by Alison Hart
“Then how’d you get lost and end up in a cornfield?”
“I wasn’t lost.” Even when Annabelle frowns, she’s rose-garden pretty. “I was being careful. At the crossroads, I spied two white men approaching from the north. They were still off quite a distance, but I felt uneasy. A girl traveling alone can’t be too cautious.” She trails her fingers down her skirt. “I wore one of Mistress Jane’s outfits, hoping that dressing like a lady would keep menfolk respectful. As the men drew nearer, though, I grew faint of heart and ducked into the cornfield.”
I eat slowly, entranced by her story.
Her voice quivers. “I kept one eye on the stone fence as I headed south, hoping I wouldn’t lose my way. But those jagged cornstalks dragged at me like claws, and the roots grabbed at my feet. My limbs and my courage were about to give out when I heard you singing ‘Sweet Lorena’.” She presses one palm against her bodice. “Oh, Gabriel, you have no idea how glad I was to see you.”
I redden, flustered by her declaration. “How’d you catch up to me so fast?”
“Fast? That peddler’s cart you were traveling in was moving as slow as a turtle in a strawberry patch.”
“Some would say you were a dad-burned fool to set out alone, but I think you were brave. That still don’t explain why you followed me.”
“Who says I followed you?” Annabelle busies herself with tidying up. “I’m traveling to Camp Nelson as well.”
“To visit?”
“To stay.”
“But I thought you were happy being Mister Giles’s secretary.”
“I was, but I realized as long as I live in that house, I’ll never feel free.”
I shake my head. “Annabelle, it took me more than a fortnight to decide to leave. You made up your mind in a finger snap.”
“So?” she huffs.
I know by her tone that it ain’t no use arguing my point. Instead, I stuff the last of the rabbit pie into my mouth and belch heartily.
“Gabriel! Such un-gentlemanly behavior. Excuse yourself.”
“I won’t. And stop bein’ bossy on me, Annabelle. Just ’cause you’re dressed like Mistress don’t mean you are one.” I boldly reach out and flick a bread crumb off her bottom lip.
She slaps my hand away. “Of all the impertinence!”
“Don’t know what that word means and don’t care.” I jump to my feet. “But if we’re traveling together, you need to stop being so high and mighty. ’Sides, at Camp Nelson, all coloreds are equal.”
“We’ll see about that.” She starts packing bread and pie back in the basket, her mouth pressed in a line.
“What’s that mean, ‘we’ll see’?”
She pats the purse in her lap. “It means I have a letter from Mister Giles addressed to Brigadier General Speed S. Fry respectfully recommending that the Union army employ me as a secretary.”
I stare at her in disbelief. Mister Giles would never give her such a letter, let alone allow her to travel on her own.
“You doubt me?” she challenges.
“I do.” Bending forward, I snatch up her purse and loosen the strings. Ladylike no longer, she squeals like a poked pig and lunges for it, knocking me flat.
I scrabble backwards, pull the letter from the purse, and unfold it. I may not be as smart as Annabelle when it comes to reading, but I’ve seen Mister Giles’s writing enough to recognize it ain’t his signature at the bottom. “You forged this letter and his name. That’s a federal offense.”
“Only if the authorities catch me.” Plucking the letter from my grasp, she tucks it into her purse and draws tight the strings. “Besides, as Mister Giles’s secretary I’ve been writing and signing all his letters.”
“Did you forge your free papers, too?” I ask.
She shakes her head as she slips her gloves back on. “I went to the courthouse with Mister Giles for that.” Rising primly, she ruffles her skirt and adjusts her hat. “Now we’d best be on our way,” she says, and pops opens the parasol.
Annabelle sashays off, basket in one hand, frilled parasol in the other. Dumbfounded, I stare after her. I can’t fathom if she’s courageous or downright foolhardy. Annabelle knows nothing of Camp Nelson, but from my prior visits I can say for sure that the place ain’t for a lady, especially one with black skin. Ma’s got Pa, and even she is living in a tent and washing soldiers’ underdrawers.
With a shake of my head, I stand and pick up Annabelle’s valise and my bundle. Raucous cawing comes from overhead. Four crows have gathered in the tree boughs. They peer down at me, silhouetted against the sky like haunts.
