Gabriel's Horses (8 page)

T
he next day Jackson is to catch the train to Saratoga, New York. Renny will drive him in the carriage to the Midway depot. Before they head off, I hide in the weeds by the river where no one will find me.

Leaving Pa was hard, but at least he's in Kentucky so I reckon I'll visit him again soon. But Jackson? I ain't
never
going to see my friend again. Now I know how Pa felt when he snuck off to enlist. Like him, I just ain't brave enough to say goodbye.

When the sun gets hot and the mosquitoes pesky, and I reckon Jackson and Renny are long gone, I climb from my hiding place along the riverbed. In the distance, I spot one of Master Giles's armed guards sitting under a tree by the bridge across the river. Since the scare with One Arm, someone patrols the pike around the clock. This sentry is sleeping, his rifle across his lap, his hat tucked over his face to keep off the flies.

I walk alongside a field of corn, colorful with field slaves plucking corn worms from the leaves. Their fingers are swollen from the stings. Their bare arms are scratched from the leaves. The sun beats on their heads, and sweat streams down their necks.

Since the war started, Master's lost many slaves. Some died from the fever. Some ran north. Some ran to enlist. Some just ran.

Master's always spouting off against slavery, yet he still owns slaves. He has so many, I don't know a lot of their names. As I walk past the pickers, they stare at me, probably wondering why a strong boy like me ain't working. If they were to ask, I'd tell them I haven't worked since I got home from Camp Nelson. I'd say that I don't care if I'm caught and whipped. Newcastle's going to whip me no matter.

Mister Yancy, the colored driver, sits in the shade of a tree, fanning himself with a wide leaf. There's a bucket of water and a dipper beside him.

“Mornin', Gabriel. Drink?” he asks.

“No sir, but I 'spect those workers are thirsty.” I nod in the direction of the corn.

“I 'spect you're right,” he replies, only he doesn't move to offer them any.

I continue on, not sure where I'm going. I do know where I'm
not
going. I'm not going near Newcastle or the stable even though I'm lousy with missing the horses. I know, like Pa said, that I need to care for them, but my fear of Newcastle keeps me away.

Sweet singing floats from the orchard and stops my journey. I search the grove, spotting Annabelle up in a peach tree. Her bare toes cling to a lower branch while she reaches over her head for early peaches. Her straw hat's hanging from a leafy twig; a basket is propped in the crotch of three branches.

I can't resist. I tiptoe through the grass. When I'm right beside her, I yell, “Boo!”

“Aiiieee!” Annabelle screams. She sways and starts to fall.

Grabbing her around the knees, I hold tight until she regains her balance. Her skirt bunches up, and when I let go, she reaches down and slaps me soundly.

“Gabriel Alexander, how dare you peek up my dress!” she shrieks.

“I wasn't peeking up your stupid dress! I was trying to keep you from busting open your pig head. Next time I'll let you fall.”

“Next time don't sneak up on me!” For a second, she glowers down at me, and then her expression softens. She pats at her skirt, making sure it ain't hitched up. “Well, then, sorry I slapped you. I thought you weren't being a gentleman.”

“Oh, like
you
such a lady.” I rub my cheek.

“It was just a tiny slap. Couldn't have hurt
that
much.”

“It like to've knocked my ear off,” I grumble, and we both start giggling.

Annabelle passes me the basket and climbs from the tree so slowly and daintily, I have time to select a ripe peach from her basket. I take a big bite, letting the juice run down my chin.

“You could have asked permission,” she says, snatching the basket from my hand. “These peaches aren't for slave boys. They're for making peach pies for Master and Mistress.”

I snort and swallow the sweet flesh of the fruit. “Why don't you tell them to pick their own peaches?”

Her mouth falls open.

“Then tell them to make their own pies,” I add. “I bet Mistress don't even know how to hold a rolling pin.”

“Gabriel Alexander, what sassy remarks. What's gotten into you?”

“Nothin'.” I toss my pit into the weeds. I wipe the juice off my chin with the back of my hand.

“Did your trip to Camp Nelson make you too big­headed to live here anymore?” Annabelle sets down the basket and pulls her hat from the branch.

“No. But it did teach me something about freedom.” I pick up the basket. “Best let me carry that for you.”

Again she stares at me. “You might be bigheaded, but I do believe you learned some manners on your trip.”

“Naw. But my trip did show me something of the world. There's a whole lot of life beyond Woodville.”

She tips her head forward and puts on her hat. “Like what?” she asks.

