by Alison Hart
I nod, glad that the truth will soon be known. “Mister Giles, I have a favor to ask,” I say as I lead Aristo past him and Doctor Crown one more time. “’Risto has grown right fond of his groom.”
“Short Bit?”
“Yes sir. But Mister Baker just ordered Short Bit to work for another owner.”
“I’ll talk to Mister Baker right away and let him know that we need Short Bit for the race today.”
“And sir . . .” I press on, knowing I’m taking liberties, but also knowing what I need to ask my boss. “I think it would be a big help if Short Bit came back to Woodville with us. Could you hire the boy from Mister Baker? The farm is always in need of grooms. And you have my word that Short Bit is one of the finest.”
He chuckles. “Your sincerity has convinced me. I’ll see what I can work out with Mister Baker. In the meantime, get dressed. The bugle will call us to the track at any moment.” He hands me the valise.
“Yes sir.” I lead Aristo back into his stall, latch it behind me, and hurry to a spare stall. Humming with excitement, I slip on the red silk shirt. Slowly I button it, enjoying the feel of the fabric against my skin. Next I step into the creamy-white britches, lacing them tight around my stomach. Then I slide my feet into my new boots, polished to a shine. Last I set my gold jockey cap on my head, tilting it over my forehead.
I’m ready for this race.
Swinging open the door, I swagger from the stall.
I stop dead in my tracks. Aristo’s door is ajar.
“Hey!” I break into a run.
The door flings wide and Hooks flies from the stall, casting me a look I can’t understand. I chase him down the aisle, but I ain’t no match in my new riding boots. He scoots around the corner of the barn.
I race back to Aristo’s stall. The horse is looking at me, bright-eyed. Quickly, I check his feed bucket. It’s empty. I throw out the water in his other bucket, and then I poke my fingers inside his mouth, looking for a poisoned apple or opium-laced sugar lump. His mouth is clean.
What then? I rack my brain as I lift his mane and peer under his lip. What did Hooks do to Aristo? Or did I chase him out in time?
Then it hits me: The expression on Hooks’s face was one of smug satisfaction. Which means he did do something to Aristo. Now it all makes sense. Hooks’ boss, Cornelius Jeremiah, has a colt in the Saratoga Chase. He’s the rich, unscrupulous owner Mister Giles was talking about. He probably paid Mister Baker to set fire to the barn and to hustle Short Bit away from Aristo’s stall so that Hooks could sneak in and . . . and . . . do what? What did Hooks do to Aristo?
My cheeks grow hot. If something happens to the colt, I’ll never forgive myself. I should have made sure Angel or Mister Giles was watching him while I dressed.
Rocking on my boot heels, I moan in despair. If only Pa were here!
But Pa ain’t here. This is my race. My fight.
Aristo swings his head around, his eyes trusting. I trail my fingers softly down his beautiful face. “What did Hooks do to you?” I ask. Then I grow silent and watchful. Slowly, I circle him, and I listen . . . and then I know.
Aristo’s breathing is off. His chest is moving in and out with effort. I press my palm against his ribs, then tilt my head so my ear touches his muzzle. I hear a hunh when he breathes out, and a whrr when he breathes in. The stall’s dim, and when I bend to look closer, Aristo shies into the corner.
“Whoa, horse. Quit being peevish,” I scold.
Time’s running out. I’ve got to figure out what’s wrong before the race.
A handful of carrots convinces Aristo to stand still while I peer at his muzzle. Something’s packed up into his left nostril! Gently, I probe with one finger and pluck out a wad of cotton. Amazed, I stare at it. I knew there were lots of ways to sabotage a racehorse, but this beats anything I ever heard of. These Northern boys have come up with something new this time.
Carefully I pluck out the other wad and step back. Aristo shakes himself like a wet dog and then paws the straw, anxious to get going.
I bow my head in humble thanks, then quickly tack him up.
Mister Giles meets us at the doorway of the barn, Short Bit in tow. “Your groom is at your service,” he says.
“Short Bit’s coming back to Woodville with us?” I ask.
“I offered him the job.” Mister Giles and I both look at Short Bit, who’s bobbing his head so rapidly, it appears his neck is on a spring.
