Gabriel's Horses (7 page)

Pa shakes his head. He's leaner than when I last saw him, and the worry line in his forehead is deeper. “Not exactly, Gabriel. Come on, I'm 'bout done here.” He sticks the pitchfork in the manure he's piled high in the wheelbarrow. “Let's find Jackson. I'll show him where to stable the mules for the night.”

I walk beside him, still chattering, as he pushes the wheelbarrow. “Why ain't you off fighting? Where are all the soldiers? Why ain't you in uniform? Where's your warhorse?”

“Slow down, boy. Let me finish my work, and I'll explain.” He dumps the load on a mound outside the barn, then pushes the wheelbarrow to a supply stall.

I'm busting to hear about camp life.

Finally he begins talking as we walk down the aisle. “Camp Nelson supplies food and horses to the soldiers who are already fighting. The horses stabled in this barn are broken-down remounts. My job's to get them fit for service again.”

“You mean you're not a soldier?”

“I am a soldier, but even soldiers have work duties. I was lucky to be assigned to the stables. I could be digging ditches or building walls like most of the colored recruits.”

“You mean until you fight, right?”

“Right. Although when I first arrived, we almost had a run-in with John Hunt Morgan.” Pa's eyes twinkle.

I suck in my breath. “The Rebel leader?”

“Yup. Seems he escaped from prison. All the colored recruits were given rifles and sent to Fort Nelson or Fort Jackson to defend the camp.” Pa chuckles. “Mind you, none of us had drilled with a rifle so it's a wonder we didn't shoot off our feet. It's good Morgan and his band never showed.”

“That's only 'cause you scared them away.”

“I doubt that. But since then the colored soldiers have been laborers. A war takes a lot of work and supplies, Gabriel.”

He must see the disappointment in my face, because he quickly adds, “Things 'bout to change, though. A colonel named Sedgwick was appointed to organize the colored troops. Why, black men pour into camp every day to enlist, mostly slaves hoping to find freedom. It's a wonderful thing to behold.”

I nod, remembering Corporal Blue and Company H. “Soon you'll be fighting Rebels, too,” I tell him.

We leave the barn and find Jackson by the wagon. The two men slap each other's backs. We show Pa the supplies Ma sent and then bed down the mules. A white soldier with stripes on his uniform dismisses Pa and the other stable hands, and we file to the mess hall.

My stomach's rumbling with hunger, and I stand in line with the others. I take a tin plate and hold it out to a man who serves up potatoes, gravy, and greasy pork, then I follow Pa to a long plank table. I slide next to him on a rough-hewn bench. Jackson sits across from us. We're elbow to elbow with soldiers.

“This mess hall needs Cook Nancy,” I say as I fight to cut the gristly pork. “Be thankful we got vittles,” Pa says. “Before Colonel Sedgwick came, food for colored recruits was sparse. And if it wasn't for Mr. Butler of the Sanitary Commission, we'd be eating boot leather and sleeping under the stars.”

“Why don't they treat you better?” Jackson asks. He points his fork at the men around the table. “These are fine-looking soldiers.”

“Many of the white soldiers don't want negroes in Camp Nelson,” Pa explains.

Jackson snorts. “You'd think the Yankees would want any able-bodied man that could hold a rifle or a shovel.”

“They do. Runaway slaves are coming in droves to the camp. Even though it can be risky.” Pa nods toward a burly black man shoveling food into his mouth. “Thomas over there ran off from a farm in Jessamine County. His master was so furious that he beat Thomas's wife and children, then turned them off the farm to fend for themselves. Every day, I hear hard-life stories like that.”

Hard life reminds Jackson of the letters, and he pulls them from his vest pocket. “There's a whole passel of women and children waiting outside the gates,” he tells Pa. “They asked us to take news to their men.”

Pa takes the letters and shuffles through them. “For a while the army let the families into the camp. They lived in shanties and tents by the commissary warehouse. But there got to be too many. The guards were ordered to raze the shanties and escort the families beyond the picket lines. Now orders say everyone who ain't a recruit gets thrown out of camp. That includes women and children.”

