Gabriel's Triumph

by Alison Hart

  Outside the barn, horses snort and a rooster crows. The top door of the stall is open. The sky is dove gray, so I know it ain’t sunrise yet. I think about lying back down, but I shake off the thought and struggle to my feet. We have a long journey ahead of us today.

  I tuck my shirt into my homespun britches and brush the straw from my hair. My feet are scabby and my legs ache, and I wince with each step. Peering over the stall door, I glance right and left.

  Something seems wrong, but for a moment the reason escapes me.

  Then it hits me: The wagon’s gone!

  Whipping around, I stare at the corner of the stall where Renny laid his pallet last night.

  Pallet’s gone. Pack’s gone. Renny’s gone, too.

  He’s hitching up the horses, I tell myself as I swing open the stall door. But I know he’s not there. Last night when Renny came back from town and heard that Mister Giles had left for home, he was mighty quiet for a while. Then he told me and Jase to get a good night’s sleep so we could get an early start in the morning. He was already plotting his escape, I think. I should have known it from that faraway gleam in his eye.

  I hurry to the pole corral at the end of the barn. Mister Giles’s team of wagon horses is gone, too.

  It’s eight miles from Lexington to Woodville Farm. Jase and me will have to travel it on our own.

  Panic grips my empty stomach. But I don’t blame Renny for running away. This war has given slaves a chance for freedom. I saw it at Camp Nelson when Jackson took me to visit Pa. Slaves from all over Kentucky had streamed into camp to enlist in the Union army, gladly exchanging an overseer and a hoe for a sergeant and a rifle.

  Might be Renny’s gone to join Pa. If I weren’t free already, would I steal off, too?

  I tried to enlist at Camp Nelson, but Pa told me I was too young. If you ask me, young and old should be fighting for freedom. And that’s what I aim to do as soon as . . . Well, as soon as Ma lets me, I think sheepishly. Ma doesn’t want both her men fighting and dying in the war. Besides, there’s also that important matter of me becoming a famous jockey.

  “Jesus, watch over Renny and help him find freedom,” I pray before turning back to Captain’s stall. The colt has stuck his head over the half door. He whickers hungrily. “My gut’s rumbling, too,” I tell him as I scratch the white star under his forelock. Jase is curled beneath a blanket in the far corner of the stall, snoring softly.

  I toss Captain an armful of hay, then shake the last of the grain from the sack into his feed bucket. When I set the bucket over the door, Jase wakes up. He stands groggily and leans against Captain’s side, his blanket wrapped around his bony shoulders. Straw pokes from his hair, and his eyes are wide with worry.

  “Renny’s gone, ain’t he?” he says.

  “He’s gone and there ain’t nothing we can do ’bout it.” I open the stall door. “So come on, we got to get ready to start home.”

  “Alone?”

  “Not alone. You have me and I have you.” I stride down the shed row to the supply stall.

  “That’s s’posed to make me feel better?” he calls. I hear Captain’s stall door slam shut and Jase’s footsteps hurrying after me. I’m as scared as he is, but I’m trying to hide it. Trying to think and act like Pa.

  Feed Captain, groom him, check his legs, tack him up, pack up supplies. I list the chores in my head, but when I halt outside the supply stall and look inside, I realize the foolishness of my last words. Renny’s run off with the horses, the wagon, and the supplies.

  Tears threaten. I blink them back. You ain’t a child no more, Gabriel, so don’t be crying. “Looks like Renny took everything, Jase.”

  “He didn’t take everything.” Darting into the stall, Jase stoops near the back corner. “Renny left us a basket of food!” He lifts it up by the handle and excitedly points out the contents like we’re going on a picnic, not a dangerous journey. “Lookee, there’s a hunk of Cook Nancy’s bread, two hoecakes, a tin for water, and a chunk of cheese.” He grins. “Lucky Renny left it for us. Bet he knew we’d be hungry.”

  I keep my lips tight, letting Jase believe that Renny left the basket. The truth is, before bedding down last night I packed the food. Must be I knew in my heart that Renny would be gone by daybreak.