As we walk through the orchard, I tell her about Camp Nelson, the slaves marching to enlist, and the women outside the camp who've run away to be near their husbands. “Pa says the slaves are enlisting to find freedom.”

“Sounds to me like the men who enlisted left their women and children to starve,” Annabelle says.

“You sound like Jackson,” I tell her. “He scoffs, saying that black men who enlist work just as hard as slaves. ‘Freedom's in Saratoga,' Jackson says.”

Thoughts of Jackson riding far away on the train make my stomach turn sour again.

“A fine jockey like him
will
find freedom in the North,” Annabelle points out.

“Perhaps,” I mutter, adding, “Ma says I'll find it here at Woodville Farm with Master's horses. She says if I keep riding, I can save my earnings and buy my freedom.” I sigh heavily. “Only now that Flanagan's here, no chance I'll be Woodville's jockey.” Angrily, I grab another peach. Before I can bite into it, Annabelle plucks it from my fingers and plops it back into the basket.

“Seems everybody has a different idea of freedom,” she says. “If you asked
me
what freedom is, I'd say ‘reading and writing'.” Stopping by the gate in the kitchen garden, she turns to face me. “What do you think freedom is, Gabriel?”

I shrug, puzzled. No one's ever asked me that question. “I don't know.” From an upstairs window of the Main House, I hear the tinkle of Mistress's bell, beckoning Ma.

Frowning, I kick open the gate. “I do know what freedom
ain't
,” I declare as I stride down the brick walkway. “It ain't running up and down the stairs fetching and carrying for
Mistress
. Ma is
supposed
to be free, but she's still actin' like a slave.”

Annabelle darts in front me. “Gabriel Alexander, I'd like to slap you again. Don't you
ever
disrespect your ma. She's the finest, kindest woman I know.”

Reaching out, she yanks the basket from my grasp and sets it on the ground. Then she takes my hand and drags me down the walkway toward the Main House.

Annabelle's taller than me, and plenty strong. And she's so riled up there's no telling what she has in her mind to do.

“Where you taking me?” I ask.

“To show you why your ma is fetching and carrying.” She pulls me into the Main House and down the hall to the slave stairway. Grabbing the side of the doorjamb, I brace myself with my free hand. “Oh, no. No, Annabelle. I ain't going upstairs.”

“Yes, you are.” Annabelle yanks my hand so hard my skin burns. “Or I'll tell your ma you were hiding by the river this morning, not cleaning tack in the barn like you said.”

I grimace. Ma hates liars even more than gamblers and shirkers.

Letting go, I reluctantly follow Annabelle up the narrow stairs. When we reach the second floor, Annabelle puts a finger to her lips and leads me down the hall to an open doorway. She peeks into the room, then gestures for me to look, too.

Whatever it is, I don't want to see.

Annabelle aims her mad eyes at me, and I peer into Mistress Jane's bedroom. A four-poster canopy bed sits in the middle of the polished wood floor. Mosquito netting is draped from the bedposts, but I can see Mistress Jane through the gauzy material—least I
think
it's Mistress Jane. The person in the bed's so tiny, she scarcely wrinkles the sheets.

“Go on in,” Annabelle whispers, giving me a push.

I stumble through the doorway. Mistress Jane's head is turned away. Her arm lying on the sheet is withered and pale. A bell sits beside her curled fingers.

“I didn't know she was so sickly,” I whisper to Annabelle.

“She's going to die, Gabriel. She's rich and free, yet she's
going to die
anyway.
That's
why your ma still fetches and carries.” Annabelle's voice trembles. Tears pool in her eyes as she gazes at Mistress Jane. “Not 'cause your ma's still a slave. 'Cause Mistress Jane
needs
her and because your mama has a soul.”

I swallow hard, my gaze frozen on Mistress Jane, and I remember all the times Ma's been called to the slave quarters to tend the sick or deliver babies.

Annabelle blinks, and the tears trickle down her cheeks. “So if you asked your
ma
about freedom, she'd say it ain't just about leaving. It's about staying and caring for others, too.”

Mistress Jane moans and I jump. Mumbling something foolish, I back out of the room, leaving Annabelle behind to grieve for her mistress.

By the time I run from the Main House, freedom's making my temples throb. Or could it be Annabelle's slap?

Old Uncle's in the kitchen garden hoeing a row of potatoes. When he spies me, he waves for me to stop. “Dat Newcastle still beatin' on your horses?” he asks.

“They
ain't my
horses, Uncle,” I snap.

“You care for 'em, don't you? You luv 'em, right? Den dey your horses.” He answers his own question with a satisfied nod and returns to his hoeing.

