by Alison Hart
“Gabriel!” Mister Giles waves his cane at me. “How was the last leg of your journey?”
“Fine sir,” I call, “but I’d like permission to unload Aristo. Neither of us is interested in traveling to the next stop.”
“Permission granted, although there’s no chance of the train leaving with you on board,” Mister Giles assures me. “The engineer was handsomely bribed. I had to find Mister Baker here before I could come for you.”
I duck back into the car and hurriedly open Aristo’s stall door. Aristo clatters down the ramp, pulling me with him. When my feet hit firm ground, I breathe easier.
It’s then that I spy a small boy, half-hidden by the tower of luggage on the handcart. The boy looks to be about Jase’s age, but inches shorter. A porkpie hat sits flat on his tangled blond hair. Under the upturned brim, his blue eyes peer from a skinny face dotted with greenish-yellow bruises. His knee-length britches are patched, and his shirt is so small that the buttons strain to stay fastened.
“What do you think, Baker?” Mister Giles asks, gesturing toward Aristo. Hooking his thumbs in his lapels, the hunched-over man inspects the colt with an appraising eye.
Head high, neck arched, Aristo whirls on the end of the rope, staring at the unfamiliar sights. The sun gleams off his golden brown coat; his tail streams behind him like a silken flag. Except for his dirty leg wraps, the colt looks perfect.
“You have yourself a fine horse,” Mister Baker finally replies.
“Thank you, sir. Major Wiley spoke highly of your stable, so I trust my horse will be in good hands.”
“I only await your orders. Short Bit!” the man barks so suddenly that I jump. The boy darts around Mister Baker like his raggedy britches are on fire. “Hop into that freight car and get the supplies. Mister Giles’s boy here will help you.”
Short Bit scoots up the ramp, and after handing the rope to Mister Giles, I follow. Behind me, I hear Mister Giles say, “Gabriel is Aristo’s jockey. He’s young and inexperienced, but he’s got hands of velvet and nerves of iron.”
Ears burning, I stoop to retrieve my blanket-wrapped bundle and the bucket of brushes. Short Bit picks up the water bucket. He’s mouse quiet, and his eyes follow me like he’s never seen a colored boy before. Lifting the half-empty feed sack with one arm, he flings it over his shoulder, staggering under the weight.
“I’ll carry that.” I hold out my hand.
He tenses and backs away, not taking his eyes off me—like he’s afraid I’m going to ball my hand into a fist and add to his bruises. When his bare heels hit the ramp, he spins and runs down.
I frown. The boy’s white, yet he acts like a whipped slave.
I check to make sure we have everything and then go down after him. Mister Baker and Mister Giles are leading Aristo to a carriage parked next to the station. Short Bit trots after them, bent like a branch under the weight of the sack.
The train blows its whistle. I glance over my shoulder and watch it slowly pull away. I sure ain’t sad to see it go. Yet I can’t help but smile, ’cause the next time I board that freight car, I’ll be a famous jockey.
The baggage handler helps us load the carriage. Mister Baker drives the team while Short Bit and me walk behind, leading Aristo. I’m so bug-eyed at the sights that I’m glad Short Bit is along. He hasn’t said a word and he barely reaches Aristo’s neck, but he knows how to calm the colt when I’m distracted.
And Saratoga has lots of distractions.
To be sure, the town ain’t as big as Lexington. But it looks to be geared for one thing: pleasuring visitors. Stores and shops line the streets, offering fancy goods I ain’t never seen before. A brass band toots a lively tune on a street corner. A juggler wearing an advertising banner like a cloak walks in the middle of the road, maneuvering around the stream of carriages. “Come see the two-headed nightingale and the tiny Italian dwarfs,” he calls as he tosses red balls in the air.
A lady struts past, her face painted with bright hues. She’s covered with yellow feathers from her neck to her ankles. “Arriving tonight at the Music Hall,” she announces as she passes out handbills, “Madame Caroline, the songbird from New York City.”
“This is Broadway,” Mister Baker tells Mister Giles as the carriage turns right. “Saratoga’s main thoroughfare.”