I’ve heard tell that crows are harbingers of death.
I start after Annabelle, my mind awhirl. What awaits her at the end of this journey, I don’t know, but I say a silent prayer that she won’t regret her decision.
As we travel south, the bright sun chases away the thoughts of haunts. Having Annabelle along slows our traveling. Every mile she stops to pry pebbles from her shoes and slap dust off her skirt. Still she joins in when I sing “Camptown Races” and listens eagerly to my stories of Saratoga. I’m glad for her company.
The sun is dropping behind the trees when we finally come upon the first of the many refugee camps that dot the roadsides before the entryway into Camp Nelson. Annabelle has never heard of refugees, so I explain that these are slave women and families who followed their husbands or fathers to Camp Nelson, or who were thrown off their masters’ farms. I warn Annabelle about the stick-skinny black children, and when a horde of them clusters around us, grabbing at Annabelle’s skirts, purse, and valise, she tries not to shrink against me.
I’ve learned some tricks from my other trips to the camp. Pulling pennies from my pocket, I toss them into the grass and weeds. The children scatter like chickens after corn, and we hurry past the shanties and makeshift tents. A bone-weary black lady stooped over an iron pot calls to me, “Boy, are you entering Camp Nelson?”
“Yes ma’am,” I reply.
Dropping her wooden spoon, the woman hastens over. She clasps her fingers around my arm and begs me to find her man, Private John Barrett. “Tell him baby Ellen has died of the fever,” she says.
A dozen more women quickly gather round me and Annabelle. Their homespun dresses are threadbare, their cheeks are hollow, and there’s desperation in their eyes as they implore us to take word to recruits, laborers, and soldiers inside the camp. Annabelle repeats names, trying to remember them. But I notice that the women direct their urgent messages at me and cast suspicious glances at Annabelle.
When we finally break away from them, Annabelle is breathing hard. She presses a handkerchief to her mouth as we hurry the last few yards toward the entrance.
“Gabriel,” she whispers from behind the white lace hanky, “I’ve never seen such dirt and hunger and sadness. I tried to be polite and helpful, but no one would even grace me with a look!”
“Perhaps they’ve never seen a colored girl wearing taffeta and carrying a parasol,” I say, my voice low, too. “Nor heard one who speaks like a white lady.”
Halting in her tracks, Annabelle stares at me. “Am I so different?”
I curse my tongue. No matter what I reply, it will not suit Annabelle. To my relief I’m spared further questions by the approach of a guard in Union blue.
“State your business,” he says, his young face grave beneath the brim of his forage cap.
I pull a telegraph from my bundle. “I’m here on orders from Captain Waite. I’m to work with the colored cavalry.” I try to sound official, but my knees knock. Mister Giles personally telegraphed Captain Waite, who telegraphed this message in reply. The two became acquainted when Captain Waite’s white company of soldiers helped saved Woodville Farm from One Arm and his raiders. But what if this picket doesn’t let me in?
He passes the telegraph back to me. “You’ll bunk in the tents of the colored cavalry,” he snaps, “on the hill behind the colored barracks.”
I exhale in relief.
Giving him a pert smile, Annabelle hands him her letter. “And I am here to meet with Brigadier General Speed S. Fry.”
He skims the letter, then hands it back to her with a dismissive snort. “The brigadier general doesn’t need a secretary.”
“Oh, but I write letters in the finest hand,” Annabelle explains.
“Except it’s a colored hand,” he says curtly. “Brigadier General Fry is plagued with Negro women sneaking in to camp. He sure ain’t going to invite one in. Even a lady,” he adds with a smirk, “who’s wearing fancy clothes—likely stolen from her mistress.” He jerks his thumb toward the refugee shanties. “Be on your way.”
Annabelle opens her mouth to protest, only for once, she’s speechless.
A commotion causes all three of us to look toward the entrance. A cluster of black women, tied together with ropes around their waists, is being herded from the camp. Union soldiers flank them. When one woman stumbles, a soldier prods her with his rifle butt. “Quit stalling,” he snarls. “Mister Wilkes will be here any minute to fetch you.”