I kick the soft earth with my foot. I'm ashamed to tell Uncle I haven't seen Aristo and the other horses for three days. Though why should I worry about what an old man thinks? And why should I worry about what Ma, Pa, Annabelle, or Jackson thinks? Let them think what they want about freedom. I ain't doing what they want me to do. I ain't fetching or carrying or taking a whip for any man.

I'm going through the garden gate when Tandy comes flying down the lane from the barn, his arms flapping like a crow's wings. “Gabriel!” he calls as he runs, his words coming in gasps, “Newcastle's . . . going . . . to . . . Aristo . . .

I jog toward Tandy, meeting him halfway. Holding his stomach, he leans over and gulps air.

“Slow down and talk right, Tandy. What's this about Newcastle?”

“Newcastle's tryin' to saddle Aristo. Only Aristo's rearin' and fightin'. Newcastle tied him up and went to get his whip.”

The blood rushes from my face.

“He's mad enough to kill that ornery colt. You gotta do somethin', Gabriel!”

“Me?”

“Your pa's gone. Jackson's gone. Cato, Oliver—ain't nobody wants to tangle with Newcastle.”

“Where's Master Giles?”

“I don't know. Hurry, Gabriel.” Turning toward the barn, he starts off like he expects me to follow.

Only I can't move.

My feet feel like they're nailed to the earth.
Aristo ain't your horse
, I tell myself.
This ain't your fight.

“Gabriel,
come on
!”

I clench my fists. I picture Aristo hiding in the corner of his stall, his skin torn after Newcastle's whipping, and a howl rises uncontrollably in my chest. Maybe I ain't like Pa or Ma. And maybe I am a coward, but I can't let Newcastle beat Aristo any more.

I sprint after Tandy.

Newcastle has Aristo in the paddock. Cato, Oliver, and a throng of barn workers are standing outside the fence, watching nervously. Flanagan the Irish jockey is standing with them, a smug expression on his face.

I force my way through them and climb the rail. Aristo's in the middle of the paddock, his front legs splayed, his body trembling. Newcastle's strung a rope through one ring of the colt's halter, looped it around his hind pastern and back through his halter, and then tied it to a fence post like a pulley line.

Whip in hand, Newcastle's striding around the colt. The trainer's face is red with anger; his mouth is set in a grim line.

Aristo eyes him, but when the colt struggles, the rope yanks his head around and drops him onto his knees.

Newcastle raises his whip.

There's no way the horse can escape.

N
o-o-o!” Vaulting over the paddock fence, I charge Newcastle. The leather lash slices my arm before I knock the trainer to the ground and pummel him with my fists. Blinded by fury, I'm ready to beat his face bloody.

Hands grab me and pull me off. Newcastle jumps up, fingers probing his cut lip. I'm straining to go after him, but the workers hold me back. “No, Gabriel. No more,” Cato hisses in my ear. “The man ain't worth it.”

I yank myself from their grasp and run to Aristo. Tandy and Jase have the rope untied from the fence post. Aristo stands and shakes himself. I inspect the colt for cut marks.

A hand grabs my shirt and swings me around so hard, my neck snaps.

Newcastle glares down at me, hate in his eyes. “So you've finally come out of hiding, huh, boy?” he sneers. “Ready to take your punishment?”

I raise my chin. The man is a foot taller than me, with fists like bricks. He's right: I can't hide in the river weeds forever.

Stepping back, Newcastle snaps his whip. Silent as haunts, Cato, Oliver, and the others come into the enclosure and draw protectively around me. Newcastle glances at them, startled. “This ain't your fight,” he tells them. “Get back to work.” They don't move or speak. Their faces are expressionless, and they stand firm, shielding me.

Newcastle spits a wad of blood at their feet. Even he knows he's outnumbered. “Have it your way.” He points the whip handle at my face. “But don't think you've won, boy.”

Coiling the lash, he stomps from the paddock. Flanagan throws me a nasty look, then hurries after him. Only when they turn the corner of the barn do I exhale in relief.

“Ain't the end of your fight with dat man,” Cato says to me. “Make sure dat horse is worth it.”

Blood oozes down my arm where the lash bit into the skin. I walk over to Aristo. Jase is holding the rope. The colt knocks me with his nose as if to say it's all right.

I stroke his neck, and tears wet my eyes. Jase is staring at me, and I hide my face.

“Your arm's bleedin',” he says.

I shrug like it's no big thing.

