Gabriel's Journey (4 page)

The soldiers roughly escort the bound group of women to the end of the wagon. “Get in!” Lieutenant Sawyer orders as he drops the hinged end gate. The soldiers begin lifting and shoving the women, who are still lashed together. They struggle mightily, and one cusses and kicks out. Immediately the others start screeching, and the sentinels at the entrance rush to help.

I nudge Annabelle. “Quick, follow me.” Ducking, I run to the camp entrance, momentarily unguarded. Basket bobbling and skirts flying, Annabelle chases after me.

I make it through the gap in the fortifications without losing my bundle or the valise. Turning, I gesture to Annabelle to hurry. One hand holds her straw hat, and I can see the fear on her face.

I hear the crack of a whip outside the gates. It sounds like someone is thrashing a horse—or a human. A woman screams. My guts jump into my throat.

I shove my bundle under my arm and grab Annabelle's gloved hand, and together we race into Camp Nelson as if the Devil himself is after us.

H
ands linked, Annabelle and I pound past the White House, where the officers bunk. I'm bent on making straight for Ma's tent, but Annabelle stumbles. “Gabriel,” she pants. “I . . . can't . . . run . . . any . . . farther.”

I pull her behind a stack of timbers, and we stop to catch our breath.

“My heels have blisters, and oh, look at my dress!” Annabelle lifts her skirts a trace. The hems are muddy and torn. “How can I present myself to the brigadier general like this?” she wails.

She's so upset, I don't tell her that her hair's as wild as weeds, the black-eyed Susans are droopy, and
there ain't a chance in heaven she'll ever get a meeting with the brigadier general.

A short distance away, three Negroes are splitting logs. They halt their ax swinging to stare at us. One winks at Annabelle, and another calls to me, “Boy, you sure caught yourself a purty gal. Better not let go of her unless you want me to take her.”

I yank Annabelle back onto the road, cursing myself. I was right about this being no place for a lady, even Annabelle. When I met up with her by the cornfield, I should have sent her straight back to Woodville Farm, no matter how loudly she protested.

I search for a hiding place. By now, Annabelle and the valise are lead weights on my arms. If we keep running, we're going to attract suspicion. I'm not sure where the tents of the colored cavalry are located, but I do know where Ma is living. Her tent is a long way from here, and I don't believe Annabelle can make it without a rest.

A squad of soldiers marches down the road toward us. I slow to a walk. “Thank you,” Annabelle puffs. “My corset's pinching and I was about to give out.”

“Act like we belong here,” I say under my breath. “Be quiet and pretend like we know where we're going.”

Annabelle sees the soldiers, too. She straightens her crooked hat and smoothes her dusty skirts. Linking her free arm with mine, she tips her chin and we stride purposefully down the road. “I could pretend much easier if I had my parasol,” Annabelle whispers. When the soldiers pass, she bobs her head politely and calls, “Good day, gentlemen.”

They don't break formation as they march by, but it's only a matter of time until someone does stop to question us. “Just keep your mouth shut,” I warn her. “There's a stable ahead. We can hide in a hay shed until dark and then find Ma's tent.”

The stable yard is busy with soldiers grooming horses and putting them up for the night. Immediately I think of Woodville Farm, and a pang hits me. Are Tandy, Jase, and Short Bit taking good care of Aristo and the other horses?

Nearby, blacksmiths tend the coal fires and shape horseshoes on anvils. Like thieves, Annabelle and I sneak behind the stable, the dusk masking us. I spot a three-sided straw shed tucked a ways from the road and drag her inside.

Annabelle sinks into the pile of straw. “This feels better than a feather mattress,” she says. She takes off her hat and, using my bundle for a pillow, curls up in the hay. “Thanks for all you did, Gab'iel,” she says, the words slurring in her weariness. “A lady could not have as't for a more gallan' escort . . .” Her lashes flutter, her breathing slows, and an instant later she's asleep.

I scatter straw over her skirts, then cover the basket and valise so no one will spot them. I try to stay awake—it won't be long before dark and we'll have to be on the move again. I also need to keep watch for stable hands bearing pitchforks. But my eyelids soon grow heavy. Even though straw dust tickles my nose and the blacksmiths' hammers clang in my ears, I burrow into the mound and drift off, too.

A calloused hand roughly shakes me. I've been dreaming about the fire in the barn at Saratoga, and I thrash awake. Golden light blinds me, and I cover my eyes with my fingers, shielding them from the flames. “Fire!” I holler. “Save the—”

A palm slaps over my mouth. “Hush, boy, 'fore you wakes de dead.”

