by Alison Hart
Annabelle snaps her chin sideways like I slapped her. Her lower lip quivers, and she bursts into a storm of tears.
Horrified, I step backward, hitting the edge of the mahogany dining table. My elbow bumps a goblet and it crashes to the wooden floor, shattering.
Weeping noisily, Annabelle stoops to pick up the glass. Her shoulders heave. A shard pricks her palm and blood trickles from the gash. I stare down at her, frozen by her tears and the blood.
“You could help, Gabriel, since you broke it,” she chides between sobs.
I hunker down, throwing her cautious glances. I know everything about horses, but not one whit about ladies, and Annabelle’s tears have me all jangled up. Is she crying because I’m leaving for Saratoga?
“Annabelle, hush,” I caution, my voice low as I sweep the glass into a pile. “Mister Giles will hear you.”
“So let him hear.” Her nose is running and she wipes it with the back of her hand.
I pull a linen napkin from the tabletop and hand it to her. She blows into it, sounding like a mule braying, and I stifle a laugh.
“Oh, you think my tears are funny?” she asks crossly, but I can see she’s trying hard not to smile.
“No.” I sneak a look down the hall. “They’re just noisy. Are you going to tell Mister Giles about the broken goblet?”
“He won’t notice.” She sighs raggedly. Using the linen napkin, she dabs at the blood on her palm. “He never did care about the running of the house. And it’s worse since Mistress Jane died. He eats what’s set in front of him. Sleeps in his clothes on the settee. He hasn’t set foot upstairs since we buried her. The only thing he thinks and talks about are his precious horses.”
Fresh tears trickle down her cheeks, and I know then that it ain’t just my trip to Saratoga that has Annabelle in such a state.
“This house is like a tomb,” she goes on. “Like we were all buried with Mistress Jane.”
“Hush all this talk of the dead.” Standing, I glance nervously around the room. “You’ll bring Mistress Jane’s ghost back to haunt us.”
“Why, I’d welcome that!” Annabelle straightens up. “Least I’d have someone to talk to.” Then her anger drains like milk poured from a pitcher and she plops on a dining chair. “Oh, Gabriel, when your ma leaves tomorrow, I won’t have anyone.”
So this is why Annabelle’s so sad. And I can’t blame her. I’ll miss Ma, too. “You’ll have me,” I say lamely.
Her eyes flash. “You’ll be in Saratoga.”
I groan. There ain’t no way I can keep pace with her moods. “Annabelle, you can read and write and you’re free,” I tell her. “And Mistress taught you to sing and cross-stitch and curtsy like a lady. Why, you can do anything or go anywhere you want.”
Annabelle looks down at her lap. Her fingers pluck at the napkin. “No, I can’t. I’m more a stray dog than a lady, Gabriel. I was raised white, but I’m as black as you. There isn’t any place for me outside of this farm, this house.”
I frown. Is she right? Since I know little about life outside the stables, I can’t think of a good answer. “What about going to Lexington to work?”
Annabelle gives an unladylike snort. “I doubt there’s much call for a black girl who can cross-stitch and curtsy.”
“Well, how about going North?”
“And how would I get there? Mister Giles is all high on buying a ticket for a horse. But I don’t see him offering to buy me one.”
I throw up my hands. “Then make a place here. Use all your big learning to help others.”
“Others?”
“Annabelle, you were teaching Ma to read Pa’s letters. Why not teach some of the other slaves?”
“Do you think Mister Giles would allow it?”
I shrug. “He ain’t going to be here for ten days. You could start while we’re gone and see what happens.”
She bites her lip. “Would they want to learn?”
I stare at her. Doesn’t she know how hungry the slaves outside the house are to read and write? Although I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that Annabelle knows so little about the other workers on the farm. Her skin may be black, but she was raised far from the barns and fields. We only know each other because Ma worked in the Main House, too. “I’d want to learn,” I reply.
Annabelle’s lips part in surprise. “You would?”
“I’d like to be able to read Pa’s letters, too. Why don’t you go down to the quarters one evening and talk to people?” I suggest.
I detect a hint of worry in her eyes.
“Would you go with me? I’ve never been to the quarters without Mistress Jane or your ma, and that was to visit the new babies and the sick.”
