by Alison Hart
I sprint after Tandy.
Newcastle has Aristo in the paddock. Cato, Oliver, and a throng of barn workers are standing outside the fence, watching nervously. Flanagan the Irish jockey is standing with them, a smug expression on his face.
I force my way through them and climb the rail. Aristo’s in the middle of the paddock, his front legs splayed, his body trembling. Newcastle’s strung a rope through one ring of the colt’s halter, looped it around his hind pastern and back through his halter, and then tied it to a fence post like a pulley line.
Whip in hand, Newcastle’s striding around the colt. The trainer’s face is red with anger; his mouth is set in a grim line.
Aristo eyes him, but when the colt struggles, the rope yanks his head around and drops him onto his knees.
Newcastle raises his whip.
There’s no way the horse can escape.
Chapter Twelve
No-o-o!” Vaulting over the paddock fence, I charge Newcastle. The leather lash slices my arm before I knock the trainer to the ground and pummel him with my fists. Blinded by fury, I’m ready to beat his face bloody.
Hands grab me and pull me off. Newcastle jumps up, fingers probing his cut lip. I’m straining to go after him, but the workers hold me back. “No, Gabriel. No more,” Cato hisses in my ear. “The man ain’t worth it.”
I yank myself from their grasp and run to Aristo. Tandy and Jase have the rope untied from the fence post. Aristo stands and shakes himself. I inspect the colt for cut marks.
A hand grabs my shirt and swings me around so hard, my neck snaps.
Newcastle glares down at me, hate in his eyes. “So you’ve finally come out of hiding, huh, boy?” he sneers. “Ready to take your punishment?”
I raise my chin. The man is a foot taller than me, with fists like bricks. He’s right: I can’t hide in the river weeds forever.
Stepping back, Newcastle snaps his whip. Silent as haunts, Cato, Oliver, and the others come into the enclosure and draw protectively around me. Newcastle glances at them, startled. “This ain’t your fight,” he tells them. “Get back to work.” They don’t move or speak. Their faces are expressionless, and they stand firm, shielding me.
Newcastle spits a wad of blood at their feet. Even he knows he’s outnumbered. “Have it your way.” He points the whip handle at my face. “But don’t think you’ve won, boy.”
Coiling the lash, he stomps from the paddock. Flanagan throws me a nasty look, then hurries after him. Only when they turn the corner of the barn do I exhale in relief.
“Ain’t the end of your fight with dat man,” Cato says to me. “Make sure dat horse is worth it.”
Blood oozes down my arm where the lash bit into the skin. I walk over to Aristo. Jase is holding the rope. The colt knocks me with his nose as if to say it’s all right.
I stroke his neck, and tears wet my eyes. Jase is staring at me, and I hide my face.
“Your arm’s bleedin’,” he says.
I shrug like it’s no big thing.
“It’s all right to cry,” he tells me, adding in a low voice, “I cried when Tenpenny stepped on my toe. See?” He holds up his dirty foot and wiggles his big toe, which is blue and swollen. “Only don’t tell Tandy. He’d call me a baby.”
I give him a grin, but it quickly fades when I spot Master Giles walking toward us, his expression stern. With a yip, Jase scoots out of the paddock gate.
Patting Aristo, I bend to check his pastern. I’m worried the rope’s rubbed a raw spot, but mostly, I don’t want to face Master Giles.
“Afternoon, Gabriel,” he says, greeting me as if it’s a fine day.
“Afternoon, sir.” I straighten, my gaze downcast.
“How was your trip to Camp Nelson? Is the life of a soldier agreeing with your father?”
“Yes sir. He’s doing fine.”
“And how’s the colt?” Master walks around Aristo, who shakes his head as if glad to be rid of Newcastle. “Mister Newcastle tells me he was breaking the colt to saddle. What do you think of his training methods?”
I stiffen.
Stopping on the far side of Aristo, Master studies me over the colt’s rump. When I don’t answer he goes on, “Newcastle reported just now that you attacked him while he was working with the colt. Mister Flanagan backs him up. They expect me to punish you severely, Gabriel. What’s your side of the story?”
I hunch my shoulders.
“You will not get in trouble by answering me.”
Ha. I struck a white man. That’s already trouble.