Broadway is as wide as a river and lined with towering elm trees. It’s crowded with coaches, buggies, strolling visitors, and fancy-goods stores. But what’s really eye-popping is the huge hotels. They’re four and five stories tall. Marble stairs lead to their white-columned verandas, called piazzas, which stretch along Broadway for as far as I can see. On the piazzas, ladies and gentlemen sit in high-backed chairs and rockers, reading, talking, playing cards, sipping drinks, and smoking.
This must be what Jackson was talking about. I look across the crowd, hoping to spot him. He never let us know if he made it to Saratoga, but if he did I sure hope I can find him.
“To your left is Music Hall,” Mister Baker points out as we travel slowly down Broadway. “To your right are the United States Hotel, the American Hotel, and the Grand Union Hotel.”
We journey several blocks, the dust from hooves and wheels swirling about our heads. With each step, Aristo trembles with excitement. Too wrought up to walk, he prances by my side, his ears swiveling like ladies’ fans.
“On your left is Congress Hall, where you’ll be staying,” Mister Baker tells Mister Giles. “It’s one of the finest hotels in Saratoga. Across from it is the Congress Springs. Saratoga is noted for its healing waters, Mister Giles. I hope you’ll partake while you’re here.”
Beyond Congress Hall, on the other side of Broadway, is a gash of blackened buildings. Aristo snorts at the smoky smell wafting our way.
“Had a fire not too long ago.” Mister Baker shakes his head. “Started by the Fourth of July fireworks.”
The carriage makes a left turn, barely missing a dray wagon hauling wood. “This is East Congress Street,” Mister Baker says. “About a mile up and to your left is the old Trotting Course. Stabling facilities are located there. Across the street is the new racecourse.”
“How convenient,” Mister Giles says. “Before we go any farther, I’d like to buy Gabriel something to eat. I need my jockey to stay hale and hearty.”
“By all means. I’ll have my boy buy him something.” Mister Baker stops the carriage in front of a saloon and hollers, “Short Bit!”
Short Bit dashes to the side of the carriage, and Mister Giles tosses him a coin. Then he disappears around the rear of the saloon, one hand holding his porkpie hat. I’m circling Aristo, trying to keep him off my toes, when the boy careens back around the corner and hands me something wrapped in brown paper.
“Thanks.” I sniff the package. It smells pungent and fishy. My mouth waters. I’d been so busy looking at the sights, I’d forgotten about breakfast.
Short Bit takes Aristo’s rope from me. As we head up East Congress, I unfold the paper, revealing two slices of brown bread. Gray, slimy things poke from between the slices.
I wrinkle my nose. “Smells like heaven, but looks like something a cow left behind.”
Short Bit licks his lips. “Oysters,” he breathes, as if he’s dreaming of a sandwich of his own. At least I know he’s not mute.
I’ve heard of oysters, but I’ve never eaten one. Opening wide, I bite into the greasy mess. I chew warily, swallow, and sigh with pleasure. Short Bit sighs with me. From the look of his hollow cheeks, I’d say he doesn’t get much to eat.
I tear a chunk from the sandwich and hold it out to him. His mouth falls open in amazement, like no one’s ever shared food with him before.
“Go on.” I thrust the piece at him.
Snatching it, he jams it in his mouth as if he’s afraid I’ll take back the offer. His cheeks bulge like a chipmunk, and as he chews, his eyelids flutter with delight.
We lick our fingers clean.
Mister Baker halts the carriage in front of a majestic entrance b
uilt in a white wall. “There it is! The new Saratoga Race Course,” he announces with pride. “I’ll give you a quick tour before we head to the stable.”
We go through the gate. The grandstand is down the lane quite a distance. The rear of the building faces us, but it’s so long I can’t see either end from where I stand. A row of arched entryways stretches across the back like the pattern on the hem of a skirt.
A grove of pines shades both sides of the drive. “These are the cooling grounds,” Mister Baker explains. “For between heats. The open area around the grandstand is for carriages. Ladies can step right from their carriages and walk into the grandstand.”
He halts the buggy at the far-left end of the enormous grandstand. I have to tilt my head back to see the edge of the roof.
“The new grandstand can seat two thousand spectators,” Mister Baker tells us. “Fifty cents to get in the gates. One dollar for the grandstand. Ladies can also watch from their carriages, and sporting men can watch from the lawn in front of the stand.”