  “We’ll pack the food and the blankets. We need to travel light,” I tell Jase, who’s stuffing a hoecake into his mouth. “Best save the rest for later or we’ll get mighty hungry on our trip.” Shoulders bowed, I head back to Captain’s stall. The colt’s finished his grain and is plowing through his hay, hungry after yesterday’s race. By now, the rest of the barn folks are stirring. There’s a second meet today, but we’ll be long gone. Before One Arm and his guerrillas came to Woodville, Mister Giles was planning on bringing a half dozen Thoroughbreds for this two-day meet. The raid on the farm changed his plans.

  I run my hand down Captain’s front legs. They’re tight and cool. No sign of yesterday’s swelling. Least that’s in our favor. The horse—and our own feet—will have to get us home.

  Silently I groom Captain while he eats, letting the rhythmic strokes of the brush soothe both of us. Outside the stall, I hear Jase haggling with someone over food. When the voices grow quiet, I figure the boy’s begged enough for a morning meal.

  Minutes later, he peers over the stall door, crumbs sprinkling his lips. He hands me a ragged slice of bread and a wrinkled peach. My mouth waters at the sight of the sorry meal, and I thank him with a smile.

  By the time we’re ready to leave, the grounds of the racetrack are teeming with owners, grooms, and trainers getting their Thoroughbreds ready for the day’s meet. I boost Jase onto the lightweight racing saddle. The food is bundled in one blanket and tied behind the saddle.

  I wrap my boots, racing cap, and silks in the other blanket and fling the bundle over my shoulder. With eyes downcast, I lead Captain and Jase from the track grounds. As we make our way through the city of Lexington, no one pays us any mind. They don’t see yesterday’s winning horse or winning jockey. We’re just two barefoot colored boys taking Master’s horse home.

  Thank the Lord they don’t see our fear and worry.

  ***

  The rhythmic clip-clop-clip-clop of Captain’s hooves on the packed dirt of Frankfort Pike has lulled Jase to sleep. He’s slumped in front of me in the saddle, his cheek squashed against Captain’s mane. Spittle runs down his chin and he breathes easy.

  I don’t know how many miles we’ve gone, but the sun’s setting and goose bumps prickle my arms. So far, our journey’s been trouble free, except for a wrong turn out of town. If Annabelle had been with us, she would’ve read the road signs. Me, I just guessed, and we ended riding north toward Georgetown. Finding our way back added extra miles, and now I’m double sorry for the delay. I don’t care to be on the pike after sundown.

  I glance nervously around. The shadows are deepening along the brushy roadside. Tree boughs overhead block the late afternoon light. Captain’s head is hanging, and the reins loop free. The colt’s as tuckered as we are, and I feel the hitch coming back into his walk.

  A twig snaps in the brush. My heart drums beneath my ribs. I gather the reins, sit higher in the saddle, and find my stirrups. Twigs have been snapping the whole journey, but when the sun was high, its warmth and brightness kept the haunts away.

  Haunts. Slaves love to tell tales when the work’s done and the sun’s low. They rock on the porch, smoke their tobacco, and weave stories about spirits who rise from the grave to trouble the living.

  Ma scolds me when I repeat the tales to her. “Stay away from those storytellers, Gabriel Alexander. Don’t even listen.”

  But I never could resist those magical stories. Now I wish I had a charm string around my neck to ward off those spirits.

  Abruptly, Captain halts and I pitch forward, knocking into Jase. The horse’s ears prick as he stares down the road.

  I right myself and stare in the same direction, the images of evil spirits still whirling in my h
ead. There’s a solitary horseman in the middle of the pike. In the dim light he’s just a black silhouette, and I can’t make out his dress or features. A chill runs down my arms, right into my fingertips.

  The man’s sitting there on his horse—like he’s waiting for us. And he ain’t no spirit.

  “Jase,” I whisper, giving him a shake. “Wake up. We might have to make a run for it.”

  He mutters sleepily, but when I pinch his shoulder he jerks upright. “Keep it down,” I warn. “He might not have seen us.”

  Jase presses back into my chest, and I feel his body quiver. “W-who is it?” he stammers.

  “Might be no one.” Might be a Rebel.

  With a soft cluck, I turn Captain around. I try to picture the countryside we just passed through. Was there a farm or house by the road that might give us refuge?

  Captain breaks into a jog and his hooves sound like hammer strikes on the road. Jase jounces wildly on the pommel. I steer with one arm and hold onto his shirt with the other. I feel Captain’s lameness in the lurch of his stride. If the horseman gives chase, ain’t no way the colt can outrun him.