Walking around the colt, Master stands in front of me. “If you won’t tell me your side, you leave me no choice but to punish you.” When I don’t respond, he sighs. “Fine then. From now on, you’ll work under Oliver in the mare and foal barn. You’ll have no contact with Aristo and the other horses in training.”
Snapping my chin up, I gasp. “No, Master Giles! Don’t take away Aristo and Penny. Don’t take away jockeying!” I drape my hand over Aristo’s neck, pressing myself to the colt’s shoulder.
Master crosses his arms against his chest. “That’s your punishment, Gabriel. Unless you tell me about Newcastle.”
My mind’s a jumble. Pa was always forthright with Master Giles, but I’m a slave and a boy, and I ain’t sure I should speak my mind. Yet Master is asking me, straight out, like he really wants to know. Still my tongue’s stuck to the roof of my mouth. If I tell on Newcastle, he’ll kill me for sure.
“My horses are important to me, Gabriel,” Master goes on. “Not only do I want them to win, but I want them treated well.”
I swallow, loosen my tongue, and mumble, “Newcastle is mean, sir. He doesn’t know how to train a horse like Pa.”
“No trainer can replace your father, Gabriel. He’s an exceptional horseman, and I miss him sorely. However, good trainers are hard to find. Newcastle came highly recommended. His methods are accepted by most trainers and owners.”
Now my anger flares and I can’t stop my words. “Those methods are wrong!” I blurt, twining my fingers in Aristo’s mane. “A horse wins a race with spirit. With heart. If you beat out that spirit, if you break his heart, then he’ll only run out of fear. And fear don’t win races!”
A smile lifts the edges of Master’s mouth. “Well, I see you do have an opinion. Now, what do you think about Flanagan, the new jockey?”
I scoff. “Man’s got hands of lead. A jockey needs soft hands to talk with the horse. Flanagan’s hands only say ‘pain and hurt’ to the horses.”
“Interesting.” Master taps his cheek then points his finger at me. “Tell you what. Let’s put your opinions to the test. Three days from now, after noon meal, you and Flanagan will race.”
At the word “race” my head snaps up.
“You on Savannah. Flanagan on Captain Conrad. Two laps around the training track. Whoever wins gets to jockey during Saturday’s meet.”
“Yes sir!”
“You have three days to get Savannah ready. Use those days wisely.”
“I will, sir!”
“And Gabriel, rest assured, I’ll see that Newcastle will no longer be using his whip on you and the horses.” Master walks from the paddock, leaving me with high hopes for the first time since Newcastle and Flanagan came to Woodville. “Hear that, Aristo? I get to prove I’m the best. Then Master will get rid of Flanagan and I’ll be Woodville’s jockey!”
The colt drops his head to graze. My high hopes drop too when it dawns on me what Master’s done. He’s put me on Savannah.
Savannah is a flighty, three-year-old filly afraid of her own shadow. Captain Conrad’s a seasoned racehorse.
Ain’t no way she can win. Oh, how I wish Pa or Jackson was here to help me.
But they ain’t here. It’s up to me.
No, it’s up to Savannah and me. Clucking to Aristo, I trot him from the paddock. There’s no time to waste. For the sake of the horses, I can’t let Flanagan and his heavy hands win. I can’t let Newcastle and his mean ways wi
n. If I’m to win this race, I need to get working with that filly!
***
“Gabriel.” Ma leans over the bed and gives me a shake. “Wake up.”
I groan and nestle deeper into my pillow.
“Master’s sent word. He’s taking Newcastle with him to town this morning.”
I shoot upright, eyes crackly with sleep. “Newcastle’s leavin’?”
She nods. It’s half-dark, but I can see her smile. “They’ll be gone for ’bout an hour. Best you get down to the barn and work that filly before Newcastle comes back.” She hands me my pants and I slither into them.
When I hurry around my hanging quilt, I almost run into Annabelle, who’s setting a steaming plate of cornmeal mush on the table. She greets me as if she’s always in our kitchen at dawn. “Morning, Gabriel. Best eat up before you ride.”
She pours honey over the mush.
Sliding onto the chair, I spoon up a heaping mouthful. “Um-um. Sure is tasty.”