Through one of the entryways, I see a broad stairway sweeping to the seating area above. Itching to see where the stairs lead, I head toward them. But when Mister Baker says, “No colored patrons allowed,” I quickly turn back. Seems the North has as many rules about coloreds as the south.
Short Bit holds the carriage horses while the two men climb from the buggy. I follow them, still leading Aristo, down a gravel walkway past the grandstand to a long white railing.
Leaning on the rail, I stare at the racetrack, open-mouthed. The dirt track is so wide, I can barely see across the infield to the backstretch. And it’s so long, I can barely see the homestretch turn. The inside and outside rails are newly painted white and lush grass waves in the infield. I crane my neck to peer down the front stretch. There are two judges’ towers, one on either side of the finish line. Casting a shadow over everything is the immense grandstand.
The sound of thundering hooves makes me glance across the infield. Two jockeys are galloping their mounts down the backstretch. They look like specks in the distance, but I can tell that one rider’s white, one’s black.
That might be Gilpatrick and Abe Hawkins! I think. Despite the heat, goose bumps rise on my arms. Suddenly, I understand Mister Giles’s zeal to be here.
Taking the slack out of the rope, I draw Aristo close and cup my hands around his muzzle. “Aristo,” I whisper. “In three days, that will be me and you. We’re going to be galloping down that stretch, racing against some of the most famous horses and riders in the whole world. And colt, you better believe we’re gonna win!”
Chapter Eleven
Gabriel, come over here.” Mister Giles’s summons breaks into my dream. “Mister Baker is telling me about the track.”
“The Association graded the track so it’s as level as a billiard table,” Mister Baker’s saying, “and measured it carefully so it’s exactly a mile around. The surface is a mixture of sand and loam spread over two inches of clay, good footing for the horses. The turns are banked for safety.”
Mister Giles claps Mister Baker on the back. “Why, you Saratogians think of everything.”
“We aim to have the best racecourse in the country.”
“Now we better get Aristo settled,” Mister Giles says as we walk back to the carriage. “He’s had a long journey. I’m eager to see your facilities, Mister Baker. Aristo is used to the finest care.”
Mister Baker harrumphs. “Mister Giles, you must realize that I have a good number of charges to care for at the stable. Your colt will be one of many.”
“I understand your concerns, Mister Baker. But I am paying for the best.”
“And I will offer the best I can manage, considering the circumstances.”
“Are you saying my money isn’t good enough?”
“I’m saying your horse isn’t good enough. Newspaper reporters and ticket buyers are flocking to the track to see the famous Kentucky and Tipperary, not your unraced colt.”
“I realize the entries for this meet are top quality,” Mister Giles replies somewhat haughtily. “That is why I entered Aristo, who is quite comparable, I can assure you!”
“Mister Giles, your colt will be racing in the Saratoga Chase against the unbeaten filly Lizzie H. and Cornelius Jeremiah’s colt Faraway, who just won in St. Louis. No disrespect to you, sir, but the odds are low that your untried colt, ridden by an inexperienced colored boy, will have a chance. Your horse will be treated accordingly.”
Mister Giles raises his chin. “I see.” Stiffly, he climbs into the carriage.
As I follow the carriage down the lane, I pat Aristo’s neck. “Don’t listen to Mister Baker, ’Risto. You’re the fastest colt, and soon all of Saratoga will know it.”
The two men drive in silence to the Trotting Course, a large area dotted with barns, stables, and storage sheds.
Mister Baker shows us the stall. “Short Bit is at your service,” he says. “Now unless you have any questions, I have some pressing matters to attend to.”
“Thank you for your help.” Mister Giles gives him a curt nod and then leads Aristo into the stall, while Short Bit and I unload the supplies. The instant we lift out the last sack, Mister Baker cracks the whip over the carriage horses and drives off.
“I suppose my name needs to be John Clay or Bob Lincoln to get fine treatment in Saratoga,” Mister Giles muses to himself.
“You could have told Mister Baker that Aristo ran a 1:40 mile when he raced Nantura,” I say.
He shoots me a frown. “That’s between you and me, Gabriel,” he says in a low voice. “Perhaps it’s just as well the colt’s considered a long shot.” He grins suddenly. “That could be in our favor to win us some big money.”