Just then, an open-bed wagon rattles down the pike from the direction of Lexington. A ruddy-faced man with a clipped beard and derby hat is driving the team, cracking a whip over the horses. I hear sobs from the women and one cries out, “Lord save us!”
The wagon thunders toward us. Grabbing Annabelle’s elbow, I swing her out of the way. Her parasol slips from her grasp, and the wheels crush it flat.
“Whoa!” The man saws on the horses’ bits with the reins until the animals halt in front of the soldiers and women.
“Gabriel, what’s happening?” Annabelle asks.
I shush her with a finger in front of my mouth. The unfolding scene reminds me of the first time I visited Camp Nelson. That day, slaves were marching into camp as recruits, and masters were demanding that they be returned. There was a heap of confusion. If this turns into a ruckus, too, I aim to take advantage.
“Thank you, Lieutenant Sawyer, for securing my property,” the man tells one of the soldiers. “They all belong to me. Load ’em up.”
The soldiers roughly escort the bound group of women to the end of the wagon. “Get in!” Lieutenant Sawyer orders as he drops the hinged end gate. The soldiers begin lifting and shoving the women, who are still lashed together. They struggle mightily, and one cusses and kicks out. Immediately the others start screeching, and the sentinels at the entrance rush to help.
I nudge Annabelle. “Quick, follow me.” Ducking, I run to the camp entrance, momentarily unguarded. Basket bobbling and skirts flying, Annabelle chases after me.
I make it through the gap in the fortifications without losing my bundle or the valise. Turning, I gesture to Annabelle to hurry. One hand holds her straw hat, and I can see the fear on her face.
I hear the crack of a whip outside the gates. It sounds like someone is thrashing a horse—or a human. A woman screams. My guts jump into my throat.
I shove my bundle under my arm and grab Annabelle’s gloved hand, and together we race into Camp Nelson as if the Devil himself is after us.
Chapter Four
Hands linked, Annabelle and I pound past the White House, where the officers bunk. I’m bent on making straight for Ma’s tent, but Annabelle stumbles. “Gabriel,” she pants. “I . . . can’t . . . run . . . any . . . farther.”
I pull her behind a stack of timbers, and we stop to catch our breath.
“My heels have blisters, and oh, look at my dress!” Annabelle lifts her skirts a trace. The hems are muddy and torn. “How can I present myself to the brigadier general like this?” she wails.
She’s so upset, I don’t tell her that her hair’s as wild as weeds, the black-eyed Susans are droopy, and there ain’t a chance in heaven she’ll ever get a meeting with the brigadier general.
A short distance away, three Negroes are splitting logs. They halt their ax swinging to stare at us. One winks at Annabelle, and another calls to me, “Boy, you sure caught yourself a purty gal. Better not let go of her unless you want me to take her.”
I yank Annabelle back onto the road, cursing myself. I was right about this being no place for a lady, even Annabelle. When I met up with her by the cornfield, I should have sent her straight back to Woodville Farm, no matter how loudly she protested.
I search for a hiding place. By now, Annabelle and the valise are lead weights on my arms. If we keep running, we’re going to attract suspicion. I’m not sure where the tents of the colored cavalry are located, but I do know where Ma is living. Her tent is a long way from here, and I don’t believe Annabelle can make it without a rest.
A squad of soldiers marches down the road toward us. I slow to a walk. “Thank you,” Annabelle puffs. “My corset’s pinching and I was about to give out.”
“Act like we belong here,” I say under my breath. “Be quiet and pretend like we know where we’re going.”
Annabelle sees the soldiers, too. She straightens her crooked hat and smoothes her dusty skirts. Linking her free arm with mine, she tips her chin and we stride purposefully down the road. “I could pretend much easier if I had my parasol,” Annabelle whispers. When the soldiers pass, she bobs her head politely and calls, “Good day, gentlemen.”
They don’t break formation as they march by, but it’s only a matter of time until someone does stop to question us. “Just keep your mouth shut,” I warn her. “There’s a stable ahead. We can hide in a hay shed until dark and then find Ma’s tent.”
The stable yard is busy with soldiers grooming horses and putting them up for the night. Immediately I think of Woodville Farm, and a pang hits me. Are Tandy, Jase, and Short Bit taking good care of Aristo and the other horses?