“I gather that means yes?” I ask. Grinning, Short Bit takes the reins. “Come on then, Bit. Let’s go win a race.”
Mister Giles boosts me into the tiny racing saddle. I tell him about Hooks and my suspicions about Mister Jeremiah. His expression turns serious. “Thank you for watching out for Aristo and averting a grave problem, Gabriel. Now we need to get our sights on winning this race. You’ve got high competition on the track.”
“Sir?”
“Gilpatrick’s riding Faraway, and Abe’s riding Lizzie H.”
I suck in my breath. “Then I’m racing against the best!”
“Yes.” He places his hand on the ankle of my boot. “I have faith in you, Gabriel. I believe you’re the right jockey to show these Northerners what a Kentucky-bred boy and a Kentucky-bred colt can do.”
“Yes sir.” The reply catches in my throat.
I’m silent as Short Bit leads me from the Trotting Course. I’m an inexperienced colored boy, barely free. Why do I think I can win this race against two of the best?
We reach the Saratoga track in time for the judges’ inspection and weigh in. Mister Giles leaves to find his seat in the grandstand. As the bell rings, I gather my reins and Short Bit unhooks the lead. When he steps away, I steer Aristo toward the gap in the railing.
“Gabriel?” Short Bit calls. I twist in the saddle, trying to spot the boy in the throng of grown-ups. But then he waves hesitantly, and calls, “Good luck!” For the first time since we met, I see hope in his eyes. I touch the brim of my cap in a salute.
Then Aristo breaks into a jig, and I lose sight of Short Bit as we follow Abe Hawkins and Lizzie H. through the gap and onto the track. As we jog by the grandstand, I stare slack-jawed at the crowd. The grandstand is full of ladies waving handkerchiefs. The lawn is packed with men in suits, and the railings on both sides are bursting with men and boys in work clothes.
Unsettled by the uproar, Aristo dances nervously. My own nerves are stretched tight; my wits feel addled. The Kentucky Association meets were nothing like this grand affair!
Cornelius Jeremiah’s colt Faraway trots past, his chestnut coat gleaming, and his jockey Gilpatrick basks in the hoorahs from the grandstand. Then Abe canters past on Lizzie H. He waves his whip at the onlookers, who chant his name. Then the stewards ring the bell again, summoning us to the starting line.
I steer Aristo around. “Go back to Kentucky!” a man yells at me from the grandstand. I seek out his face, finding hundreds that seem to glare at me.
My stomach rolls and I inhale raggedly. Then I spy Jackson with Miss Lacey from Moon’s Lake House. He’s hanging over the railing, waving two betting tickets in the air.
“Win for us, Gabriel!” he yells across the noise.
Aristo tosses his head. I place my palm on his warm neck. I feel his muscles ripple beneath my fingers.
Can we win?
Moments later, the horses line up between the judges’ towers. On my left are Faraway, Lizzie H., and a colt named Townsend. On my right is a white-eyed mare named Susannah.
The steward dashes in front of us, watching to see when the horses’ front legs are even. I twine two fingers in Aristo’s mane. The colt’s front hooves dance. He’s bound to break fast.
“Go!” The judges holler, the drum taps, and Aristo rears as the other four horses break from the starting line.
I fall back, my hold on Aristo’s mane the only thing keeping me from plummeting to the ground. The colt springs forward, throwing me onto his neck, then charges after the others.
Th
e crowd jeers as we pass.
Gasping, I find my stirrups and my balance. The colt’s running wild around the backstretch turn, bent on catching up even if his heart bursts. Hastily, I take up the slack in the rein and steady him between my hands.
“Easy, ’Risto,” I croon, but the wind tosses my words to the sky.
Five lengths ahead, I see four tails streaming in a ragged line. I grit my teeth. Aristo’s the greatest horse, but it will be impossible to catch up!
Then I hear Jackson’s words: Don’t ever give up on those dreams.
Determination fills me. I want to win this race. I want to show Mister Baker and Mister Jeremiah that all their cheating can’t stop us. I want to show these jeering Northerners what a Kentucky boy and colt can do. I want my name written in a newspaper for all to read. And I want to win because racing and winning’s in my blood, and because this is what I was born to do.