“I’d be happy to accompany you.”
“I’m much obliged, Gabriel.” Annabelle’s smile is like sunshine.
“My pleasure.” Grinning, I rock back on my heels, feeling less like a milksop and more like a dashing fellow. Might be I do know a whit about ladies. But then Annabelle surprises me with a kiss on my cheek. Instantly, my face flames like a torch, my senses fly to the stars, and I realize I know nothing at all.
Chapter Eight
It takes a whole day to travel to Camp Nelson. Ma’s few belongings, some packed in a basket and the rest tied up in a bundle, are stowed in the wagon bed. Pitifully sparse, considering they hold a lifetime. She’s left a few things for me back in the cabin, which I’ll soon be sharing with Cato and his wife, Taisie. They were moving in their goods as we departed.
Ma’s eager to see Pa, and when we get within a mile of the camp she urges the mules to a trot. I’m excited to see Pa, too, but the thought of heading back to Woodville without Ma taints my excitement with sorrow. Fortunately, Mister Giles has allowed Jase to come along, so my return trip won’t be so lonely. He’s been riding in the wagon bed, but as we approach the gates of the camp, he rises to his knees and stares at the sights.
“Soldiers!” he exclaims. The guards manning the gate are dressed in Union blue. Rifles rest on their shoulders as they march slowly back and forth along the road.
Since I’ve visited before, I take the reins from Ma and act like I know what it’s all about. “They’ll be checking our passes,” I say. “Coloreds ain’t usually allowed in camp unless they’re recruits. It’s lucky Captain Waite wrote a letter for you, Ma.”
Ma nods primly. She’s dressed in lace-up boots, her best frock, and a bonnet instead of a headscarf. I want to look like a free woman, Gabriel, she told me. As the soldiers approach, she holds out the letter from Captain Waite. Her head’s held high, and I sit tall, too. Pa was promoted to corporal on account of helping Captain Waite catch the Rebel raiders, so we have every right to be proud.
A guard reads the letter, checks our passes, and waves us through the gate. “Refugee tents are on the hill beyond the stables,” he tells us.
“I ain’t a refugee,” Ma corrects him. “I’m to be employed as a laundress.”
“Refugee tents are where you’ll be staying, ma’am.”
Ma purses her lips.
“Ma, you wouldn’t want to stay in the Soldiers Home with Pa,” I whisper as I crack the reins over the mules’ backs. “Men sleep ten deep in a room.”
Jase’s eyes bug out as the wagon rumbles down the Lexington and Danville Turnpike, which travels right through Camp Nelson. The place is like a town, I tell them, pointing out the bakery, machine shop, and harness shop. “Even has its own hospital and post office,” I add, sounding mighty knowledgeable.
I’m looking for the road to the stables when I hear shrill chattering. Six soldiers are herding a group of colored women toward us. The women carry hastily packed bundles. They’re barefoot and dirty, and their dresses have scandalously low-cut necks, showing too much flesh.
The woman leading the group is as black and flinty as iron. Her jaw’s moving and her hands are waving as she berates the soldiers with every step. When she sees our wagon, she halts.
“Keep moving,” the soldier on he
r right barks.
The woman ignores him. “Why is that colored woman allowed in here?” Her arm is raised and one stiff finger points at Ma. “Why are we being thrown out and those Negroes are coming in?”
“We’ve got our orders. Keep moving.” The soldier prods her with the butt of his rifle. Pressed on by the others, the woman reluctantly walks past us. When she gets close enough, she spits on the ground under our wheels. “May the devil Speed S. Fry heap his curses upon you all,” she cusses as we roll by.
I flush and slap the reins on the mules’ backs. As we turn right and head up the hill toward the stables, the only sound is the creak and rattle of the wagon. Finally Jase breaks the silence. “Is Speed S. Fry really the devil’s name?”
“No, Jase. He’s a brigadier general,” I explain. “He’s the one who wrote a letter so Jackson and me could visit Pa earlier. He’s the officer in charge of the whole camp.”
“Then why’s that lady cussing him?”
“That wasn’t no lady,” Ma says huffily.