My eyes gape. An old black man is staring down at me. A lantern in his hand is shining in my face. “Dere ain't no fire,” he says. “So hush.”

I nod to show him I understand, and he removes his hand. He smells like horse manure, so I gather he's a stable worker.

“Soldiers on night watch patrol 'round dese barns,” he says in a low voice. “You best skedaddle 'fore dey catch you and toss you from de camp.”

“Thanks for the warning.” I glance behind me, hoping Annabelle knows not to stir from her hiding place. I glimpse the toe of her shoe poking from the straw, and pray the old man doesn't notice. I jump up to block his view. “What's the quickest way to the washerwomen's tents?” I ask. “My ma lives there. She's doing laundry for the colored cavalry.”

“Go down de pike past Camp Nelson House. Dere's a lane to de east. De colored cavalry are bunking in tents on de hillside. Stay off de road—guards be patrollin'.”

“How far once we turn onto the lane?”

“If you fall into Hickman Creek, you've gone too far.” Chuckling, he raises the lantern and heads off.

I tap Annabelle's shoe. “Wake up,” I whisper. “We need to go.” I uncover the valise and basket and brush them off. By the time I'm finished, Annabelle's standing and shaking the hay off her dress. It's too dark to see her face, but she's hastily tying her hat. I gather she realizes the urgency.

Voices drift from the front of the stable, and my blood quickens. I toss the bundle over my shoulder and pick up the valise. Annabelle takes my hand in hers, and we steal silently into the shadows.

To stay on course, we follow the direction of the pike, but instead of marching like soldiers, we scurry like mice between buildings, woodpiles, and sheds. Finally we reach the dirt lane and head east. I hope the old man's right. When Ma, Jase, and me came to Camp Nelson, Pa took us to the tent city where Ma lives now. I think I could find it in the daytime, but it's hard to get my bearings in the dark.

In spite of my doubts, we boldly trot up the unoccupied lane. The sky's turning gray, and it won't be long before roosters crow and bunkhouses stir. Farther south, I spot a whole field of tents rising from the early mist like rows of tombstones. “That must be where the cavalry soldiers are living,” I whisper to Annabelle.

By the time we come upon the two rows of wall tents occupied by the washerwomen, Annabelle and I are puffing. I count as we run down the muddy lane between the rows. “Ma's is the fourth one on the right,” I tell Annabelle.

She yanks me to a stop and points. “This is the fourth.”

The flap's tied shut from inside. Around me, I hear coughing, a baby's cry, and the sound of bedclothes being shook. Folks are waking, but Ma's tent is silent.

Dropping on my knees, I belly-crawl under the front. The inside of the tent is dim. “Ma?” I call hoarsely.

“Gabriel?” someone exclaims above me.

I crane my neck. Ma's standing over me, an iron skillet raised high, ready to crash on my head. Her eyes startle at the sight of me, and she sets the skillet on the ground.

“Thank the Lord I didn't strike you!” she exclaims, pressing her hand against her bodice. “I thought you were some drunken hooligan. Chile, what are you doin' here?”

Helping me to my feet, she envelops me in a hug. Her arms feel like heaven, but I pull away, thinking a man ain't supposed to be hugging his ma. “I'm here to join the other recruits,” I tell her. “I know I ain't old enough to fight, but I can help in other ways.”

“Pardon me!” someone hisses from outside the tent. “Gabriel?”

“Sorry.” I untie the flap and a head pokes in.

“
Annabelle?”
Ma gasps. “Why on earth have you brought that poor chile with you?” she asks me in a scolding voice, as if I'd had any say in the matter.

“It's not like I invited her along,” I mutter.

The opening in the tent widens, and Annabelle stoops to enter. “Oh, Missus Alexander!” she exclaims when she sees Ma. The two cling to each other, weeping.

I light a candle on an upturned box. Ma has tried to make the tent comfortable. There's fresh straw sprinkled on the dirt floor and clean quilts mounded on straw in a corner. But except for a three-legged stool and knitting needles, yarn, and a tin plate and cup on the wooden box, the tent looks the same as it did weeks ago. At least Captain Waite had made good on his promise. She didn't have to share it with seven other washerwomen.

I glance at Ma. She places one arm around Annabelle's shoulder and gestures with the other as they talk in low voices. In the candlelight, I see that her eyes are tired and her hands are red and scabby from the hot water and lye soap.

“Gabriel will escort you directly back to Woodville Farm,” Ma is saying. Before Annabelle can protest, she goes on, “Is this where you want to sleep?” She gestures around the shabby tent. “Is washing dirty drawers what you want to do?”