Holding up the letters, Pa stands and starts calling out names. The soldiers eagerly come over to our table to hear the news we have to share about their wives and babies. Since most can't read, they tuck any letters into their pockets. “Take them to Reverend Fee,” Pa says. “He'll read them to you.”

When we finish eating, men up and down the benches swap tales of running off and enlisting as they pick food from their teeth with sharpened twigs. I drink in their stories, until slowly my eyelids droop.

Pa puts his arm around my shoulders. Leaning against him, I breathe in the comforting smell of horses, and soon the drone of voices lulls me to sleep.

Crack, crack, crack!
Shots wake me.

I bolt upright, blinking in the dark.

The gray light of dawn is creeping through the glass panes of a lone window. I'm in a narrow bunk squeezed against the wall. Pa's beside me, and I remember I'm at Camp Nelson.

Crack, crack!

Rifle shots! They can only mean one thing!

“Pa.” Furiously, I shake his shoulder, trying to roust him. “Wake up. Muster the men. Camp Nelson's under attack!”

C
rack! Crack! Crack!
The shots come faster. Throwing back the blanket, I scramble over Pa and out of bed, stepping on someone's arm. The room is piled with men sleeping two to a bunk and in blanket-wrapped rows on the floor.

“Hurry. We gotta find Jackson,” I tell Pa as I frantically hunt for my britches, which he must have pulled off before putting me to bed.

With a groan, Pa rolls over and throws his arm over his eyes. “Hush, Gabriel, before you wake the others. We ain't being attacked. Those are Yankee rifles ringing in the Fourth of July.”

“What're you talking about?” Kneeling on the floor, I search under the bunk.

“Independence Day.”

I know little of Independence Day. Since Master Giles is British, we don't celebrate on the farm.

Sitting up, Pa glances down at me and chuckles. “Boy, how you expecting to fight Rebels with no britches?”

I flush mightily, embarrassed by my nakedness and stupidity. Still chuckling, Pa pulls my britches and a small haversack from under his pillow. “I believe this is what you're hunting for.” He tosses the pants to me. “Let's get washed up.”

By now, the men are stirring, and the bunkroom is pungent with the smell of dirty bodies. Tying my waist rope, I hurry after Pa. He's buttoning the coat of his uniform as he heads down a hallway to the washroom where a pump brings water into an indoor sink.

“Master Giles needs one of these things.” I move the handle up and down. “Sure save a lot of bucket-carrying from the well.” I bend and peer at the water pouring from the spout. “Where's it coming from?”

Pa splashes his face. “Long pipes run all the way to the Kentucky River.”

I splash water on my face, too, then scrub myself with a rag and small chunk of soap. The rinse water dripping into the sink is gray with yesterday's dirt. “So where'd Jackson sleep?”

“In the wagon bed. He said there were too many men bunked in one room for his liking. He'll have the team hitched and ready to go after breakfast.”

I stop scrubbing. “Go? We just got here.”

Pa dries his face with a rag. “That pass signed by General Fry only allows you one day in camp.”

“But I ain't ready to leave,” I protest. “If I enlist, can I stay with you?”

“You can't enlist, Gabriel. You can't stay,” he says flatly. Tossing me the rag, he hurries from the washroom.

“But, Pa!” Hastily I dry my face, tears pricking my eyes at the thought of leaving him. A bear of a man pushes past, knocking me against the wall. I hang the rag on a peg and slither past him and into the hall. It's teeming with black men of all sizes. A few are about my height, so I know I can pass for older. I'll enlist today, and Pa can't deny me!

In the bunkroom, Pa's tidying up around his bed.

“I want to stay with you,” I say, trying to keep my voice from cracking.

Pa folds the blanket. “I don't want you to leave, either. I miss you with all my heart. But these are hard times, Gabriel. We all have to do what's best.” He looks down at me. “And what's best for you is staying on the farm—no matter how much you hate Newcastle—and caring for your ma. Besides, you'd have to lie to pass for older. That's no way to start army life.”