“It's all right to cry,” he tells me, adding in a low voice, “I cried when Tenpenny stepped on my toe. See?” He holds up his dirty foot and wiggles his big toe, which is blue and swollen. “Only don't tell Tandy. He'd call me a baby.”

I give him a grin, but it quickly fades when I spot Master Giles walking toward us, his expression stern. With a yip, Jase scoots out of the paddock gate.

Patting Aristo, I bend to check his pastern. I'm worried the rope's rubbed a raw spot, but mostly, I don't want to face Master Giles.

“Afternoon, Gabriel,” he says, greeting me as if it's a fine day.

“Afternoon, sir.” I straighten, my gaze downcast.

“How was your trip to Camp Nelson? Is the life of a soldier agreeing with your father?”

“Yes sir. He's doing fine.”

“And how's the colt?” Master walks around Aristo, who shakes his head as if glad to be rid of Newcastle. “Mister Newcastle tells me he was breaking the colt to saddle. What do you think of his training methods?”

I stiffen.

Stopping on the far side of Aristo, Master studies me over the colt's rump. When I don't answer he goes on, “Newcastle reported just now that you attacked him while he was working with the colt. Mister Flanagan backs him up. They expect me to punish you severely, Gabriel. What's your side of the story?”

I hunch my shoulders.

“You will not get in trouble by answering me.”

Ha. I struck a white man. That's already trouble.

Walking around the colt, Master stands in front of me. “If you won't tell me your side, you leave me no choice but to punish you.” When I don't respond, he sighs. “Fine then. From now on, you'll work under Oliver in the mare and foal barn. You'll have no contact with Aristo and the other horses in training.”

Snapping my chin up, I gasp. “No, Master Giles!
Don't
take away Aristo and Penny. Don't take away jockeying!” I drape my hand over Aristo's neck, pressing myself to the colt's shoulder.

Master crosses his arms against his chest. “That's your punishment, Gabriel.
Unless
you tell me about Newcastle.”

My mind's a jumble. Pa was always forthright with Master Giles, but I'm a slave and a boy, and I ain't sure I should speak my mind. Yet Master is asking me, straight out, like he really wants to know. Still my tongue's stuck to the roof of my mouth. If I tell on Newcastle, he'll kill me for sure.

“My horses are important to me, Gabriel,” Master goes on. “Not only do I want them to win, but I want them treated well.”

I swallow, loosen my tongue, and mumble, “Newcastle is mean, sir. He doesn't know how to train a horse like Pa.”

“No trainer can replace your father, Gabriel. He's an exceptional horseman, and I miss him sorely. However, good trainers are hard to find. Newcastle came highly recommended. His methods are accepted by most trainers and owners.”

Now my anger flares and I can't stop my words. “Those methods are wrong!” I blurt, twining my fingers in Aristo's mane. “A horse wins a race with
spirit
. With
heart
. If you beat out that spirit, if you break his heart, then he'll only run out of
fear
. And fear don't win races!”

A smile lifts the edges of Master's mouth. “Well, I see you do have an opinion. Now, what do you think about Flanagan, the new jockey?”

I scoff. “Man's got hands of lead. A jockey needs soft hands to talk with the horse. Flanagan's hands only say ‘pain and hurt' to the horses.”

“Interesting.” Master taps his cheek then points his finger at me. “Tell you what. Let's put your opinions to the test. Three days from now, after noon meal, you and Flanagan will race.”

At the word “race” my head snaps up.

“You on Savannah. Flanagan on Captain Conrad. Two laps around the training track. Whoever wins gets to jockey during Saturday's meet.”

“Yes sir!”

“You have three days to get Savannah ready. Use those days wisely.”

“I will, sir!”

“And Gabriel, rest assured, I'll see that Newcastle will no longer be using his whip on you and the horses.” Master walks from the paddock, leaving me with high hopes for the first time since Newcastle and Flanagan came to Woodville. “Hear that, Aristo? I get to prove I'm the best. Then Master will get rid of Flanagan and I'll be Woodville's jockey!”

The colt drops his head to graze. My high hopes drop too when it dawns on me what Master's done. He's put me on
Savannah
.

Savannah is a flighty, three-year-old filly afraid of her own shadow. Captain Conrad's a seasoned racehorse.

Ain't no way she can win. Oh, how I wish Pa or Jackson was here to help me.

But they ain't here. It's up to me.

No, it's up to Savannah and me. Clucking to Aristo, I trot him from the paddock. There's no time to waste. For the sake of the horses, I can't let Flanagan and his heavy hands win. I can't let Newcastle and his mean ways win. If I'm to win this race, I need to get working with that filly!

