentleman the Union guard calls “Governor.”

Then wounded Union soldiers start to stagger in from the lines. Some limp by, dragging injured legs. Some are holding their sides. Soldiers prop each other up the best they can, some using rifles as crutches. When one worn-out soldier reaches his horse, he sags against it and weeps.

A regiment surgeon and his assistants have set up a makeshift field hospital not far from where I stand. The injured are stretched on blankets spread out under a tree. I hear them call out in their misery. Scattered around them on the ground are lint, bandages, a bucket, a washbasin, and a bottle of whiskey. I wince to think that we had more medicine, supplies, and herbal remedies for the horses at Woodville Farm.

As the wounded trudge by me, I anxiously scan their faces, looking for men from Company B. I see no colored soldiers, only white men whose faces are blackened from gunpowder. Still, as they trickle past, I hear scraps of news: “Ammunition running out.” “Fifth is fighting gallantly.” “Soldiers falling like rain.” “Rebels dug in tight on Chestnut Ridge.” And finally, uttered with fear and dismay, the message “Breckenridge is on his way!”

I stop Corporal Vaughn. “Who's Breckenridge?” I ask.

“Confederate Major General Breckenridge,” he replies. “Word is he's brought a detachment of five thousand to fight us.”

Five thousand?
My skin goes cold.

I hear the thud of hooves to our right. Mounted Yankees are trotting toward us from across the river. Most appear to be officers, although a few enlisted men, some of them bloodied, bring up the rear.

Corporal Vaughn stands upright and salutes. “That's General Burbridge,” he tells me. Snapping to attention, I salute as well, hoping the general will bring news of a victory. But he and his attendants keep right on riding, their eyes toward camp. A captain peels off from the group and begins passing the word that Colonel Hobson is now in charge of the division.

I watch General Burbridge's retreating back as he canters briskly past a wagon filled with wounded soldiers. I can hear their screams and moans as the rough ground jostles the wagon bed, but the general doesn't even glance at them. He's in a hurry.

“Gabriel!” someone shouts hoarsely, and I whirl to see Private Crutcher stumbling down Sanders Hill. I hurry toward him, leading the horses, and he falls to his knees in front of me.

“Are you shot?” I ask.

He nods. His palm is clasped to his chest, and his breaths are wheezy.

“You need a surgeon!”

He shakes his head. “Help . . . me . . . on . . . Whistler,” he croaks between scabby lips.

“But you can't ride,” I protest. “You need doctoring.”

Ignoring me, he crawls like a dog toward Whistler. He grabs the stirrup and slowly, his face drained from the effort, pulls himself upright. From there, I boost him into the saddle and loop the reins over the pommel. He slumps forward, one hand still on his chest, the other limply holding Whistler's mane, and gasps, “Farewell—Gabriel.”

“Goodbye, Private Crutcher.” I salute him, biting back the tears. Turning Whistler toward camp, I swat the horse on the rump. I watch as he trots off, Private Crutcher bobbling in the saddle. There are so many questions I wanted to ask him. Are Pa, Captain Waite, and Private Black still alive? And what of the other men in Company B?

I fear Private Crutcher has only enough life left in him to fulfill his last request—dying in the Union camp, not on Rebel soil.

“Loose horse!” a soldier shouts. Then I hear a high-pitched whinny. Dusk is settling in the hollow, but I recognize Champion's white star and gleaming black coat as he gallops down Sanders Hill.

My stomach sinks when I see that his saddle is empty and his neck is splotched with red. A soldier runs toward Champion, who bolts in the other direction, careening into a group of prisoners.

“Corporal Vaughn!” I call. “That's Captain Waite's mount. Hold these horses while I catch him.”

Corporal Vaughn hurries over and takes the reins from me. I wave away several other soldiers bent on catching Champion, who has darted behind Sassy and Hero. His sides heave and his nostrils blow, but he seems relieved when I grab his rein and stroke his sweaty neck.

“You're safe now,” I croon, checking his near side before walking to his far side. There's a slash on his neck, as if a saber blade sliced him, but it's not deep. “Champion, where's Captain Waite?”

I glance in the direction of Sanders Hill, which is suddenly swarming with soldiers. They spill over the summit and flow down the side, fleeing from an unseen enemy. It's grown darker, and it's hard to tell if their coats are blue or gray, but hurrahs rise up around me, so I gather they're Union.

Corporal Vaughn hurries over with the other horses, his face grim.

“Sir!” I call. “What's going on?”

“Our troops reached the crest of Chestnut Ridge, but they're out of ammunition. Colonel Ratliff has been ordered to bring the 4th Brigade back to camp. Horse holders should help all cavalrymen find their mounts.”

“Yes sir.” He hands me the three sets of reins before rushing off.

For what seems like forever, the returning soldiers walk, fall, roll, and are carried down the hill in chaotic spurts. Like Private Crutcher, many are severely wounded, yet they flee in panic as if the devil is after them. I spy Colonels Wade and Brisbin, who are still mounted. Their faces are weary, but they continue to aide and encourage the soldiers of the Fifth. Colonel Ratliff returns with the 12th Ohio and 11th Michigan, and gradually all of Pa's squad staggers from the battlefield to claim their horses.

All except Pa and Private Black.

Still holding Sassy, Hambone, and Hero, I frantically search for Corporal Vaughn. He's under the surgeon's tree, wrapping a bandage around a private's head.

“Sir, we need to form a detail to find Captain Waite, Private Black, and Sergeant Alexander.”

“I'm sorry, Private Gabriel. There will be no detail.” Corporal Vaughn keeps working, as if unable to meet my gaze. “Colonel Hobson has commanded all available soldiers to build bonfires here and along Broddy Bottom. Then we are to retreat.”

“Retreat?” I'm so stunned I can hardly utter the word. “But what about those left on Chestnut Ridge? What about my pa?”

He shakes his head, and I notice that sweat has dried in tear tracks down his cheeks. He's aged ten years during this journey. “I don't know,” he says, his voice so low I can barely hear him above the shouts and confusion. “But it appears we've been ordered to abandon the fight—as well as the wounded and dead.”