I flick my eyes at Ma, who’s glaring straight ahead. “I reckon they cussed him ’cause he’s the officer who ordered them thrown out.”
“Why’re the soldiers throwin’ them out?” Jase persists.
Ma sets her lips even tighter.
“Might be because unmarried women aren’t allowed,” I say, throwing Jase a frown that says hush your questions.
When we reach the stables, I halt the mules in front of a hitching post. The stable area consists of four long barns arranged like the sides of a box. A large fenced pen has been erected in the middle of the stable yard. Hoots and hollers are coming from the enclosure, and I stand up to see what the noise is all about.
Colored soldiers wearing dusty uniforms are scattered around the pen. Each has a horse wearing a halter and tethered by a lead rope. Saddles sit on the top rails, and some soldiers have blankets in hand. It appears they’re attempting to saddle their mounts. The horses circle, rear, and buck in protest.
“Jase, get up here.” I gesture for him to join us on the wagon seat. “You gotta see this.”
We watch a soldier throw a blanket on a sickle-hocked bay. The horse humps his back, and the blanket slides under his legs, scaring the tar out of him. Yanking the rope from the soldier’s grasp, the horse careens across the pen.
“I can handle a horse better than that,” Jase says.
A tall soldier with a corporal’s stripe calmly chases down the loose horse. Reaching up, he pats the horse’s neck, and I see that it’s Pa.
“Ma, look. There’s Pa! He must be in charge of all these soldiers.”
I wave my arm. “Pa!”
He spots us. For a second, he stares like he can’t believe his eyes, then his face breaks out in a grin. “At ease, men,” he orders. “Praise your horses and walk them quietly. Let them smell the saddles and blankets. We’ll try again later.”
Still smiling, he strides across the pen. “Lucy! Gabriel! What are you doing here?”
“Didn’t you get my letter?” Ma asks.
He shakes his head. His face is dusty but it shines with love. In one swift move, he vaults the fence. Reaching his arms high, he beckons for Ma to climb down from the wagon. Her smile’s as big as his, and when she jumps into his arms, he wraps them tightly around her.
Then he gestures for me. “Get down here, boy.” I spring from the wagon, and he clasps me to his side with one arm. A moment later, Jase joins the hug.
“Mail’s slow here,” he tells Ma. “But it don’t matter. I’m delighted to see you. It’s been too long, Lucy.” Dipping his head, he kisses her.
Heat rises up my neck, and it ain’t from the sun. Jase giggles behind his hand and a chorus of whistles rings from the pen.
“Whoo-eee, that’s what I call being in command!” one of the soldiers hollers.
Pa breaks off the kiss. Ma’s holding onto her bonnet and grinning, all flustered. I’ve never seen Ma and Pa act so foolish. I’m relieved when Pa tells us to wait for him by the wagon.
“I’m almost finished with my men,” he says. “Then I’ll escort you to your tent.”
“Almost finished?” I eye the soldiers and horses in the pen. “Ain’t but two horses wearing saddles out of the whole bunch.”
Pa sighs. “I know. I sure could use you and Jase for a week, Gabriel. You could help me break these horses.”
“Are you organizing a cavalry, Pa?” I ask excitedly.
“Might be. General Burbridge is asking for the authority to organize a colored cavalry regiment.”
“That’s grand!” I exclaim. “And Pa, you know horses better than any soldier. Why, they should put you in command.”
“Well, I doubt that, but I am helping Captain Waite prepare. And it’s a job, that’s for sure. We’ve seized a hundred horses from disloyal Kentucky citizens.” He nods at the animals in the pen. “White soldiers picked over all the good mounts. Colored soldiers got the carriage and plow horses—and a few young ones that ain’t broke.” He waves his hand at the men in the enclosure. “And my future cavalry soldiers? They’re field slaves who ain’t never put a foot in a stirrup iron.”
“Isaac,” Ma says, “organizing these men into a cavalry is likely to be one impossible task.”
He grins. “You sound like the white soldiers who mock us every chance they get. But I aim to help turn this ragtag lot into the finest mounted regiment in the United States Army.”
“And I aim to join them,” I declare.
“Me, too,” Jase pipes up.