“Gabriel.” Ma leans over the bed and gives me a shake. “Wake up.”

I groan and nestle deeper into my pillow.

“Master's sent word. He's taking Newcastle with him to town this morning.”

I shoot upright, eyes crackly with sleep. “Newcastle's leavin'?”

She nods. It's half-dark, but I can see her smile. “They'll be gone for 'bout an hour. Best you get down to the barn and work that filly before Newcastle comes back.” She hands me my pants and I slither into them.

When I hurry around my hanging quilt, I almost run into Annabelle, who's setting a steaming plate of cornmeal mush on the table. She greets me as if she's always in our kitchen at dawn. “Morning, Gabriel. Best eat up before you ride.”

She pours honey over the mush.

Sliding onto the chair, I spoon up a heaping mouthful. “Um-um. Sure is tasty.”

“Now don't be getting big ideas about me serving you every morning,” Annabelle says tartly. “But your ma's feeling peaked, and Master sent me from the Main House to deliver his message.”

I nod a thank-you.

She folds her arms. “Seems Master wants you winning as much as me and your mama.”

I blink up at her. Ma comes from behind the hanging quilt, her arms laden with soiled bed covers. “Whole farm be placing bets,” she says. “From the guards to the field slaves.”

I choke down a huge bite of mush. “The whole farm?” I croak, realizing this race might be as big as Christmas.

They both nod. “So hurry and eat,” Annabelle fusses. “I heard that yesterday Newcastle kept you jumping with chores so you had no time to ride Savannah. Well, last night when I was serving Master his supper I told him right out, “Master Giles, the race won't be fair if Gabriel doesn't have a chance to work with that horse. And sir, I know you're fair.” She yanked the half-finished plate off the table. “So go, Gabriel, he's giving you an hour.”

“Yes ma'am!” I salute Annabelle like I was Pa and she was a captain, and then dodging her kick, I run from the house.

Minutes later, I catch Savannah in her pasture and slip on the bridle. Leading her out the gate, I steer her to the mounting block and leap on. She takes off at a trot.

“Settle, settle,” I croon as we canter away past the barn and into the hayfield. Her nose is high, her nostrils flared, her stride stiff. The rising sun beats on my shoulders, and soon we're both sweating.

We canter through the high grass to the river, which is wide and sluggish. Savannah skitters to a stop at the muddy edge. She flings her head and dances nervously, the mud sucking at her hooves. I hum to her. One thing I know for certain, if we're going to beat Captain Conrad, the filly has to trust me.

A frog plops into the water. Savannah flies backward. But with hands, heels, and voice, I urge her back to the edge. She takes one tentative step into the water and then freezes, her forelegs ramrod straight. A soft wind blows from the opposite side of the river, bringing with it the sounds of blackbirds, bullfrogs, and cicadas.

It seems to take forever, but I'm patient, and finally Savannah blows out a huge sigh, drops her head, and drinks. Grinning, I lie back on her rump and close my eyes. Yesterday, Newcastle
did
run me ragged mucking stalls, scrubbing buckets, and grooming horses until he thought I was too spent to work with the filly. Meanwhile, Flanagan was taking it easy—sitting in the shade, polishing his boots, and breezing Captain Conrad in the cool of the morning.

But come evening, when Newcastle was tucking into a hearty supper, I snuck Savannah out of the stall. As the sun lowered, I led her from cornfield to wheat field. While we walked, I told her how we had to win the race. She listened, flicking her ears at the sound of my voice. By the time the sun was down, the filly's head was draped over my shoulder, and I knew she'd heard every word. Tomorrow if I have to, I'll sneak her out again. We'll canter up and down the hills, maybe stretch into a gallop, just for a beat, so she can feel what it's like to run wild and free.

After that, it's race day.

Voices make me open one eye. I peer sideways, spying two men on the bridge that crosses the river. Curious, I sit up. They're Master's armed guards, patrolling the area. Their heads are together, and I wonder what they're discussing.

Rumor's been flying through the barns that One Arm and his men are on the move again. For days, they've been holed up in some wild hollow or Rebel's farm, steering clear of the Yankees. But now, rumors say, they're out of supplies, horses, and money.

Shivering, I gather the reins and nudge Savannah from the water. I ain't got time to worry about One Arm and his band of raiders. I need to groom Savannah to a shine, then feed her a special ration of oats before Newcastle returns from his trip to town.

Winning this race won't just help the horses. It will help me on my way to freedom.