Nearby, blacksmiths tend the coal fires and shape horseshoes on anvils. Like thieves, Annabelle and I sneak behind the stable, the dusk masking us. I spot a three-sided straw shed tucked a ways from the road and drag her inside.
Annabelle sinks into the pile of straw. “This feels better than a feather mattress,” she says. She takes off her hat and, using my bundle for a pillow, curls up in the hay. “Thanks for all you did, Gab’iel,” she says, the words slurring in her weariness. “A lady could not have as’t for a more gallan’ escort . . .” Her lashes flutter, her breathing slows, and an instant later she’s asleep.
I scatter straw over her skirts, then cover the basket and valise so no one will spot them. I try to stay awake—it won’t be long before dark and we’ll have to be on the move again. I also need to keep watch for stable hands bearing pitchforks. But my eyelids soon grow heavy. Even though straw dust tickles my nose and the blacksmiths’ hammers clang in my ears, I burrow into the mound and drift off, too.
* * *
A calloused hand roughly shakes me. I’ve been dreaming about the fire in the barn at Saratoga, and I thrash awake. Golden light blinds me, and I cover my eyes with my fingers, shielding them from the flames. “Fire!” I holler. “Save the—”
A palm slaps over my mouth. “Hush, boy, ’fore you wakes de dead.”
My eyes gape. An old black man is staring down at me. A lantern in his hand is shining in my face. “Dere ain’t no fire,” he says. “So hush.”
I nod to show him I understand, and he removes his hand. He smells like horse manure, so I gather he’s a stable worker.
“Soldiers on night watch patrol ’round dese barns,” he says in a low voice. “You best skedaddle ’fore dey catch you and toss you from de camp.”
“Thanks for the warning.” I glance behind me, hoping Annabelle knows not to stir from her hiding place. I glimpse the toe of her shoe poking from the straw, and pray the old man doesn’t notice. I jump up to block his view. “What’s the quickest way to the washerwomen’s tents?” I ask. “My ma lives there. She’s doing laundry for the colored cavalry.”
“Go down de pike past Camp Nelson House. Dere’s a lane to de east. De colored cavalry are bunking in tents on de hillside. Stay off de road—guards be patrollin’.”
“How far once we turn
onto the lane?”
“If you fall into Hickman Creek, you’ve gone too far.” Chuckling, he raises the lantern and heads off.
I tap Annabelle’s shoe. “Wake up,” I whisper. “We need to go.” I uncover the valise and basket and brush them off. By the time I’m finished, Annabelle’s standing and shaking the hay off her dress. It’s too dark to see her face, but she’s hastily tying her hat. I gather she realizes the urgency.
Voices drift from the front of the stable, and my blood quickens. I toss the bundle over my shoulder and pick up the valise. Annabelle takes my hand in hers, and we steal silently into the shadows.
To stay on course, we follow the direction of the pike, but instead of marching like soldiers, we scurry like mice between buildings, woodpiles, and sheds. Finally we reach the dirt lane and head east. I hope the old man’s right. When Ma, Jase, and me came to Camp Nelson, Pa took us to the tent city where Ma lives now. I think I could find it in the daytime, but it’s hard to get my bearings in the dark.
In spite of my doubts, we boldly trot up the unoccupied lane. The sky’s turning gray, and it won’t be long before roosters crow and bunkhouses stir. Farther south, I spot a whole field of tents rising from the early mist like rows of tombstones. “That must be where the cavalry soldiers are living,” I whisper to Annabelle.
By the time we come upon the two rows of wall tents occupied by the washerwomen, Annabelle and I are puffing. I count as we run down the muddy lane between the rows. “Ma’s is the fourth one on the right,” I tell Annabelle.
She yanks me to a stop and points. “This is the fourth.”
The flap’s tied shut from inside. Around me, I hear coughing, a baby’s cry, and the sound of bedclothes being shook. Folks are waking, but Ma’s tent is silent.
Dropping on my knees, I belly-crawl under the front. The inside of the tent is dim. “Ma?” I call hoarsely.
“Gabriel?” someone exclaims above me.
I crane my neck. Ma’s standing over me, an iron skillet raised high, ready to crash on my head. Her eyes startle at the sight of me, and she sets the skillet on the ground.
