Gabriel's Journey

by Alison Hart

  Reluctantly I pronounce the words along with the others. Over and over, hope and freedom ring through the tent in a chorus. Slowly, feet begin to drum and palms begin to slap. Despite my impatience to see Ma and Annabelle, my heart soars with the voices. I do believe that one day freedom will be for all.

  When the lesson is over, I push up front. But Annabelle’s talking to a serious man wearing a stiff black suit, so I make my way over to Ma.

  “It’s about time you visited, Gabriel Alexander,” Ma scolds with a smile. But then she sees my uniform, and her happiness fades. Her eyes bloom with tears. “No, you can’t go with your pa . . . I won’t let you go!”

  I take her hands in mine. They’re as dry as husks from long hours of washing and scrubbing. “Ma, what was all that talk about hope and freedom?” I ask. “Are they only for white soldiers to fight for?”

  She shakes her head, unable to speak.

  “If they want freedom, coloreds are going to have to march into battle, too,” I say, only my words don’t help. Ma lifts her apron to her face, and her shoulders heave with sobs. When she finally catches her breath, she says, “Gabriel, you believe this war will bring victory and freedom. But, chile, I hear the stories. All it’s bringing is death.”

  “Ma,” I sigh. “Captain Waite has promised that I won’t be in harm’s way.” Then I add in a low voice, “I ain’t going to get killed.”

  Calming some, she hugs me. I notice I’ve grown taller these days from all the hard work—and maybe from my new shoes. Peering over Ma’s shoulder, I see that Anna­belle’s watching us, her gaze curious, as she stands with the man in the suit.

  Annabelle brings the man over, and Ma lets me go. “Gabriel,” Annabelle says, “I’d like you to meet Reverend John Fee.”

  The man nods at me seriously, holding his Bible, and I realize with relief that he’s no ladies’ man. As I shake his hand, I shift my gaze back to Annabelle. She’s hiding a teasing smile behind her fingers, which for once are not gloved. They’re as red and raw as Ma’s.

  When Annabelle sees me looking, her cheeks flush and she snaps her hands behind her back. “Reverend Fee has been gracious enough to provide primers,” she says hastily.

  “Yes, but the lessons are prepared and executed by Miss Annabelle,” the reverend says. “I have confidence in her gifts as a teacher. And I have great trust in your father as a leader,” he adds, with an acknowledging nod to Ma. “I hear his unit will soon be marching.”

  I puff out my chest. “Yes sir, and I aim to march with them.”

  Annabelle blanches. Turning away, she busies herself with gathering primers.

  “I will pray for the soldiers every night,” the reverend says. “It was nice to meet you, Gabriel Alexander.”

  A group of women has clustered around Ma and Annabelle, so when the minister leaves, I hurry after him. Fort Pillow is on my mind.

  “Reverend, might I have a word with you?” I ask, trying to sound like a grown man.

  “Yes, Gabriel. How can I help you?”

  “Can you tell me anything about Fort Pillow?”

  His brow furrows and he shakes his head sadly. “A terrible massacre. The newspaper reported three hundred Negroes slaughtered by Confederate soldiers.”

  Massacre? Slaughtered? My breath catches in my throat.

  “And for no cause.” The reverend sighs. “The fort had surrendered. The Union soldiers had lain down their arms. The Rebels should have taken the colored soldiers as prisoners of war, not killed them on sight. The night I read the news of Fort Pillow was the first night I ever questioned my faith. We must all pray that such a terrible thing shall never happen again.” Still shaking his head, the minister continues on his way, disappearing into the dark.

  A chill races up my spine as I duck back into the yellow glow of the tent. No wonder Captain Waite refused to tell me about Fort Pillow. No wonder he made me promise to keep my silence. No soldier could march bravely into battle carrying visions of a massacre along with his rifle.

  Chapter Eight

  Annabelle pretends she doesn’t see me when I enter the tent again. Starting from the back, I make my way down a row, picking up primers. She’s purposefully avoiding me, keeping benches between us. I dart up the aisle and block her way.

  “Excuse me, Gabriel,” she says. “I must finish my work.”

  “And I will gladly help.”

