by Alison Hart
Taking off his hat, Major Wiley runs his fingers through his white hair. I see defeat in his eyes, and my hopes sink. “I’m sorry, Winston,” Major Wiley says solemnly. “Unless the Union troops stationed in Louisville can catch those raiders, your horse is lost for good.”
Chapter Five
Captain’s gone and it’s my cowardly fault. I dare not look at Mister Giles. The other night he said there were worse things than having a horse stolen. To my mind, he’s wrong. When Major Wiley recovered his horses from the raiders, two of them were so broken down they had to be shot.
One was Major Wiley’s favorite mare, Fancy, who was in foal. Major Wiley begged the raiders not to take her; he told them she’d never keep up. They only laughed. A day later they abandoned Fancy after riding her hard for twenty miles. Pa told me Major Wiley wept like a baby when he pulled the trigger.
I imagine that fate for Captain and my heart goes numb.
“Thank you, men,” Mister Giles says. “You did your best. The reward still stands. I won’t give up until my horse is found and returned.”
Mister Giles heads back to the Main House, his tread heavy on the brick walk. He doesn’t even glance at Aristo, so I know his mind is as leaden as his step. It hasn’t even been a week since he had to bury his wife, and now this.
I pat Aristo, glad he’s safe. When the raiders came to Woodville, One Arm tried to steal him. It was luck and the Union cavalry that saved the colt from Captain’s fate.
I’m glad Mister Giles isn’t giving up. One day, luck and the cavalry just might save Captain, too.
***
The day of the Kentucky Association track meet comes swiftly. I’m jockeying Nantura and Washington, two of Major Wiley’s Thoroughbreds. On the long walk to Lexington, I take turns riding both horses, working out strategies for handling them during the race.
Nantura’s a heavy-headed, bullish, long-strided mare. She always wants to be in front. The mare hates anything—carriage horse, saddle horse, chicken—getting ahead of her. She hates the dirt kicked up in her face and the sight of a tail end. As soon as the race begins, I’ll need to get her in front and keep her there.
Washington’s a soft-mouthed, skittish, short-strided colt. He rocks when he canters and springs in the air when he sees his own shadow. When I race him, I’ll need to stay clear of the other horses and jockeys, coddle him from start to finish, and hope he has enough bounce to end strong.
Major Wiley has kept his promise, and six armed guards flank us, ensuring that our trip to Lexington will be trouble-free. Mister Giles has come along as well. To ease the pain of Mistress Jane’s death, I think.
We stop on the main street of Lexington, and Mister Giles buys me a new pair of riding boots. They’re as black and shiny as crows’ feathers. I hold them on my lap the last mile of the ride.
When we get to the Association track, which is on the east side of town, Major Wiley waves me away from the barn. “Do what you wish, Gabriel. You’re my jockey now. Not my groom.”
It’s a heady feeling, only I’m too bashful to walk into Lexington with the other jockeys, who’ll be drinking, gambling, and boasting about their exploits in the saddle. Instead, I stay and groom Nantura and Washington until their coats are glossy and they know my smell and voice.
Nightfall, I’m too wound up to sleep, so I mosey around the other stalls. By race time, Pa always knew every owner, jockey, and horse at the track. I aim to do the same.
The moon, as round and bright as a china plate, lights my way down the shed row. Despite the hot night, most of the top doors are shut. Finally, at the end of the barn, I find an open door and peer over it.
“Git on outta here,” a voice growls from inside. Startled, I stumble backward, colliding with a wooden box. The box and I pitch over and I find myself flat on the ground, looking up at two black faces. Neither is friendly.
“What’re you doing snooping around these stalls?” a man wearing a battered felt hat snarls down at me.
“N-n-nothing, sir.”
The second man bends at the waist and studies me with squinty eyes. I’m expecting him to spit on me—or worse—when he asks, “Ain’t you Isaac Alexander’s son?”
I nod vigorously.
“Heck, why didn’t you say so?” He holds out his hand and helps me up. “I’m Bates and this is Latham.” He introduces the man in the felt hat. “We’re old friends of your pa’s. How is he? Heard he was fighting Rebels.”
