by Alison Hart
Shifting his gaze from the bridle, Captain Waite says, “Go on. I’m listening.”
“Y-you don’t mind?”
“What I mind is looking like a fool in front of my men because I can’t handle my animal. I grew up riding iron-mouthed livery nags. I know Champion is highly bred, so—”
I don’t even let him finish. “Sir, Champion don’t need this fierce bit.” I pluck a different bridle with a snaffle bit off the hook. “He don’t need spurs.” I glance at the rowels on his heels. “And for tonight’s ride, he don’t need a scabbard slapping his belly. The horse is strong and smart, but he’s flighty and tender-mouthed, like many other Thoroughbreds. He needs a gentle, confident rider.”
“Well, I’ll be.” Captain Waite pushes back his slouch hat. “Are you saying that all this time I’ve been riding him contrary to what he needs?”
“Yes sir. I mean, no sir. I mean, you’re right. The pain is what’s making the stallion buck.”
“All right then, Gabriel. I guess it’s worth trying it once your way.” Captain Waite tosses the bridle with the curb on the top of a trunk. “Thank you for your horse sense.”
“Don’t thank me yet, sir. Your ride will be the proof.”
“Perhaps you can join me in the paddock to guide me.”
I gather this is an order, but I’m feeling nervous again as together we stride to Champion’s stall. The horse flattens his ears until he sees it’s me. Then he whickers, and when I go into the stall, he snuffles my hair. The sight stops the captain in his tracks.
“By golly, if I didn’t see this with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe it. You’ve turned this devil into a kitten.”
I fold the blanket into six thicknesses—just how Private Black taught me—place it on Champion’s back, and flatten out the wrinkles. I slide it back, careful to smooth the horse’s hair underneath. Then I heave up the saddle, adjust everything, and ease tight the girth. While I bridle Champion and lead him outside, the captain removes his spurs and scabbard.
It’s dusk, and a few soldiers and stable hands are still working. As we stride toward a fenced paddock, Captain Waite and the stallion quickly attract attention. Several men jump from wagon seats and haymows; others swarm from the nearby barns. Hurrying over to the fence, they lean on the top board and begin swapping bets.
The captain sighs. “It seems the stories of my mishaps with this animal have spread through every unit.”
I halt Champion in the middle of the paddock and run my hand down his neck. His muscles quiver, and his eyes are white rimmed. “The horse is riled up, Captain, so it’s up to you to stay calm. That’ll keep him calm, too.”
“I will do my best.” Gathering the reins, Captain Waite mounts. Instantly Champion throws his head and prances sideways. I talk to the horse in a low voice until he’s quiet. “He may still want to buck from habit,” I warn.
The captain leans down as if adjusting his stirrup. “I’m all ears. Got any last-minute advice on keeping my seat?”
“Just remember, this horse bucks because he’s afraid of pain. So keep a soft hold on the reins and a light leg on his sides.” I think back to when Pa taught me to ride. “Use steady aids, not jerky. And don’t canter. If he even thinks about bucking, sit deep and keep him moving forward.”
Captain Waite repeats all the directions. By this time, every spot along the fence is taken.
Straightening in the saddle, the captain looks around. “I believe Reverend Fee’s church tent will be empty tonight. It looks as if betting, not praying, will be this evening’s entertainment.”
“My money’s on you, Captain.” I let go of the rein and step back.
Champion prances off, hooves drumming. Saliva foams as he mouths the bit. But Captain Waite rides quiet and light. Soon the wild look leaves Champion’s eyes, and he’s trotting around the ring with long strides.
A dozen soldiers along the rail whoop and begin collecting their winnings. Suddenly, two horses pulling a carriage careen up the lane toward the paddock. Champion startles and spins, almost tossing Captain Waite. But the captain recovers his seat, and before the horse can leap into a buck, he legs him forward.
The driver halts the carriage. Two soldiers sit in back, and I can tell by the eagle epaulets on the shoulders of one of them that he’s a colonel. The other man, who has the one bar of a lieutenant, jumps from the carriage, salutes Captain Waite, and motions him over. “Colonel Brisbin needs to relay some urgent news,” he calls.
Captain Waite trots Champion to the gate, and I grab the horse’s bridle. The captain dismounts and salutes the colonel as he approaches the carriage.