  “I don’t need your help!” Sticking her nose in the air, Annabelle whirls in a wave of calico and hurt feelings, then hurries in the opposite direction.

  I follow her, not ready to give up. “I enjoyed your lesson,” I say. “The words hope and freedom will forever stay in my mind.”

  “I’m glad,” she murmurs. “Perhaps you could attend another lesson.”

  “My company will be leaving soon,” I say. “Perhaps at the next lesson we could learn the word goodbye. Soldiers arrive and depart from here like it’s a train depot.”

  Without looking at me, Annabelle silently stacks books in my arms. We work this way until my arms get tired and I begin to lose patience. “Conversation might make the work go faster,” I suggest.

  “Not if the conversation is about someone leaving to fight,” she says. She’s trying to sound curt, but she just sounds upset. “Yesterday I received a letter from Mister Giles. Your pa wrote him about your ma returning to Woodville Farm after the babe is born.” She touches my arm. “Gabriel, Mister Giles is eager for all of us to return. He wants me to help him with his correspondence and you to jockey his horses. We could leave tonight if need be!”

  I shake my head firmly. “Might be I’ll go back home after the battle at Saltville,” I tell her. “But not now. I can’t leave Pa, Private Black, Captain Waite, and the others. The soldiers in 1st Squad, well, they’re like family.”

  Annabelle stares at me with such confusion that I know she don’t understand. Might be I don’t understand either how the soldiers of Company B have become more than just comrades.

  Setting the books on a bench, I grasp her elbow. “I won’t be gone forever,” I say. “And I won’t be in battle. I’ll be behind the lines. I may wear a uniform, but I don’t even carry a rifle.”

  She blinks, her eyes glimmering with tears. “And you believe that will keep the Rebels from killing you?”

  I open my mouth to reply, but the reverend’s words stop me: The fort had surrendered. I know I can’t chase away her doubts.

  “That’s what I thought.” Annabelle picks up the stack. Staggering under the load, she starts up the aisle, and once again my farewell remains unspoken.

  Only this time, I decide, I ain’t leaving without a proper farewell. Throwing back my shoulders, I stride up the aisle in my squeaky new brogans. If tomorrow I’m marching to Saltville to face murderous Rebels, then tonight I should be able to march up to Annabelle and face the storm of her sorrow.

  * * *

  The morning sun rises as red as blood. Not a favorable omen, I tell myself as I loop the we`bbed surcingle over my saddle. The gloomy sky could foretell a vicious battle. Or it could mean that Sassy will kick my head wide open before I even mount her.

  Bending down, I reach under the mare’s belly to retrieve the end of the webbed belt and bring it up so I can buckle it. She kicks out, but I made sure before I started that we were far from the other horses. Her hooves harmlessly pelt the air.

  All around me, the men of the hastily formed Fifth are preparing to ride out. Traveling with the regiment are farriers to shoe the horses and veterinarians to heal them. A train of mules packed with supplies snakes down toward the road. An ammunition wagon and a supply wagon, both pulled by teams of mules, plod along at the rear of the train.

  Captain Waite and several other company commanders are already mounted. They ride through the throngs, delivering orders and rallying the troops. For a moment, I watch as Champion trots by. His neck and tail are arched as he carries himself and his rider in high style. Preparing to ride into battle suits the stallion.


  Turning my attention back to Sassy, I double-check the blanket roll strapped behind my saddle. Secured on top are a poncho, an overcoat, a lariat, and a lead strap. Next I look through my right saddlebag to make sure I’ve packed a currycomb, brush, and hoof pick, and then I check my horseshoe pouch for extra shoes and nails. They say the infantry marches on its stomach and the cavalry marches on its horse. Our lives may depend on our mounts, and I aim to take good care of Sassy and Champion.

  In my left saddlebag are three days’ rations for Sassy and me. I’ve also rigged a coffeepot onto the back of the saddle, on orders of Captain Waite, who loves his morning cup. When I lead Sassy forward, the pot clatters.

  Panicking, she kicks out again and sets the coffeepot to rattling even louder. But I notice Sassy ain’t the only fractious critter. All around me, horses and soldiers dance awkwardly, and cussing courses through the squads. Some of the cavalrymen bought too much from the camp sutlers yesterday and have overloaded their horses. I see bulky quilts and heavy mess kettles strapped to bedrolls, and cans of food and Bibles poking out from stuffed saddlebags.