I raise my eyes to his. Pa's brows are pulled into a frown, so I know he ain't going to change his mind. “Yes sir,” I say reluctantly.

A bugle blares from below.

“Time to eat,” Pa says. “Before you leave, I'll show you and Jackson 'round the stable.”

Shoulders slumped, I follow Pa, the recruits, and the enlisted men to the mess hall, where we find Jackson holding out his plate for doughy griddlecakes. But there's creamy butter and sweet molasses, and I fork down a stack despite my sadness at leaving Pa.

When we're finished, Jackson and me go with Pa and his squad to the stables. A white corporal leads us up the hill. Once we're at the stables, the workers receive their orders and break off. We follow Pa to the barn where I found him yesterday.

“We're each assigned stalls of horses,” he explains to us. “I've got a sorry bunch from a cavalry regiment that fought in Tennessee. Soldiers rode them hard and fed them harder. The forage last winter was mighty poor, and many animals gave out.”

As soon as he starts talking about horses, Pa's worry lines disappear. He opens a stall door. A handsome bay greets him, and Pa pats his neck fondly. “Horses have numbers, not names. Number eighteen here had saddle sores and hoof-rot. He's 'bout healed.”

He opens the door to the second stall. “This is number fourteen. His injury is going to take more time.”

I go inside. A sorry-looking chestnut stares from the corner. Scars mark his withers and a wound oozes on his neck.

“Number fourteen was shot in battle. He was lucky to make it out alive.” Pa shakes his head sadly. “Like soldiers, horses are dying on the battlefield.”

“Only they didn't choose to fight,” Jackson says. “And they sure didn't get no enlistment fee.”

I scratch number fourteen under his mane. I never thought about horses dying in battle without any choice—or glory.

Pa's kept the wound open so the sickness can drain out. “Did you tell the Yankees about your healing salves?” I ask him.

Pa shakes his head. “Most of the Northerners I've talked to are city boys who don't care beans about horses. They think they're only for riding into battle or pulling cannons and wagons without mercy. At least the camp has a good veterinarian.”

“You know more than that veterinarian,” I brag. “Tell him 'bout your salves.”

Pa shrugs. “He don't care. He's got his own way of healing. But I have suggested some changes to Captain Waite. He's one of the few cavalry officers interested in the horses' care. I told him we should turn out the remounts on cool nights so they can graze and keep them in during the heat of the day when the flies are pesky. He agreed, and since then they've recovered faster. I believe the captain's a good man, but still I need to tread carefully. Most officers don't want advice from a colored man.”

Jackson makes a noise in his throat. “Seems to me
you
should be captain of the stable, not some Yankee.”

“Might be that Colonel Sedgwick will make you a captain—right, Pa?” I ask. He doesn't answer, and as we leave the barn, his face gets a tight look. My gut gets tight, too, 'cause it's time to say goodbye.

We hitch the mules, and then Pa holds me close. “Say hi to your ma for me,” he whispers, his voice husky. “Watch over her and that new babe she's carrying. And Gabriel, keep riding and caring for the horses.”

I nod, my own throat too clogged to reply.

Moments later, Jackson whistles and slaps at the mules, and the wagon rattles down the hill toward the pike. I wave to Pa until he's a blue speck. My heart aches, but I don't want to cry in front of Jackson.

Our wagon bed is filled with packages, notes, and coins to give to the families outside the camp. When we pass a sutler's wagon, Jackson halts the mules. Using his own money, he buys overpriced tins of potted meat, cans of Borden's condensed milk, and a dozen molasses cookies. Then we drive out Camp Nelson's gates, passing the guards along the picket line. Jackson salutes them, but they stare straight ahead, their backs as straight as fence posts.

As the wagon heads from camp, Jackson whistles. “Lookee there, Gabriel.”

A hundred or so black men are walking toward us down the road. They're wearing tattered clothes and carrying bundles.