Jackson’s right. I am like him. Galloping Aristo, the wind slapping my face, is as close to heaven as a boy can get. This is my freedom. And winning is possible!
I chirp, and the colt surges forward like water rushing in a swollen river. Ahead of us, Townsend is falling behind. Aristo passes him on the outside like the other horse is walking.
Now we’re three lengths behind.
The crowd whoops gaily as the horses thunder down the homestretch to finish the first lap. We’re close enough now that I can see Lizzie H. and Faraway battling for the lead. Susannah’s running flat, so it won’t be long before we catch her.
We round the homestretch turn, passing Susannah and gaining on Lizzie H. Abe glances over his shoulder and his eyes meet mine. He raises that whip. Whap, whap, whap, he pummels Lizzie’s flank.
“Take her, ’Risto,” I whisper into the colt’s flying mane.
As we pull past Lizzie, Abe flashes me a crooked grin like he knows Aristo’s meant to win. Like he knows it’s my turn. Now Faraway’s the only horse between us and the finish line.
And I’m bound and determined to beat that no-account Cornelius Jeremiah.
I edge my hands higher, slackening the rein, and nudge my heels against Aristo’s sides. The colt hurtles down the track. He runs like he’s playing in the field at Woodville Farm. Runs like the rebel raiders are after him. Runs because it’s in his heart, and this is what he was born to do. I glance left at Faraway, who’s flagging. Gilpatrick spurs him, but Faraway’s sides are heaving.
I close my eyes. Huff, huff, huff! The colt’s telling me he ain’t quite winded. He forges ahead and joy rises in my chest.
Hooks and Cuffy’s meanness. Danny and Gordon’s threats. Mister Baker’s fire. Mister Jeremiah’s sabotage. The odds were against us, but it made no difference.
Aristo’s unstoppable. Unbeatable.
We fly across the finish line. I pump my fist in the air, and the crowd chants my name: “Gabriel! Gabriel! Gabriel!”
A smile cracks my dusty cheeks. “We won, ’Risto.” I stroke my hand down the colt’s sweaty neck. He slows to a trot and I rein him around. Reporters are streaming onto the track, pads in their hands, and their eyes are on me.
I only wish Pa and Ma were here to see.
At that moment, Abe jogs past on Lizzie H. He’s tired and defeated, but there’s a shadow of a smile on his face. He nods at me one time before disappearing into the oncoming throng.
“Gabriel Alexander!” the first reporter to reach me hollers. “You triumphed over Abe Hawkins and Gilpatrick, two of the greatest riders in the world. How’d you do it?”
“I didn’t do it,” I reply breathlessly. “It was my horse, sir. Aristo. He’s the greatest. He told me how to ride him. All I had to do was listen.”
Suddenly reporters and stewards surround us, all calling out at once, writing down my name on their pads. Then I spot Mister Giles, Jackson, and Short Bit pushing through them. They’re grinning to beat the band, and I sit tall in the saddle.
I won this race for Mister Giles. I won it to show the world that Aristo’s the finest horse. I won it so Jackson, Ma, and Pa would be proud of me. I won it so Annabelle would read my name in the paper.
I raise my arm and wave to the grandstand. The crowd is on its feet and roaring. Aristo tosses his head, skitters sideways, and the reporters scatter. I grin so big my cheeks hurt.
I know I won this race for me, too. Fame and winning feel so powerful they’re bursting my head wide. But now I realize that this triumph is not the end of my journey.
It is only the beginning.
The History Behind
GABRIEL’S TRIUMPH
KENTUCKY AFRICAN AMERICANS AND THE UNION ARMY
In 1863, Abraham Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation, freeing many of the slaves in the United States. But in several border states like Kentucky, Lincoln allowed citizens loyal to the Union to continue to own slaves.
From the beginning of the Civil War, the Union army could impress (force into service) both free and slave black men for labor. While the impressed black men did not serve in battle, they performed tasks such as driving wagons or building military roads. Many impressed Negro men helped build Camp Nelson, Kentucky. As the Civil War raged on, white recruits grew scarce. The Union army desperately needed more soldiers, so they decided to allow black men—free or slave—to enlist. In July 1864, when Gabriel’s father joined the army, many black men in Kentucky left their homes and families to become soldiers. At Camp Nelson, about 5,405 slaves were recruited into the Union army.