“Now don’t be getting big ideas about me serving you every morning,” Annabelle says tartly. “But your ma’s feeling peaked, and Master sent me from the Main House to deliver his message.”
I nod a thank-you.
She folds her arms. “Seems Master wants you winning as much as me and your mama.”
I blink up at her. Ma comes from behind the hanging quilt, her arms laden with soiled bed covers. “Whole farm be placing bets,” she says. “From the guards to the field slaves.”
I choke down a huge bite of mush. “The whole farm?” I croak, realizing this race might be as big as Christmas.
They both nod. “So hurry and eat,” Annabelle fusses. “I heard that yesterday Newcastle kept you jumping with chores so you had no time to ride Savannah. Well, last night when I was serving Master his supper I told him right out, “Master Giles, the race won’t be fair if Gabriel doesn’t have a chance to work with that horse. And sir, I know you’re fair.” She yanked the half-finished plate off the table. “So go, Gabriel, he’s giving you an hour.”
“Yes ma’am!” I salute Annabelle like I was Pa and she was a captain, and then dodging her kick, I run from the house.
Minutes later, I catch Savannah in her pasture and slip on the bridle. Leading her out the gate, I steer her to the mounting block and leap on. She takes off at a trot.
“Settle, settle,” I croon as we canter away past the barn and into the hayfield. Her nose is high, her nostrils flared, her stride stiff. The rising sun beats on my shoulders, and soon we’re both sweating.
We canter through the high grass to the river, which is wide and sluggish. Savannah skitters to a stop at the muddy edge. She flings her head and dances nervously, the mud sucking at her hooves. I hum to her. One thing I know for certain, if we’re going to beat Captain Conrad, the filly has to trust me.
A frog plops into the water. Savannah flies backward. But with hands, heels, and voice, I urge her back to the edge. She takes one tentative step into the water and then freezes, her forelegs ramrod straight. A soft wind blows from the opposite side of the river, bringing with it the sounds of blackbirds, bullfrogs, and cicadas.
It seems to take forever, but I’m patient, and finally Savannah blows out a huge sigh, drops her head, and drinks. Grinning, I lie back on her rump and close my eyes. Yesterday, Newcastle did run me ragged mucking stalls, scrubbing buckets, and grooming horses until he thought I was too spent to work with the filly. Meanwhile, Flanagan was taking it easy—sitting in the shade, polishing his boots, and breezing Captain Conrad in the cool of the morning.
But come evening, when Newcastle was tucking into a hearty supper, I snuck Savannah out of the stall. As the sun lowered, I led her from cornfield to wheat field. While we walked, I told her how we had to win the race. She listened, flicking her ears at the sound of my voice. By the time the sun was down, the filly’s head was draped over my shoulder, and I knew she’d heard every word. Tomorrow if I have to, I’ll sneak her out again. We’ll canter up and down the hills, maybe stretch into a gallop, just for a beat, so she can feel what it’s like to run wild and free.
After that, it’s race day.
Voices make me open one eye. I peer sideways, spying two men on the bridge that crosses the river. Curious, I sit up. They’re Master’s armed guards, patrolling the area. Their heads are together, and I wonder what they’re discussing.
Rumor’s been flying through the barns that One Arm and his men are on the move again. For days, they’ve been holed up in some wild hollow or Rebel’s farm, steering clear of the Yankees. But now, rumors say, they’re out of supplies, horses, and money.
Shivering, I gather the reins and nudge Savannah from the water. I ain’t got time to worry about One Arm and his band of raiders. I need to groom Savannah to a shine, then feed her a special ration of oats before Newcastle returns from his trip to town.
Winning this race won’t just help the horses. It will help me on my way to freedom.
Chapter Thirteen
You goin’ to win today, Gabriel,” Jase says confidently as he strides down the aisle next to me. “You and Savannah will beat that Flanagan.”
“I won’t win wearing these boots,” I grumble. “They’re pinching my toes.”
“So kick ’em off.”
“Ma says I have to wear them. She says Pa wore them when he first started jockeying. She says they’ll bring me luck.”
Jase chortles. “Ain’t gonna bring you luck if they hurt your feet. ’Sides, you always listen to your ma?”