  Our squad had only two chances to drill with the Enfield rifles. The soldiers carry them in slings, and they hang awkwardly from their shoulders. Pa says the rifle alone weighs about eleven pounds, and forty rounds of ammunition weigh about six. I wonder how long it will take for the extra supplies to grow too burdensome.

  Pa moves silently among his squad, checking straps, tightening girths, and calming soldiers and their mounts. He stops to show Corporal Vaughn how to fold his saddle blanket and smooth out every wrinkle to spare the horse’s back. When Pa sees me watching him, he sends an encouraging smile.

  My lips are too parched to smile back, so I nod a reply. My heart’s pattering at the thought of this journey. I’m glad when the trumpeter sounds “to horse” and it’s time for Pa and me and the other soldiers to line up.

  As first sergeant, Pa calls the roll. Then Captain Waite orders us to count fours in each platoon. When all the rows, or ranks, are arranged in groups of four, he hollers, “Prepare to mount!”

  We all turn to the right, let go of the reins with our right hands, step forward two paces, and face the saddle. Then, left hands holding the reins, we take hold of the pommel and put the toe of our left boots in the stirrups, ready for the next command.

  Just as the captain shouts “Mount!” two companies jog past, scabbards, bridles, and rifles jangling. Our horses ain’t never seen such crowds or heard such noise, and several of them start wheeling. Others rear in place, setting off the whole company. Soldiers pitch backward and toes get hooked in stirrups. A few men manage to mount, but their rifles, which they’ve seldom practiced with, swing into their horses’ rumps, and the animals lunge forward, as if spurred.

  At that point, saddles tip sideways and blankets slip from under too-loose girths. Coffeepots and kettles clang. Next to me, a quilt flaps from a poorly secured bedroll, and Sassy decides she’s had enough of the confusion. Throwing up her head, she flies backwards between the horses and riders behind me. Running with her, I turn her head and guide her into a circle. “Pardon!” I yell, but most of the soldiers don’t care because they’re fighting their own mounts.

  When Sassy realizes she’s been bested, she quits. I pat her soothingly, keeping clear of her nipping teeth, then lead her forward into rank.

  The bugle blasts wildly. “Stand to horse!” Captain Waite hollers, red-faced with frustration. Slowly, the haphazard clots of men and horses organize themselves into rows that look like dark, even stripes.

  I’m sweating and panting already, and we ain’t even left the stable yard.

  Finally Company B is mounted.

  “Form ranks!” Captain Waite commands, and we trot by fours down the pike to the large field beside the colored barracks where the entire regiment is assembling.

  Company B numbers about sixty soldiers and their mounts. I’ve heard there are 600 men in all marching today. Soldiers and horses stretch in rows up and down the pike and fill the hillside. It’s an impressive sight.

  It seems as if we’re waiting in the sun forever. I glimpse Colonels Wade and Brisbin off at the front of it all. They’re surrounded by other mounted officers and the chief trumpeter. At last Colonel Wade gives a command. He signals with his saber, and the field officers obey and repeat the command. Still, it takes a while for the regiment to move. Sassy’s about to protest with a buck when we start south down the pike, four abreast.

  By the time Pa’s squad has traveled to the entry gate of Camp Nelson, we’re riding in a cloud of dust. Pulling a handkerchief from my saddlebag, I wrap it around my nose. All around me, soldiers are doing the same. We look like a band of masked guerrillas.

  I am the fourth man in my rank. Private Black rides on my left on his horse Hambone; Private Murphy rides on his left on Sherman. First man in the rank is Private Crutcher, a freed slave and shoemaker, astride Whistler.

  Private Murphy’s not much older than me. He enlisted only a month ago. The first time he ran away from his owner, he was caught, jailed, returned, and whipped. The scars on his back still look ugly and raw. The second time he ran away, he made it to a recruiting station in Lexington. This time, the Union soldiers didn’t hand him over. Now he sits his horse like a man. Beside us on our left, Pa rides on Hero. The ranks and files of his squad are straight, and our horses paced at the correct distance.