“Yes sir, he is.” Relieved, I brush off my britches.
“Sorry we was looking at you so suspicious like,” Latham says. Lowering his voice he adds, “Rumor has it some scoundrel’s sneaking ’round poisonin’ the horses.”
“Poisoning them? How?” At the track, Pa tended his charges carefully, ever mindful that some owners and trainers will do anything to win.
“Ain’t sure, but Master Lewis’s horse, Alliance, had something bitter in his grain,” Latham explains. “Luckily, the colt only picked at it, so he didn’t git sick. Master told us to keep our eyes peeled.”
I glance down the shed row. “Is that why all the stall doors are shut?”
“Yup. Everybody’s worried ’bout their horses.” Bates puts a hand on my shoulder. “Best you not be prowling around tonight. A suspicious groom might whack you with a shovel, thinking you’re that scoundrel.”
“Thank you for the advice.”
I’m turning to go when Bates stops me. “You’re jockeying tomorrow, ain’t you?” he asks.
“Yes sir. Two of Major Wiley’s horses.”
“We like the way you ride, Gabriel Alexander,” Bates says, and Latham nods in agreement. “And you ain’t a slave no more, right?”
“That’s right.” I straighten my spine. “I’m riding for myself.”
Bates steps closer. “We’ve got a tip for you. Watch out for Alliance’s jockey. He’s a nasty Tennessee boy. Carries a briar branch up his sleeve.”
“Thanks.” Usually grooms are fiercely loyal to the horses they care for, so Bates and Latham’s tip is an unexpected gift.
“Only thanks we need is you beatin’ dat Tennessee boy,” Latham says.
“And maybe winning us a little bettin’ money,” Bates chimes in. “Might be you have a tip for us?”
“Put your money on Nantura in the first race,” I whisper. “Mare runs to win.” I thank them again and hurry toward Major Wiley’s stalls. I’m halfway there when I hear a whinny. I stop to listen and hear it again, muffled this time. It’s coming from the clearing in the trees where the Negro women cook burgoo, the stew they sell on race day.
This time of night the clearing’s dark. Who would be there at this late hour with a horse?
Might be the scoundrel with the poison.
My palms start sweating, and my feet cleave to the ground. Then I hear a smothered snort like someone’s clamped a hand over the horse’s nostrils. My stomach jumps, and I know I’ve got to look, despite my chicken-heart. If there is a horse in trouble, I can raise a ruckus and hope that Bates, Latham, and the other grooms will come running.
Stooping low, I run barefoot across the grass to the edge of the woods. I flatten against a thick tree trunk and cautiously peer around it. In the middle of the clearing I make out the shapes of two men and a horse.
It’s too shadowy to see faces, but I can hear voices.
“Two hundred dollars,” one man demands.
“Two hundred!” the other scoffs. “Nag ain’t worth shucks. I’ll give you fifty.”
“One hundred fifty. He’s a purebred.”
“You mean he’s pure lame. A hundred. That’s my top offer.”
The two men are horse-trading, I gather. But why at night? There can only be one reason: the horse is stolen, and the men are thieves.
The hair rises on the back of my neck. Go and get help. I’m inching away from the tree when I hear the slap of a palm on a flank and the drum of hooves.
“See him trot? Horse ain’t so lame.”
I free
ze. The men are suddenly so close I can smell them.
“Hundred’s my final offer. Take it or leave it.”
I prick up my ears. The man talks with a Northern accent. Have I heard his voice before?
“I’ll take it and be done.”
I figure money must be changing hands, ’cause all’s quiet except for the horse’s breathing.
“And here’s twenty more,” the man with the Northern accent says. “Twenty Yankee dollars to make sure you leave town and keep your mouth shut.”
The other man grunts. Then I hear rustling and a man walks by leading a horse. Stepping back behind the tree, I peek at the man as he passes. He’s whip-thin with a bushy moustache.
Newcastle!
Without thinking, I spring from my hiding place. “What’re you doing here?” I shout.
Newcastle whirls. One hand goes to his waist like he’s got a pistol or knife stuck in his belt. He stares at me like he’s trying to recall who I am, then barks out a laugh. “Why, if it ain’t Winston Giles’s flea-bite of a slave.”