I don’t answer because it would make me sound like a mama’s boy. When I reach Savannah’s stall, I peer inside. The filly’s eyes are like moons in her black face. She’s pacing around the stall, kicking up straw and manure.
All this morning, curious folks have been stopping by her stall to stare. Like Annabelle said, the whole farm’s making bets on this race, and Savannah’s smart enough to know something’s up. Something scary.
“All the barn hands are betting on Savannah to win,” Jase tells me. “They say she’s lightning.”
I know he’s lying because of his shifty eyes. “I don’t care beans about the barn hands,” I say, then I repeat Pa’s words. “This race is about me and Savannah.”
“Then you in trouble.” Standing on tiptoes, he’s looking over the half door into the stall. “’Cause that filly’s as twitchy as a cat-cornered mouse.”
Frowning, I give Jase a hard pinch on the arm.
He squeals. “What’d you pinch me for?”
“You best be rooting for us.”
“I am.”
“He’ll be the only one rooting for you, then,” someone says behind us.
Jase and I spin around. Flanagan’s standing in the aisle. He’s wearing shiny black boots and pure white breeches. One gloved hand grasps a riding whip, which he taps against the side of his leg. Spurs stick out from the heels of his boots.
Flanagan laughs when he sees my raggedy britches, pointy-toed boots, and homespun shirt. “See you at the finish line, laddie—if your horse makes it that far.”
“Humph. Fancy clothes don’t mean a man can ride,” I mutter as he saunters down the aisle. I pull Savannah’s bridle from the peg and touch the bit with my tongue, making sure Newcastle didn’t smear some nasty tonic on it, then check the straps for slices in the leather. Newcastle ain’t gutsy enough to defy Master and come at me with the whip. But a mean man is usually a cheating one, too.
I open the stall door. Savannah shoves her muzzle in my hand. Her ears flick like blackbird wings. Last night I slept in her stall. I wanted her to know my smell as well as her own—and besides, I didn’t trust Newcastle not to tamper with the filly.
Savannah is already wearing her saddle. I put it on her first thing this morning to give her back muscles time to warm. I run my hand under the pad, hunting for burrs or prickers, and then tighten the girth.
“Saddle up!” Cato calls out.
I peer over the door and down the aisle. Newcastle and Flanagan hover
outside Captain Conrad’s stall while Tandy tacks up the colt for them.
Jase brings me a box. Standing on it, I bridle Savannah, humming and singing all the while. She likes “Amazing Grace” and “Lorena” the best.
“Filly ain’t singing in the church choir, Gabriel,” Jase grumbles.
“I’m just soothing her,” I tell him. Soothing me, too, only I don’t admit that.
“Captain’s all tacked up,” Jase reports from the doorway. He’s hopping from one foot to the other like he’s as nervous as I am. “Tandy’s leading him down the aisle.”
I jump off the box. “We’re ready, too.”
“Can I lead her?” Jase pleads.
“Not this time. Savannah knows me, Jase. To win this race, I’ve got to keep her trust.”
“I reckon. Might be you could use this, too.” He digs in his pocket and pulls something out. He gives me a shy look, then hands me his lucky rabbit foot.
Smiling, I slip it down my right boot.
Moments later, we’re walking through the gap in the fence and onto the grassy track. Field slaves and barn workers are strung along the rail like it’s a holiday. Even the armed guards have quit their posts to watch. Some folks nod. Some wish me luck. I pay them no mind, all my attention on Savannah. Yesterday she cantered sweetly for me. But then the fields weren’t bright and noisy with folks, and now the filly’s dancing on my boot toes.
“Nothing to be scared of,” I tell her.
Flanagan’s already mounted on Captain Conrad. The colt’s neck is arched and he’s mouthing the bit, eager to get along. Savannah floats toward them, each step hesitant.
“Come on, boy, get your horse over here!” Newcastle shouts at me. “We ain’t going to bite.” The two men guffaw.
I look for Master Giles. He’s by the finish line pole, checking his watch. “Oliver will start you,” he calls. “Then go twice around.”
Cato boosts me onto Savannah. I warm her up with a trot down the homestretch, and she rolls her eyes at the onlookers. Newcastle hollers to quit wasting time and get on with the race, but Master acts like he doesn’t hear.