I thrust out my chest. “Now that the Union army’s organizing a colored cavalry, there ain’t nothing to stop me.”
“Me neither!” Jase puffs out his chest, too.
Ma arches one brow under her bonnet. “My, someone must have forgotten Mister Giles’s plan for him to ride racehorses at Saratoga.”
Pa tips back his kepi. “Saratoga! Why, you’ll be riding with Abe Hawkins, son. Ain’t no reason to pass that up.”
“Fighting for freedom is reason,” I declare.
“For freedom!” Jase echoes.
Pa crosses his arms and aims a stern eye at Jase, then at me. “I want your name in the paper ’cause you won a famous race, Gabriel. Not on the list of dead found on the battlefield.”
I drop my gaze. “Yes sir.”
“Go to Saratoga. See something of the country.” He tousles my hair and then gives Ma a quick peck on the cheek before heading through the gate into the enclosure. I climb on the bottom rail and watch him stride into the middle of the pen. His voice booms out a command, and the soldiers quickly form a line, their horses standing smartly by their right shoulders.
They respect Pa, and so must I, I think. I do want to jockey Aristo, but every time I come to Camp Nelson and see the colored soldiers, a spark flares in me and I want to be training and drilling.
“You and me’ll enlist one day, ain’t that right, Gabriel?” Jase asks. He’s leaning his arms on the top rail, too, watching with the same hungry look in his eye. I just nod.
When Pa is done for the day, Jase and me unhitch the mules. Pa shows us where to bed them down for the night and where to leave the wagon. Then he slings Ma’s bundle over his shoulder and leads the way to the refugee camp.
I carry the basket, which bumps my leg as I walk beside Pa, trying to match his stride. Jase walks beside me, and we chant left . . . right . . . left . . . right, pretending we’re soldiers marching off to war.
“Company . . . halt!” I order when I spot the refugee camp. The camp’s nothing more than two rows of dirty white tents with a lane in between—like buildings lined up on both sides of a city road. Except here there’s no packed earth, no cobblestones, no brick walkway. Just mud.
“Pigs sure would love wallowing here,” Jase says.
“Company forward,” I order. Slogging through the mud, Jase and me catch up to Pa, who’s stopped in front of one of the tents. He pulls back the flap and, with an exaggerated bow, waves Ma inside.
The tent has a straw floor, tamped and gritty. In one corner a wooden box serves as a table. In the other corner, two rumpled and stained quilts cover a mound of straw. Despite the sparse furnishings, it looks recently lived in. I wonder if it was once the home of the iron-faced lady.
“This is where your ma’s going to live?” Jase whispers to me. His straw bed in the barn must look fine in comparison.
“Why, it just needs a little tidying up!” Ma exclaims with false cheeriness.
Pa snatches up the dirty quilts. He won’t look her in the eye, so I know he’s ashamed of what he and the camp can offer. “We’ll clean out the old straw and put in fresh, Lucy. We’ll lime the ground and chase out the bedbugs. And I can rustle up another box and perhaps a chair. You won’t have to share the tent, neither. Captain Waite promised me.”
Ma smiles reassuringly. “Isaac, there ain’t no need to fret. Can’t be any worse than the soldiers’ quarters. ’Sides, I’d stay no matter.” With a sigh, she steps into his arms.
Hastily I drop the basket on the ground, and Jase and me rush from the tent, dropping the flap behind us. “Whew. That’s more kissing than I care to see ever again,” Jase says.
We mosey down the lane between the two rows of tents. There are colored folks everywhere, mostly women and children, but several old men, too, who sit on upturned boxes, watching us pass with clouded eyes.
“You boys got a coin to spare?” one asks.
Another man holds out a whistle he’s whittled. His threadbare shirt is held together by one button.
“I ain’t got any money to pay you for it,” I tell him.
He nods at my shirt. “I’ll take that. To chase the damp from my bones.”
I swallow. Life for free blacks sure seems hard. Jase pushes me from behind and we run to the end of the tents. A circle of iron tubs steams over fires. Beyond the fires, wash lines draped with long johns and socks stretch from tree to tree. A dozen women huddle over the boiling tubs, stirring with long wooden sticks. A pile of dirty clothes is heaped beside each tub.