By the time Aristo’s walked, brushed, and fed, it’s late afternoon and my feet are dragging. Aristo’s stall is at the end of the shed row away from the other horses. It’s roomy, airy, and shaded by a few pine trees. The hay and straw are stored in a big barn nearby, and an empty stall serves as our supply and tack room. There’s no turn-out paddock, but there is a field nearby where I can walk the colt and let him graze.
While Short Bit and I work, Mister Giles spends his time moseying around the Trotting Course, introducing himself to owners and trainers. When he’s satisfied that Aristo is settled, he hires a carriage.
“I’ll be back in the morning.” He nods toward the other end of the barn. “Lizzie H. is stabled yonder. Her owner, Mister Sturgess, is mighty boastful. And I inspected Faraway. The colt’s nice enough, but Cornelius Jeremiah has more money than horse sense.”
He winks and flips me several coins. “Get some rest and some vittles. I’ll see you before the sun comes up. That’s when we’ll work Aristo. No need to show him off to all of Saratoga,” he adds before leaving for town and his fancy room at the Congress Hotel.
I bid him good day, then look down at Short Bit. My stomach’s rumbling like the train. “You think you could buy us two of those oyster sandwiches? One for me and one for you?”
His eyes light and he nods excitedly. I place the coins in his grimy palm and he races off. Pulling a barrel up to Aristo’s stall, I sit on the wooden lid. The grounds are bustling with workers finishing up for the night. Some are sitting around, chewing tobacco and jawing. Hooks and Cuffy are shooting craps outside a stall. I’ve kept my eyes open for Jackson since we arrived, but I haven’t spotted him yet. Sure would be nice to see a friendly face.
Aloneness settles over me. I wonder if Ma’s settled in at Camp Nelson . . . if Pa’s getting his cavalry organized . . . if Jase and Tandy are caring for Captain . . . and if Annabelle’s teaching the field hands.
I miss them all with a powerful ache.
Behind me, I hear Aristo crunching hay. He sticks his head over the half door and bits of straw rain onto my shoulders. I reach up and tickle his whiskery muzzle. “I guess I ain’t completely alone, huh, colt?”
Aristo lips my hair, all friendly like, and then goes back to eating. He’s happy
and that’s what matters, I decide with a huge yawn. That and proving to Mister Baker and all those other Northerners that a colored boy and a colt from Kentucky can win.
Resting my back against the door, the long day washes over me and I let my eyelids droop. I must have fallen asleep, because I’m startled awake by a tap on my shoulder. Short Bit’s grinning at me. He’s holding two brown wrapped sandwiches. I grin back, happy to see a friendly face. He plops one in my lap, then turns over a wooden bucket and sits next to me. We eat without talking, our slurps and belches the only sounds.
“Ahhh.” Leaning back again, I pat my satisfied stomach. It’s dusk, the air is cool, and the grounds are hushed. I’m feeling mighty drowsy when two boys saunter up and stop directly in front of us. One’s white with scruffy sideburns; the other’s colored with a half-bald head. They stand with their arms crossed against their chests and their legs akimbo like they’ve got a beef to pick. Beside me, Short Bit stiffens, instantly wary, as if he’s had a run-in with them before. My scalp prickles.
The white boy addresses Short Bit. “Hey lack-brain. Why you sittin’ with that Kentucky boy?”
“Maybe he’s sitting there ’cause a slave and a halfwit are about equal,” the colored boy says. “Don’t ya think, Gordon?”
I avert my eyes and hold my tongue. Ain’t no use telling them I ain’t a slave. If they’re aiming to pick a fight, it might make things worse.
Gordon directs his ire at Short Bit. “Where’s that money you owe us, halfwit?” he snaps. Short Bit gives a tiny shrug, and then, shifty as a fox, tries to dart off the bucket and run for it. But Gordon’s expecting him to run. He snatches him by the collar and slams him against the wall. My heart’s thumping so hard it hurts my ribs.
“And don’t tell us you ain’t got any money.” Gordon nods at me. “We saw that darky paying you off. Bet he’s bribing you to sneak into Faraway’s stall tonight and poison his water, ain’t he?”