by Alison Hart
“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 horseman. 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.
I glance into the second stall. This horse ain’t so sociable. Its head is tucked in the farthest corner. Talking softly, I unlatch the door. My bare toes squish in the wet straw. I stroke his neck and down his chest. The horse looks as if he was once handsome and muscular. Now my fingertips ripple across every rib. His near hind leg is wrapped with gauze, and I smell the festering wound.
The war’s tough on soldiers, Pa had told me, but it’s hell on horses.
The wound needs washing and fresh wrap. The horse needs sweet grass and grooming. And the stalls need a good mucking.
A sense of purpose fills me.
Now I know why I’ve been drawn to Camp Nelson. Ma and Pa need me. But so do the horses.
The tapping of drums and the trumpeting of bugles snap my attention away from the horse. I better hurry, or I’ll miss Pa.
Holding my bundle under one arm, I latch the door and run from the barn. Colored soldiers are walking down the lane toward me, heading for the mess hall. As I trot past, one of them teases, “Where you goin,’ boy? A Rebel after you with a whip?”
“Nah, just my ma,” I josh as I scan the squad for Pa, but he ain’t with this bunch. Cutting off on the lane to the right, I take a shortcut to the colored barra
cks, down a path behind the Soldiers Home. Next to it, farther down, is the hospital.
Across the pike, a company of soldiers is drilling in the field beside the colored barracks. The men move in a wave of blue as a lone voice rings out, “Left . . . left. Left, right, left.” On the pike, two mounted soldiers patrol the road, stopping stragglers and checking passes. My steps falter. All I have is the telegraph from Captain Waite.
I turn tail, but not before one of the mounted guards sees me. “Halt!” he hollers, and I hear the dance of hooves.
I race for the hospital. It’s a distance, but if I reach it, I can lose myself among its many wards and outbuildings. I round the back corner of the first ward and hunker behind a stack of firewood. The soldier canters his horse right by my hiding spot, but I reckon he’ll be back soon for a closer look.
Behind the hospital there’s a small building half-hidden in a stand of trees. I peer around the woodpile. To my left, patients in wheelchairs sit on a terrace, basking in the early morning sun. Some have bandaged limbs; others have no limbs at all. I don’t see any mounted guards.
I take off for the trees, hunched low so as not to attract attention. My lungs are about to burst when I reach the outbuilding. The door’s unlocked, so I rush inside. It’s cool and dark, with only one small-paned window lighting the room. I shut the door and crouch behind a table, my heart pounding like the reveille drums.
Outside I hear the guard’s horse trot past.
I hold my breath, listening for approaching footsteps. If I don’t find Pa soon, I’ll have to look for Captain Waite. Mister Giles told me that if I wish to stay at Camp Nelson, the captain would have to secure permission from the colonel of the regiment. With papers from him, I won’t have to hide from every eagle-eyed sentry.
I huddle there in the shadows, waiting until I’m sure the guards have given up their search. Slowly I rise from behind the table, my eyes on that window. Nothing stirs beyond the glass panes, and I exhale with relief. As I sling my bundle over my shoulder again, my hand brushes something bristly. I drop my gaze to the top of the table, and goose bumps rise on my flesh.
A man gazes up at me, his bearded face waxy with death. Gasping, I scuttle backwards and bang into the edge of another table. I whirl. Another man lies on top, his unblinking sockets raised toward heaven. His cheeks are sunken, his arms skeletal.
Shuddering, I force myself to look around the room. Table after table holds a corpse. More are piled in a corner, like a steeple of flesh.
A scream clogs my throat.
This place is filled with the dead!
Chapter Five
Slapping my hand over my mouth, I lunge for the door, throw it open, and tear out of the building. I flee around the other side of the hospital and race blindly across the pike toward the colored barracks, all worries about that mounted guard scared straight from my mind. I glance over my shoulder, picturing dead soldiers chasing me—dry flesh flapping, brittle bones rattling—and the scream finally spews unbidden between my fingers: “Aieeeee!”
Whack! I slam into someone so hard that I bounce into the air and land on the ground. A white soldier stares down at me. He’s young, with only a trace of mustache over his lip.
“P-pardon sir . . . I mean, C-Captain,” I stammer. “Pardon for knocking into you, but . . . but . . . g-ghosts!” I wave wildly in the direction of the hospital.
Laughter busts out all around me, and I stop stuttering long enough to realize I’m completely encircled by colored soldiers.
One of the soldiers addresses the young officer. “Cap’n Waite, sir, I reckon this boy must’ve stumbled into one of the dead houses.”
Two strong hands lift me from behind. “Stand up, Gabriel.”
I spin around. “Pa?”
He’s not laughing with the others. “Men, this young man who claims to be seeing ghosts is my son, Gabriel Alexander. Son, you remember Captain Waite. And these are the soldiers of Company B.”
I lower my head, ashamed at my cowardliness.
“Don’t fret, Gabriel,” the captain says. “There’s not a man among us who dares enter a dead house, even on a bet.”
A chorus of “Amens” rings through the air.
Captain Waite suddenly turns serious. “All right, men, it’s time to get a move on!” he shouts. “Attention!” The soldiers hastily assemble into even lines, all eyes to the front. Pa stands to the left, his three yellow sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve. The trumpeter sounds several notes and the captain says, “Dismissed.”