  I glance over my shoulder and the sight makes me cry out.

  The horseman’s cantering after us!

  Chapter Three

  Jase,” I hiss in his ear. “When I rein Captain toward the side of the road, you slip off and hide in the woods.”

  “But Gabriel—”

  “Do it!”

  Digging my heel in Captain’s right side, I aim the colt into the brush. Jase is still clinging to the mane, so I lift him up by his shirt. “Hide!” I command, before tugging him from the saddle. “Don’t come out, no matter what. If anything happens, get to the farm and tell Mister Giles.”

  He dives from the horse into the high weeds. I hear a thud, a rustle, and then silence. I turn Captain back onto the road and urge him into a canter. The horseman’s close enough that I can see the shape of his Confederate kepi cap.

  I kick Captain hard.

  The horse senses my fear. Lame leg and all, he stretches into a gallop. Ahead of me, another horseman drifts like a ghost into the road, blocking my escape.

  Captain skids to a stop. Shaking, I blink wordlessly at this second man, who wears a slouch hat and buckskin coat. Patting the gun butt in his belt, he gives me a toothless sneer. “Howdy, boy,” he says. “Fancy meeting you again.”

  I rein Captain around, but the Confederate in the kepi blocks my way. Behind me, I hear the cock of a gun.

  “Don’t try to run,” barks the man in the slouch hat. “Ain’t no horse can outrun a bullet.”

  I swallow hard. Beyond the brush, heavy woods rise on both sides of the road. Even if Captain charged into the trees, we’d soon be caught—or shot.

  I’m trapped between the two riders.

  The man in the slouch hat reins his horse next to Captain, his weapon resting lazily on the pommel. His horse is swaybacked; its long tail is tangled with burrs. “I believe you got something I want,” the man says, as hard as winter.

  I twist my fingers in Captain’s mane.

  “I saw your master pay you for riding.” He shakes his head in disgust. “Paying you, a darky. Why, Yankees are killing us Confederates to free uppity slaves like you.” He spits between Captain’s front hooves. “And it’s high time someone paid for my fellow Rebels’ deaths.” His mouth twists into a nasty grin. “Looks like that someone is you.”

  “I-I ain’t got any money, sir,” I stammer.

  The man snorts. “You saying I’m a liar? Keats!” he calls to the rider in the kepi. “Find that money and prove I’m not a liar.”

  Keats spurs his horse beside Captain. A knife is clutched in his hand. With one swift slice, he cuts the blanket from behind the saddle and flicks it onto his pommel. He paws through it and, finding only two hoecakes, tosses it to the ground.

  “Nothing in there, Butler.”

  “Then search the boy.” Butler waves the gun at me. “Money’s got to be somewhere.”

  “Give me that blanket on your shoulder.” Keats leans closer. Caught by a ray of the setting sun, his face glows blood red.

  I hesitate. The bundle holds Pa’s boots and Mister Giles’s racing silks. I don’t want to lose either.

  When I don’t move fast enough, Keats snatches the blanket off my shoulder and unties it. The shirt falls to the road, and Captain skitters sideways into Butler’s horse. The gun barrel swings through the air, catching me behind my ear.

  Pain explodes in my head. The blow whacks me off balance, and I tumble from the saddle. I land flat on my back on the dirt road, all sense knocked out of me. Dimly, I hear voices and feel hands roughly search my clothes. Then hooves clatter off, and I drift into blackness.

  ***

  “Gabriel, you all right?” Someone jostles my shoulder and my head struggles to clear. “Gabriel!” The voice sounds panicky. “Say you’re alive. You got to be alive!”

  I moan.

  “Oh sweet Jesus, don’t let him die!” the voice wails. I’m drifting off again when something cold presses against the side of my head. The snap of cold and pain makes my eyelids fly open.

  “Ye-ow!” I swat at a hand. It’s pitch dark, and all I can see are the whites of Jase’s eyes as he stares down at me.

  “Hallelujah!” he exclaims. “You’re alive! Now stop hitting me. I’m trying to cool that bump on your head.” He holds up the red racing shirt, which is dripping wet. “There’s a creek about ten paces off the road. I dipped your shirt in it. Thought you were never coming to.”

  My fingers touch behind my ear and I wince. “How long was I out?” Sitting up, I look around. It’s deep night, and I can’t see anything up or down the road.