“So what’re you doing here?” I repeat, furious at seeing the trainer who once whipped Aristo and me. “Mister Giles sent you packing. I saw him put you on the train heading north.”
“Must be I got off at the next stop,” Newcastle says smugly. “Maybe I decided I was fond of Kentucky and slaves like you to do my bidding.”
“I ain’t a slave no more.”
Newcastle arches one bushy brow. “Don’t matter to me. I don’t have to answer to no colored boy for no reason. Besides, I have a job here in town. I’m training horses for Doctor Rammer.”
The news jerks me upright. “You’re the trainer he hired from the North?”
“Yup. Man has some high class Thoroughbreds. His mare Rose Girl is entered against Major Wiley’s colt.” He squirts an arc of chewing tobacco into the trees. “I aim to make sure that Rose Girl has a winning day tomorrow.”
“How’re you planning on that?” I ask, and then it dawns on me. “You’re the one who slipped poison into Alliance’s feed bucket.”
Newcastle’s face darkens. “Don’t be accusing me of nothing you can’t prove.”
“I can’t prove you poisoned the feed, but I can prove you bought that horse off a thief.” I point to the horse he’s leading.
He sneers. “You know, you’ve gotten right mouthy since I left. A good beatin’ will put you in your place.” He raises his hand.
I cower, steeling myself against the blow, and the horse shies away.
Newcastle laughs. “Still a milksop, huh, boy?”
But my attention’s on the horse. The colt is brown from ear to hoof. His coat is ashy and his ribs are hollow, but there’s something fine and familiar in his clean lines.
Then I draw in a sharp breath. Captain!
Chapter Six
Straightening, I stare at the horse. It can’t be Captain. This colt doesn’t have a white star.
“Get away from that horse,” Newcastle snaps.
Ignoring him, I step forward and stroke the whirl of hair between the horse’s eyes.
“Get away, I said.” A strong arm knocks me aside. Newcastle clucks and, shortening the rope, hustles the horse from the circle of trees.
I hold my fingers up to the light of the moon. The tips are black.
“That is Captain! You put shoe black on his star!” I shout, hurrying after them.
“I didn’t,” Newcastle wheels to face me. “The two raiders who stole him from you did. Besides, I bought him from that raider fair and square.” He chuckles. “And now I aim to get that ree-ward money from Mister Giles. Quite a tidy profit I’ll make. I’ll concoct some story that’ll make me out to be some kind of hero, too.”
His smile fades to a sneer as he leans toward me and growls, “And no colored boy’s going to get in my way. So don’t be running to Mister Giles with your tale. He might believe your word over mine, but no other white man will, so remember that.” Thrusting his face even closer to mine, he spits out the last word. I smell his sour breath and my stomach twists.
Without waiting for a reply, Newcastle turns and leads Captain toward the barns.
Tears of anger and frustration rush to my eyes. I know he’s right. No other white man will believe my word over his. My being free ain’t changed the laws or people’s feelings about coloreds.
As I trudge through the moonlight to the barn, I clench and unclench my fists. I tell myself to be content that Captain will soon be home. Despite his lameness and ragged appearance, he should heal fine. And Captain, not my hatred for Newcastle, is what matters most.
***
The next morning, I’m in the paddock with Nantura, ready for her race. Major Wiley’s groom Peter is holding tight to the mare’s reins, trying to keep her from kicking passersby. Peter’s stout, but he’s just a boy, and it takes all his might to hold the headstrong mare.
Several Jockey Club officials are milling around the paddock, checking the horses entered in the first race. I’ve already been on the scale. Ninety pounds. Five pounds more than my previous race weeks ago. I’ve got to tell Ma to go light on the griddlecakes.
I’m ready to mount when I spot Newcastle. He’s leading Captain through the crowd outside the paddock. The colt’s wet—it rained early this morning—and he ain’t been brushed, but someone’s rubbed most of the shoe black from his white star.
“Mister Hammond,” Newcastle calls to the president of the Jockey Club as he and Captain part the crowd. “I believe you know Mister Winston Giles?”