Most of the soldiers head off. A few stop to introduce themselves: Private Joseph Black, Private Crutcher, Private Morton, and Corporal Vaughn, who has taken over Pa’s position in the squad. I shake their hands numbly.
“Welcome to Company B, Gabriel,” Private Black says. “You gave us a good laugh!” Contrary to his name, Private Black is light skinned. “I’m especially pleased to meet you. My own sons are ’bout your size, and I surely miss them,” he adds solemnly.
Corporal Vaughn shakes my hand last. He’s fresh faced, not much older than me. His palm is uncalloused, and he wears glasses. Might be he’s a scholar. “Your pa has told us much about you.”
When all the soldiers have left, I finally look at Pa. His expression is stony. “What are you doing—?”
“I think I can explain,” Captain Waite breaks in. “Mister Giles telegraphed me about Gabriel’s decision to come to Camp Nelson. He knew the boy would need an entry into camp, and thought I could supply it. He also wrote glowingly of Gabriel’s skill with horses, something sorely needed in Company B.”
“Thank you, sir,” Pa says. I think I detect a hint of pride in his voice, but there’s a dark frown on his face. “Permission to be excused?” When the captain nods, Pa puts his hand on my shoulder and leads me a few paces away from Captain Waite. “You left Woodville Farm and jockeying?” His tone is harsh.
“Yes sir. It was time to move on.”
His spine goes rigid. “Your mama and I specifically ordered you to stay at the farm.”
“But, Pa, I wanted to be here with you and Ma. I want to help the Yankees fight for freedom.”
“At Camp Nelson, we obey orders. We don’t run away without permission.”
“I can obey soldiers’ orders. But, Pa,” I protest, “I ain’t a slave no more. I made up my own mind. And I didn’t run away. Mister Giles gave me permission.”
“Does your ma know you’re here?”
“Yes sir. Annabelle and me—”
“Annabelle! You brought her, too?” Pa jerks his forage cap off his head and slaps it against his leg. I’ve never seen him so riled up.
“I thought you’d be pleased I was here, sir. Captain Waite believes I’ll be useful.”
Pa doesn’t dare throw a murderous glance at Captain Waite, so he aims it at me. “Then I’ll leave it to Captain Waite to decide what to do with you,” he retorts, and he strides off in the direction of the mess tent.
I watch him go, wondering if I made a powerful mistake by coming to Camp Nelson.
“Sergeant Alexander seems peeved with you,” Captain Waite says.
“That’s for certain.” I pick up my bundle and dust it off. “And I wouldn’t blame you, Captain Waite, if you sent me packin’ after slammin’ into you like that. I wouldn’t want a coward like me in Company B.”
“Gabriel, you’re too young to enlist in the company, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be useful. We have many civilians working and living at Camp Nelson.”
I don’t know what a civilian is, but his words sound encouraging.
“Your pa will settle down,” Captain Waite says with a smile. “Especially when I assure him that the most dangerous job I’ll assign you is picking out horses’ hooves.”
I venture a smile back. “You mean I can stay?”
“Well, Gabriel, Company B has a stable full of horses, all of them rejected by the white companies. Each soldier is assigned one horse to care for, and there are extra mounts in case of problem
s.” He shakes his head. “And Lord knows we have problems. The colored cavalry, which barely has a name that’s official, has been given the worst mounts in camp. They need grooming, doctoring, and training. Many of these nags are unbroken; some spent their lives behind plows. And others, like my own mount Champion, are like riding greased thunderbolts. They must have bucked off enough white soldiers to get themselves sent along to us.”
I grin. “Sounds like Mister Giles’s colt, Aristo.”
“You’ll need a pass from Colonel Brisbin. Right now, he’s in charge of organizing the regiment, which will most likely be called the Fifth. The colonel’s a well-known abolitionist who believes colored soldiers will fight as hard and valiantly as white. ” He points to the field of tents on the hill. “First I’ll show you where to stow your gear. You can bunk with the drummer boys.”
“Thank you, sir, but a stall will do me fine.”
The approaching clip-clop of horses’ hooves draws my attention to the road. The mounted guard who chased me into the dead house is trotting toward us, his expression more peeved than Pa’s.
Stopping his horse, which is still lathered from the chase, he salutes Captain Waite. “Sir, permission to throw this guttersnipe from camp.”
“Permission denied, Lieutenant Wagoner. This boy is Company B’s new stable hand.”
The lieutenant’s nostrils flare, as if he detects a bad smell. “Sir, we don’t need any more coloreds in camp. There are already too many refugees and Negro soldiers. The orders from headquarters—”
“Dash headquarters,” Captain Waite says. “I’ll take the matter up with Colonel Brisbin.”
“Yes, Captain.” Lieutenant Wagoner scowls at me and then at the captain before cantering off. The lieutenant is years older than Captain Waite. I wonder how he and the other soldiers feel about taking orders from an officer so young.
“The lieutenant’s from Tennessee,” Captain Waite mutters, as if that explains all. I’d like to tell him I don’t need no explanation. Being in the North for a while already taught me that hatred knows no borders.