Union army wagon drivers White slave owners in Kentucky reacted strongly, sometimes violently, to losing their workers. “Soon after the introduction of colored recruits into the camps,” wrote Thomas Butler of the U.S. Sanitary Commission, “their old owners came in carriages and on horseback every day to allure them by all kinds of promises and threats, and in many cases to kidnap them back into bondage.” Joseph Holt, head of the Bureau of Military Justice, wrote: “Slaves escaping from their masters with a view of entering military service were waylaid, beaten, maimed and often murdered.”
Many of the wives and children of the new black recruits suffered, too. Some of them ran away from their owners and followed their husbands to Camp Nelson. Others were thrown off their farms by angry owners. At first, some of the Union army commanders tried to feed and shelter the refugees: “General Thomas’ instructions are to discourage as far as possible negro women and children coming into camp. Such as come however must be provided for.” (June 30, 1864).
Camp Nelson employed some of the women, like Gabriel’s mother, to cook and wash. But living conditions for the refugees were miserable. The families lived in tents and shanties, and had little food and supplies. As refugees continued to pour into Camp Nelson, the commanders changed their orders: “All negro women and children, except those who have written permits from these Head Qurs . . . will be expelled from Camp on Monday Sept.19 ’64.”
Black families at Camp Nelson
Saratoga Springs, New York
When Gabriel traveled north to Saratoga Springs, New York, he wasn’t aware of the town’s history. The Native Americans called the area Sarachtogue (or Sa-ragh-to-ga), which means “place of the swift river.” They hunted game in the forests and used the mineral springs as medicine. After the Revolutionary War white families settled nearby, and the healing springs attracted many tourists to the area.
Saratoga Springs’s first hotel was built in 1802. The town drew famous figures of the time, such as Daniel Webster and Andrew Jackson. People traveled up the Hudson River on steamers or on trains, escaping the cities for the summer. They drank from the mineral springs, hoping to cure their ailments. The springs were manned by dipper boys. The boys placed cups in baskets on the end of long poles and dipped them into the springs. “Its use is prescribed by physicians,” boasted a travel brochure. Although many visitors praised the water for its healing qualities, some people spat out the water because of the unpleasant taste!
During the 1860s, Saratoga Springs was a popular destination
for people weary of the hardships of wartime. Some called the lively town the “greatest escape.” Shops sold fancy goods, and theaters featured sideshows and operas. There were bowling alleys and a ride called the Circular Railway. Grand hotels—several of them five stories tall and large enough to sleep 2,000 guests— lined the main street.
Grand Union Hotel, Saratoga The resort attracted millionaires and powerful politicians, including state governors. “Bob” Lincoln, Abraham Lincoln’s son, stayed at Union Hall, where he danced to the music of a twenty-two piece band. On August 5, “the biggest party in the country” was held in the Union Hall’s dining room. As reported by the New York Herald, the guests were served a “supper worthy of the gods.”
Horse Racing in Saratoga Springs
Saratoga Springs is the home of the Saratoga Race Course. It is America’s oldest major sports facility. In 1863, in the middle of the Civil War, the new racetrack’s first meet attracted a crowd of around 5,000. It was such a success that plans were made to build a new track. In July 1864, when Gabriel and Aristo arrived in Saratoga Springs, the new racetrack was ready. It had a covered grandstand to seat well-to-do ladies in hoop skirts and men in stove-pipe hats. “General admission” spectators watched the races from the open-air bleachers. Ordinary tickets cost fifty cents; grandstand tickets were one dollar. Although African Americans rode, trained, and groomed the racehorses, they were not allowed in the seating areas.
Grandstand, Saratoga Race Course The Saratoga Chase, Gabriel’s race on Aristo, is fictional. But the meet at Saratoga Springs, which ran from August 2 to August 6 in 1864, was real. The famous white jockey Gilbert W. Patrick (popularly known as Gilpatrick) and the equally famous ex-slave jockey Abe Hawkins battled in the Travers race and the Sequel Stakes. The meet’s last race was the Congress Spring Purse. It was a marathon race of three 3-mile heats. The horses ran full speed for a total of nineteen minutes with thirty minutes to rest between each heat.