Mister Hammond hustles toward Newcastle, sputtering, “Excuse me. Excuse me, you can’t bring that horse into the paddock. This area is for race entries only.”
Whisking off his hat, Newcastle stops. “I’m terribly sorry, sir,” he apologizes. “But I have an urgent need to speak to Mister Giles.” He nods toward Captain, and I wonder where he’s kept the colt hidden all night. “I believe I have found his stolen horse, Captain Conrad.”
Newcastle slants a discreet glance at a nearby group of horse owners. Mister Giles is talking with one of the men. That liar Newcastle has known all along exactly where Mister Giles is! All this bowing and scraping is for show.
“You have his horse?” Mister Hammond’s blustery expression turns to one of astonishment. By now, most of Kentucky knows about the theft of Captain and the reward. “Why, then,” he declares, “we’d better find Mister Giles and let him know right away!”
Mister Hammond weaves around a tall bay horse. “Winston!” he calls, and Mister Giles looks his way. “A man says he has found your stolen Thoroughbred!”
Mister Giles strides over to Mister Hammond, who takes his arm and steers him toward Newcastle. Mister Giles doesn’t seem surprised to see Newcastle, so he must have heard the trainer hadn’t gone North. But his expression is wary until his eyes light on Captain Conrad.
“By tarnation, it is him!” he exclaims. “Where’d you find him?”
“At some livery on the other side of Lexington.” Newcastle launches into such a wild tale that I’m reminded of the traveling magic show that came to Woodville the summer I was ten. Back then the magician tricked us with a sleight of hand. Newcastle’s tricking everyone now with a sleight of tongue.
Disgusted, I turn back to Nantura. “I’m ready to mount,” I tell Peter, who’s staring at Newcastle, open-mouthed. He’s under that swindler’s spell, as sure as I was under that magician’s.
Peter gives me a leg into the saddle and then leads Nantura closer so he can hear the ending of Newcastle’s story. I have no choice but to listen, too.
“I recognized the colt immediately from when I worked at Woodville,” Newcastle tells all the listeners. “Now I don’t know who those men were that had poor Captain,” he adds, sincerity dripping like gravy from his lips. “But I believe they were up to no good. I was afraid they’d shoot me, so I told them I’d already alerted the Federals. They ran like scared rabbits.”
“Where was this stable?” Mister Giles
asks, his expression dubious.
Newcastle scratches his head, as if puzzled. “Danged if I remember. I got lost coming to the track from town last night. I don’t know Lexington streets too well, so I stopped at the livery to ask directions. Noticed the owner was acting mighty suspicious.” He lowers his voice dramatically, enjoying the attention. “I figured the owner was in cahoots with the Rebels and didn’t want no Yankee poking around. It was dumb luck I spied Captain tethered behind the stable—hidden as if they didn’t want no one to spot him.”
Mister Giles is frowning like he doesn’t believe the story, but Hammond claps Newcastle on the back and announces, “Folks, Mister Newcastle here is a brave man who deserves a cheer as well as the reward money.”
The crowd roars out a hip, hip, hurrah, and Mister Giles has no choice but to thank the man for finding his horse. “Meet me after the races at the Phoenix Hotel,” he tells Newcastle, “and I will have the reward ready for you.”
Dropping his chin, Newcastle stares at the hat in his hands. “A reward is not necessary, sir. It was an honor to return your horse.”
Mister Giles smiles politely. “Well, that’s a lofty sentiment, but I never go back on my word.”
“Thank you, sir,” Newcastle replies, and I wonder if I’m the only one who sees the smirk beneath his moustache.
Mister Giles takes the colt from Newcastle. At least Captain is in safe hands now. As for that double-tongued Newcastle, the crowd closes around him, wanting to hear his story again. I can still hear his boasting as they sweep him from the paddock.
I shake my head hard, trying to get rid of all thoughts of Newcastle. I want my mind to be clear for the race. Nantura tosses her mane and prances a bit, and I feel her muscles vibrate beneath me. The mare wants to win, and I aim to do her justice.
“I’m not going to confuse you with instructions on how to ride the mare, Gabriel,” Major Wiley says as he hobbles toward us, waving a silver-tipped cane.