“Exciting news, Captain Waite,” Colonel Brisbin says from his carriage seat. “I’ve already alerted Companies D and H. On orders from General Burbridge, the soldiers of the colored cavalry will soon be engaged in battle!”
Chapter Seven
Captain Waite’s success on Champion has changed life for me at Camp Nelson. I am now Private Gabriel Alexander, assistant to the captain and Champion’s groom. I’m not a real private, seeing as I’m still too young to muster in. But I’m wearing the drummer boy’s blue uniform, and the men in Pa’s squad call me “Private Gabriel.”
And Colonel Brisbin’s recent news has changed life for everyone. The colored cavalry soldiers are preparing to march to Virginia!
For the past two days, there’s been a flurry of drilling with rifles and preparing horses. Blacksmiths are working round the clock to make sure the mounts are well-shod for the journey. Teamsters have been loading up the supply and ammunition wagons and readying the mules. Harness makers are busy repairing bridles, saddles, and harnesses.
When I’m not caring for Champion, I’m assisting Captain Waite. I’m delivering messages, fetching supplies, and dogging his heels in case he needs me to run an errand. The third morning after Colonel Brisbin’s announcement, I accompany the captain to the colonel’s office.
“Wait for me in the hall, Gabriel,” Captain Waite orders. He strides into Colonel Brisbin’s office, leaving the door ajar. Sliding closer, I peek through the crack between the frame and the door.
“My men are working hard to get ready,” Captain Waite is saying to the colonel. “But they’re constantly assigned privy duties by commanders of the white regiments, despite the order from the War Department. That doesn’t leave us enough time to drill. Some of my soldiers are still learning right from left. And this week, we’ve just commenced mounted drill on horses that are barely half-broke. I fear that we will not be prepared for the rigors of battle. ”
“You have no choice, Captain,” Colonel Brisbin says. “On General Burbridge’s orders, the colored cavalry will march in three days.”
Three days! Since I’m planning on traveling with Company B, that means I’ll soon be leaving, too—and I’ve yet to be assigned a horse or a pair of boots!
“That’s little time,” Captain Waite points out.
“Are you saying the colored troops aren’t worthy of this endeavor?” Colonel Brisbin asks.
Captain Waite draws himself to full height. “No sir. They are wholly raw, but more than worthy. I have this week taught them to load-in-the-nine-times. Most have never held a weapon, yet they perform better than the white company I commanded.”
Sensing the pride in his words, I straighten my spine, too.
Colonel Brisbin nods. “That’s what I want to hear, Captain. The prejudices against Negro soldiers can only be dispelled by their conduct on marches, in battle. And, of course, in retreat.” He casts a grave eye on Captain Waite. “I don’t believe I need to remind you of Fort Pillow?”
Captain Waite grimaces. “No sir. That tragedy does not need to be repeated.”
Fort Pillow? The only pillow I know is the straw one under my head at night.
“General Burbridge is leading several brigades to Saltville, Virginia,” the colonel continues. “Once there, the army’s objective is to destroy the saltworks. Colonel James Wade and I will command a colored c
avalry regiment from Camp Nelson. From this point on, it will be unofficially called the Fifth. We’ll meet Burbridge’s troops at Prestonburg, where the regiment will be assigned to Colonel Ratliff’s brigade. I expect the highest conduct from the soldiers at every point.”
“I have every confidence that all of them will perform valiantly, sir.” Captain Waite clears his throat. “Sir, I need to bring one more problem to your attention.”
Colonel Brisbin begins to leaf through a stack of papers on his desk, as if the captain was already dismissed.
“The soldiers have been issued Enfield rifles.”
The colonel doesn’t look up. “I realize that, Captain. Unfortunately, they are the only available weapons. Tomorrow afternoon, supplies for the journey will be allotted. Squad leaders will be in charge of handing them out to the soldiers.”
“Yes sir.” Captain Waite salutes and strides from the office. He’s walking so fast, I have to jog to keep up. “Captain Waite, I’m going with Company B, right?” I ask eagerly.
He glances down at me as we walk. “That’s my intention, Gabriel Alexander.”
“Then, sir, won’t I need a horse?”
“Speak to Lieutenant Rhodes. I’m sure he can assign you one that no one else cares to ride.”