“They must be recruits,” I tell him. “Pa says more are coming into camp every day.”

Jackson halts the wagon, and the men pass us by. They nod tiredly, and we wish them luck.

Suddenly a carriage pulled by a team of horses barrels down the road. Careening wildly, it flies around our wagon and the black men before rattling to a stop across the road, forming a barricade into Camp Nelson. Instantly the black men bunch together, and the guards run from their posts.

Jackson and I watch, wondering what will happen next.

The driver jumps from his seat, opens the carriage door, and helps out an elderly white woman dressed all fancy. “Stop those colored men!” she screeches. Her gloved finger points accusingly at the black men huddled in the road before her.

“Stop them this instant!” she repeats. One hand holding a parasol, the other lifting her hooped skirt, she hurries toward the guards. “I am Missus Francine Templar from Boyle County, and those two men wearing straw hats are my able-bodied slaves. They have run away from my farm and I want them returned!”

“Uh, missus, uh . . . we don't have the . . .” Flustered, the guards stammer uncertainly until a small squad of mounted soldiers trots from the camp.

“Good day, ma'am.” One of the horsemen nods to the woman. “I am Lieutenant Kline. I have orders from the post commandant to escort these recruits into Camp Nelson.”

“That's fine, but I demand that you leave me my slaves. Those two, Lou and Jake. I need them to bring in the harvest and plant winter wheat.” She jabs her finger in their direction. “Lou, Jake! I
order
you into this carriage!”

“Ma'am. Please,
quiet
,” the lieutenant commands. Turning in the saddle, he addresses the band of recruits. “Your master or mistress's consent is not necessary for your enlistment. No one has authority to order you back to the farm. Is there a man here who desires to remain a slave?”

Black heads bob and shake, and murmuring rises from the group. “No!” they finally reply in one strong voice, weary no longer.

Furious, Missus Templar stamps one foot. The mounted soldiers rein their horses around the slaves. With the guards leading the way, the recruits march past the carriage and the enraged Missus Templar and through the gates of Camp Nelson.

“Look at that, Jackson.” I nudge him. “We just saw freedom. And Pa's right: It
is
a wonderful thing to behold.”

Buoyed by the sight, Jackson and me continue on our journey, stopping to hand out the goods to the families living roadside. Even though I'm sad about leaving Pa, my spirits stay high for several miles afterward. Just like on the trip to Lexington, I've seen and learned so many new things. Must be what Ma calls “growing up.”

“As soon as I can, I'm enlisting,” I tell Jackson. “Then I'll be free, too.”

He grunts. “Boy, didn't you learn nothin' at Camp Nelson? A black soldier ain't free.”

“That ain't true,” I protest.

“Then why is your pa cleaning stalls for white soldiers' horses?”

“All soldiers have duties,” I say, repeating Pa's words. “Pa says Colonel Sedgwick is organizing colored troops. I bet next time we see Pa, he'll be wearing a uniform with stripes on his shoulder. Already, he fought against Morgan. You watch, in no time he'll be marching to Tennessee to fight Rebels.”

Jackson shakes his head. “That's foolish thinking, Gabriel, but believe what you want.”

Angry at Jackson for doubting Pa, I retort, “You're just against being a soldier 'cause you're too cowardly to enlist.”

Jackson tips his head sideways and studies me. I bite my lip, sorry for my words. Jackson ain't a coward. But I can't have him speaking against Pa.

“Way I see it, most Yankees don't care if black folks are free. That ain't why they fighting this war,” Jackson says solemnly, like he's thought on it awhile. “But you're right, I
am
a coward. I don't want to kill
or
die for freedom. That's why I'm leaving for Saratoga tomorrow—to find freedom my own way.”

Crossing my arms against my chest, I turn away. I don't want Jackson to see the tears I suddenly can't hold back.

“I'm sorry I'm leaving you, Gabriel,” Jackson adds with a sigh. “And I'm sorry your pa left. But sometimes, ‘sorry' ain't enough to stop a man from what he needs to do.”