Annabelle hesitates. I can guess how she's feeling. She had her own room in the Main House, with a four-poster bed and a chifforobe full of dresses. Granted, they were Mistress Jane's hand-me-downs, and she was always at the master's beck and call. But her duties had been laying out his suit of clothes, not washing them, and choosing the dinner menu, not cooking it. How will she fare at Camp Nelson? Poorly, I reckon, which is just what Ma's thinking.

“Annabelle, you don't belong here. This ain't the life you want. I'm only here because of Isaac.” Ma cups her palm below her apron strings. “This babe needs to be born near its father. You have no reason to stay. Go back to Woodville. Let Mister Giles get you a position in town. Perhaps you can clerk for a merchant.”

Annabelle drops her gaze. Throughout our journey, she's been stalwart. Now I see the weariness in her slumped shoulders.

“I told her she should go back,” I say.

Ma bristles. “As should
you,
Gabriel Alexander! Last letter I received, you were winning races on those horses. If you stay here, you'll be digging privies.”

“I won't.” I pull the telegraph from my pocket. “Captain Waite has given me permission to work with Pa and the cavalry. He says they need experienced horsemen.” I hold out the telegraph, but she pushes it away.

“Only you're not a horse
man
. You're a
boy
. A boy with dreams of being a famous jockey.” Tears well in her eyes.

“Ma, I still have dreams,” I say. “But now they're here at Camp Nelson. After I get a bite to eat and rest for a while, I'll escort Annabelle to Woodville Farm. But I'll be back—no matter how tedious the journey—and you can't deny me.”

“You can't deny me, either!” Annabelle suddenly speaks up. “I won't be returned to Woodville Farm like unwanted baggage.” Bending, she reaches back through the tent opening, her hat brim catching, and an instant later drags her valise into the tent. When she straightens, she glares at Ma and me. “I'm not a slave anymore, and I won't be ordered around. I aim to make up my own mind!”

“But Annabelle, this is no life for a young lady.” Using her apron, Ma dabs angrily at the tears trickling down her cheeks. “I'm sorry, Missus Alexander,” Annabelle says, her voice calmer now. “I can't go back to Woodville. I know I can be of use here somehow.”

Ma's fury suddenly drains. Putting an arm around each of us, she holds us close. “Then it is done. I pray the Lord will keep you safe.”

Abruptly she drops her arms. “The sun is rising, and the drums will soon tap reveille. Annabelle, hide your valise under the quilts. You'll need to work with me at the kettles. Soldiers check each tent for slackers, who are promptly removed from camp.”

I look at Annabelle, hoping thoughts of boiling water and burning lye will shake her from her stubbornness. But she kneels, opens her valise, and pulls out a faded calico. “I'd best change first,” she says.

Ma turns to me. “Gabriel, find your pa's tent. Ask for Company B and Sergeant Alexander.”

“Sergeant?”

Pride shines in her eyes. “Your pa's deft hand with the horses has earned him a promotion.” She sighs. “His sergeant's stripes were a high moment for us. But oh, Gabriel, I wish you'd stayed at Woodville Farm and stuck with the racing. Life here, well, it ain't pretty.”

“Yes ma'am.” There's no use arguing. I nod goodbye to the womenfolk and take my leave. After traveling day and night with Annabelle, I feel empty without her. But the lane between the tents is bustling with colored women stoking fires and ladling food from pots, so I grab my bundle and hurry off before their curiosity is roused.

I jog in the direction of the men's tents. The sun is finally peeking over the horizon, and the dew on the grass glitters like tiny jewels. On a cool summer morning like this, I'd normally be up early working Aristo. The colt would be prancing and hopping and mouthing the bit, eager to gallop.

My heart aches at the thought of never riding him again. But I know this is where I belong.

Stopping to catch my breath, I look west. I can see the Soldiers Home—where I bunked one night with Pa on my first visit—across the pike. A ways behind it are the main stables. A whinny rings across the camp and my heart catches.
Pa can wait just a bit longer to see me,
I decide as I head for the horses.

It's a hike to the four long barns, arranged in a square like the sides of a box. In the center is an arena for drills and dirt paddocks where they turn out the horses. Camp Nelson supplies food, weapons, mules, and horses for the Union troops fighting in Tennessee. When Pa first mustered in, he worked with worn-out or wounded horses called remounts. His job was to get them fit so they could return to the battlefield.

When I reach the stables, I stride through the wide doors of the closest building. A horse pokes its head over the first stall door, and I scratch between its eyes. When I pull my hand away, it's covered with dirty tufts of hair.