I grin. Soon I’ll be a mounted soldier! Of course, I’ll be a soldier without scabbard or weapon, but it’s a start. “Sir, what’s an Enfield rifle?”
“A cussed poor choice of arms for a cavalryman.”
“And what’s Fort Pillow?”
“An incident that I prefer not to discuss for the sake of my men’s morale.” Captain Waite halts. “Gabriel, as my assistant you are at times privy to confidential information. Fort Pillow is not to be mentioned to the others. Do I make that clear?”
Surprised by his seriousness, I nod furiously.
“Now, take this message to your pa and Lieutenant Rhodes. The trumpeter will sound “boots and saddles” in one hour. We have much to do.”
“Yes sir!” Repeating the message to myself, I run off, tucking the name Fort Pillow in the back of my mind. I can tell by the captain’s grim tone that it’s a place I need to remember.
* * *
The next evening, I’m in Pa’s wedge tent, which he shares with Private Black, Corporal Vaughn, and Private Crutcher. Supplies have been handed out, and they’re arranged on the bedrolls. Pa’s stooped on his side of the tent, packing some items in his knapsack. I haven’t spoken to him yet about going with the company, but I’m sure Captain Waite has mentioned it.
“Cartridge box, bayonet, cup, tobacco.” Private Black lists off the supplies lined up on his blanket. I kneel next to him, watching in rapt attention. On my feet are my new brogans. The stiff leather pinches my toes and blisters my heels, but I’ve polished them until they shine.
Picking up a cavalry gauntlet, which is a fancy name for a glove, I try it on. My hand swims in it.
“Knife, spoon, long johns, canteen, rounds of ammunition—” Private Black chuckles. “Not that we’ll be doing any shooting.”
“Why’s that?” I ask. “Is it on account of those ‘cussed Enfield rifles’?” I repeat Captain Waite’s sentiments.
He laughs. “You hit that nail on the head.”
“Enfield rifles are too long to be loaded while on horseback,” Pa explains. “Most cavalry use carbines.”
“Which means the colored cavalry soldiers will be fighting on foot, hand to hand with the enemy.” Picking up his bayonet, Private Black makes a thrusting motion.
“Kill that Rebel!” I cheer him on.
Pa shoots a frown at Private Black. “Don’t encourage the boy. His ma’ll fret enough when she finds out he’s going with us.”
“She shouldn’t worry. Odds are we won’t see a lick of fighting,” Private Black grumbles. “The only reason Burbridge is bringing us coloreds along is to clean the other troops’ horses.” He pretends to stick the bayonet in the dirt floor. “We’ll prob’ly be using this for a tent pin.”
“Oh, it might come in handy for picking hooves or cracking hardtack.” Pa nods at me. “You best go see your ma tonight, Gabriel, and bid her farewell. Tomorrow will be hectic, and the next day we march at sunrise. Annabelle’s expecting you, too. She says you failed to visit as promised.”
My face heats up under my kepi.
“Whoo-wee. I believe someone has a sweetheart,” Private Blacks joshes.
“Naw,” I mutter, avoiding his eyes.
He sniffs the air. “Might be you need to clean up a bit, otherwise she’ll think some ol’ hog has come calling. When was your last bath? Five nights ago?”
“He can forget about bathing,” Pa says. “Every soldier in camp wants a bath before marching out, so the wash tents have lines twenty soldiers deep.”
“I hear Hickman Creek’s not too cold and muddy.” Winking, Private Black tosses me a rag and a chunk of soap.
I catch them and stand up. I’ve a clean shirt, thanks to Corporal Vaughn, whose penmanship has earned him a place in charge of supplies. Pa puts his arm around my shoulder and leads me outside the tent. “Gabriel, I ain’t agreeing with your idea to go with Company B. But I ain’t disagreeing, neither. Captain Waite assures me you’ll always be behind the lines. A battle ain’t no place for a boy.”
He must see the protest in my eyes, because he raises one hand. “Let me finish. Since you’ve been at Camp Nelson, you’ve conducted yourself as a man. I’m right proud of you.”
I’ve been waiting to hear those words. “Thanks, Pa.”
He laughs. “You’ve made quite a name for yourself, too. After your first ride on Sassy, the name ‘Private Gabriel’ is on every soldier’s tongue.”