  “Don’t worry. They’re gone,” Jase says.

  “Where’s Captain?”

  “Umm.” Jase’s eyes shift sideways. “They took him, Gabriel. Took everything except the shirt and cap.”

  “Pa’s boots?”

  He nods. “I’m sorry.”

  “Weren’t your fault.” Tears well in my eyes. “Captain’s lame. If they’re traveling fast, he ain’t going to last the night.” I slap my palms on the road, sending up a cloud of dust. I’m angry at the two men, but even more infuriated with myself. “The colt raced his heart out for me, and I let the raiders take him!”

  “Seems that’s twice now them Rebels got the best of you, Gabriel,” Jase says as he dabs at my aching head.

  “Only ’cause the odds were stacked in their favor!” I say hotly.

  “Don’t get mad at me.” He springs to his feet. “I’m only saying that if you don’t want to keep getting bushwhacked, you need a plan. Might be you should’ve told them you’re not some slave they can push around. That you’re a winning jockey.”

  I snort. The boy doesn’t understand. “They already know I’m a jockey, Jase. The man called Butler saw Mister Giles pay me after the race. That’s why they bushwhacked us. Bet they’ve been following us since we left the track.” My anger grows sharper. “Bet those two aren’t even real Confederates. Real soldiers would be harassing Yankees, not stealing from the likes of us.”

  “Mister Giles paid you money?” Jase gasps. “And those Rebels stole it?”

  “They didn’t get my money. I asked Mister Giles to keep it for me.” I swallow the sorrow rising in my throat. “But they got Captain. Ain’t that bad enough?”

  “Wasn’t nothing you could do, Gabriel.”

  “If I was a Union soldier like Pa, I could have fought them.”

  “And I could have jumped them from the bushes. Only then we’d both be dead.”

  “Mister Giles trusted me with his horse!”

  Jase shrugs like he knows there’s nothing he can say to make it right.

  I rub my aching head. I picture Captain growing as bony and raggedy as the raiders’ horses. Pa wouldn’t have lost Captain.

  “I don’t know how I’m going to tell Mister Giles,” I say to Jase, the thought making my head pound harder
.

  “You’ll find a way. Now come on.” Jase helps me to my feet. “We best be getting home ’fore you bleed to death.”

  I sway unsteadily until I get my bearings. “Shouldn’t be more than a mile.” I tuck the racing cap in my waistband and drape the wet shirt around my neck. “Least the raiders left Mister Giles’s racing colors.”

  “They left one more thing.” Jase pulls a crushed hoecake from his pocket and offers it to me. “I ate the other one. Couldn’t help myself.”

  Lint and dirt are stuck to the flattened cake, but my stomach still growls hungrily at the sight. I laugh.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “My stomach’s talking to me,” I reply, taking the hoecake from Jase. I set off down the road, my legs wobbly.

  “Didn’t know stomachs could talk. What’s it sayin’?” Jase asks as he falls into step beside me.

  “It’s saying, ‘Gabriel, I’m glad you’re still alive to enjoy this hoecake’.”

  ***

  My feet and legs are about to give out when I spot the brick posts that mark the lane into Woodville Farm. I nudge Jase’s arm. The last ten minutes, he’s been quiet, like he’s walking in his sleep. “Jase, we’re home.”

  “Thank the Lord,” he mumbles.

  Relief quickens my pace and I jog up the lane, Jase dogtrotting behind. After One Arm and his gang raided the farm, Mister Giles hired more armed guards and watchmen. But no one calls out or stops us. Two foot-sore colored boys mustn’t seem much of a threat.

  I slow by the picket fence that surrounds the yard of the Main House. A candle in a lantern flickers in one of the tall front windows, its glow casting shadows on the white columns of the veranda. The heavy front door is closed, and no one comes out to greet us.

  No use waking Mister Giles, I decide. The bad news about Captain can wait until morning.

  “I aim to curl up in the straw and sleep forever,” Jase mutters.

  “Come with me first. Ma will fix us something to eat.” Hugging the outside of the picket fence, I hurry past the kitchen garden toward my family’s cabin. It sits behind the Main House, a hayfield away from the slave quarters. Golden candlelight fills the lone front window, but when I fling open the door, Ma ain’t sitting in her rocker waiting for me.