  Pride fills me as the mounted troops stamp over Wernwag Bridge, which crosses the Kentucky River at the south end of Camp Nelson. Sassy breaks into a jig as the air drums with the echo of hooves. The guards all shout “Hurrah!” as we pass.

  Our journey to Saltville has begun.

  * * *

  My Dearest Mother,

  September 24 we reached Prestonburg, Kentucky. Our regiment has been assigned to a brigade commanded by Colonel Robert Ratliff of the 12th Ohio Cavalry. In all, General Burbridge commands a force of 5,000 men. We march for Saltville in three days. Salt is important to the Rebels, and if we can destroy the saltworks, we will hit them where it hurts the most—in their rations, and their bellies. However, I hear talk that Burbridge has not been a popular general. I hope this march is not a fool’s errand to boost a vain man’s career and reputation.

  Since we left Camp Nelson, the soldiers of Company B have performed their duties with utmost diligence, despite their lack of training and their brief time to prepare. I am honored to command them.

  Tomorrow we march through Pikesville. I send you all my love and hope that this cruel war will soon be over so we can be reunited. I long to once again sit with the family by the fireside, and converse about matters other than war. Please give Father, George, and all at home my fondest greetings.

  Your Son in Faith,

  D. Henry Waite, Capt.

  Dear Ma and Annabelle,

  Captain Waite is writing these words for me, but they are my thoughts. We rode for too many days in heat and dust, camping under the stars at night. We met up with several brigades at Prestonburg. All are mounted. Unlike the 5th, most regiments have fought together in many skirmishes. The 30th Kentucky Mounted is especially a sight to behold. All their horses are white and they shine from grooming and good feed. When they march past, we stare in awe.

  The 5th is the only colored regiment on this march. We’ve joined the 11th Michigan and 12th Ohio cavalry regiments. The white soldiers delight in taunting us. Coloreds can’t fight, they say. They’re cowardly slaves. One night the men of the 11th swiped about ten of our bridles and hung them high in trees. I and a few other nimble soldiers had to climb like squirrels to retrieve them.

  Today we marched through Pikesville. A small party of Rebels attacked the front lines, but do not worry, Ma—the 5th saw no fighting. The soldiers in my squad have kept up their spirits with singing, joshing, and prayers. Pa rallies us well. He tells us we are marching for freedom, not for the white soldiers’ praise. Captain Waite continues to treat me fair, and I have made friends with several privat
es. Private Black has two sons about my age. He misses them dearly. I am proud to be marching with them all.

  Tomorrow Sept. 26th we cross into Virginia and head over the mountains. I hope you are both well. Keep us in your prayers,

  All my Love, Gabriel

  * * *

  Hear that mournful thunder,

  Roll from door to door,

  Calling home God’s soldiers,

  Get home, men, go home.

  Private Black’s deep voice booms in front of me. It’s pitch black and raining hard, and his singing guides the way.

  Behind me, Private Murphy’s higher voice rises along with Private Black’s.

  See dat forked lightning,

  Flash from tree to tree,

  Callin’ home God’s soldiers,

  Get home, men, go home.

  As if joining in the chorus, a bolt streaks the sky, and Sassy jigs forward. Company B is one long line of soaked horses and riders as we pick our way along a narrow mountain trail, all proper distance and order abandoned in our misery. Sassy’s nose is in Hambone’s tail, and Private Murphy’s horse Sherman bumps against Sassy’s rump, but she’s too tuckered to kick.

  I’m hunched in my saddle, rain dribbling down my neck and pooling under my poncho. General Burbridge has driven us all night, trying to make up for lost time. Captain Waite called it folly, but Pa said even a general could never have predicted the treacherous trail, the wicked thunderstorm, and the Rebel militia dropping trees in our path. Troops walk ahead, clearing the trees, but it’s taken a toll on our march.

  The trail into the mountains is narrow, so before we started the climb, the muleteers unloaded the wagons and mules. Then they emptied the horse feed into smaller sacks and distributed them among the cavalrymen. Now each man must bear the added weight of extra rations behind his saddle. Mules carry the wheels and barrels of the six small cannons called Mountain Howitzers. The wagons and their teams stayed behind in Kentucky while we forged ahead.