I wince. Lieutenant Rhodes has assigned me the most waspish mare that ever graced a barn. Neither man nor horse can tolerate her, so she’s tethered alone. The mare tore a hunk from my arm when I saddled her, and refused to open her mouth for the bit. Then when I stuck my foot into the stirrup to mount, she ran off and left me flat on the ground, much to the delight of every soldier in Company B. I had to have Pa hold her bridle—as if I was a dainty belle first learning to ride—before I could get on the mare. And worst of all, she’s gray. No cavalryman wants a gray horse, because it’s too hard to keep clean.
“Now wash up and go say goodbye to your mama. Be prepared for weeping,” Pa warns.
I hurry off. The rows of tents are busy with soldiers stooped over cook fires and washbasins. Some of the men are sitting on wooden boxes, cleaning rifles and boots. Others lounge on the ground, playing cards and reading Bibles. From one corner of the camp, the breeze brings both the mournful sound of a flute and the joyous sound of a harmonica. Seems I’m not the only one with mixed feelings about this journey to Virginia.
My thoughts are jangled, just like when I left Woodville Farm. Part of me is ready to meet the enemy. So far, life in Camp Nelson has been one long chore. After all the shoveling and hauling, a spell of marching and fighting sounds like a real adventure. But a small part of me ain’t excited about leaving Ma, Annabelle, and Kentucky for a place far over the mountains.
Still another part of me longs for Aristo, Captain, Sweet Savannah, and Tenpenny. It’s been many days since I left Woodville Farm. Is Jackson winning races on Aristo? I wonder. Has Short Bit proven himself as a rider? I’m surrounded by horses here, but the joy of training and racing those Thoroughbreds will never leave me.
As I walk toward the creek, I also think about Annabelle. I never did get to meet her Reverend Fee. I guess my pinch of jealousy got pushed aside by thoughts of war. Still, I’m excited to see her tonight, even though our meeting will be a farewell. At least I’ll be saying goodbye in a uniform.
Hickman Creek is a few yards beyond the washerwomen’s steaming kettles and drying lines. I doubt they’re working this late in the evening, but when I reach the winding stream, I hunt for a private spot to bathe. Contrary to what Private Black heard, the water’s muddy—probably men are watering their horses up creek
. But I find a spot that’s fairly clear and strip to the waist. I wash my arms and shoulders, shivering the whole while. Modesty keeps me from washing further.
I slide into the clean shirt, place my kepi over my damp hair, and then button up my jacket. It ain’t as fancy as Pa’s: He wears a woolen jacket trimmed with yellow braid. But it ain’t as plain as the fatigue jackets worn by most of the cavalrymen. When I fasten my last button, I can’t help but stand tall.
Half-clean, I hike to Ma and Annabelle’s tent. It’s empty. An old black lady points to a large walled tent set apart from the others. “The young one’s teachin’ tonight,” she says, and I thank her.
As I approach the tent, I can hear Annabelle’s voice. “Scholars, open your primers to . . .”
The flaps are pulled back and tied. I peek through the triangular opening. Two kerosene lanterns hanging from poles illuminate the tent. Its canvas walls bulge, and every bench is filled with soldiers in blue, women in headscarves, and workers in homespun. All heads are bent as they follow Annabelle’s directions.
I hesitate for a moment, then slip into the tent. I scoot onto the end of a bench, whispering, “Pardon me, ’scuse me,” until the others slide over a hair to make room. I glance down the row, noting there’s one primer for the five of us on the bench.
“Scholars, I will hold up a card with a letter. Point to the letter in the primer and repeat after me: A.”
I crane my neck, trying to glimpse Annabelle over the forest of heads. But I can only see the card. As she holds more up, I repeat the letters along with the others. The lesson seems to drone on forever.
“Scholars, these letters make up words,” Annabelle says. “And the words become the sentences that we read in the Bible and in letters from home.”
Someone next to Annabelle holds up a card with words written on it. I sit up straight and see that the person is Ma. “Every night we will learn more letters and two words,” Annabelle goes on. “Tonight’s words”—she points to the cards—“are HOPE and FREEDOM. Hope is what we need to keep up our spirits during this war. Freedom from bondage is what we hope to gain, so we can live in dignity. Now say them with me.”
