by Alison Hart
I hurry to her bedroom. The quilt’s smooth on her mattress, and the room’s dark. “She must be tending Mistress Jane,” I say when I come out, only Jase doesn’t respond.
I look around the room. The plank table holds a tin plate, cup, and spoon, like Ma was waiting on me for dinner. A pail of water sits on the counter, a washrag and chunk of soap next to it. A pot of rabbit stew waits on the hearth.
“Jase?” I call.
I hear soft breathing. I poke my head around the sacking that hangs from a rope, marking off my sleeping quarters in the corner of the kitchen. Jase is sprawled face down on my ticking-covered mattress, sound asleep.
I tuck my quilt around his legs. Taking the candleholder from the table, I make my way through the kitchen garden to the back of the Main House. Ma will want to know that we made it home safely.
The coals glow in the fireplace, lighting the summer kitchen. I hurry into the Main House, tiptoeing down the long hallway. Pausing at the bottom of the winding staircase, I look up. The upstairs hall is dark and quiet.
“Gabriel, is that you?”
I whirl around, recognizing Mister Giles’s voice. Holding up the candle, I peer through the arched doorway of the dark parlor. I can barely make out his hunched form sitting on the settee.
“Yes sir. It’s me.”
“I’m glad you made it home safely.” He sounds very tired. “Come here a minute and tell me about your journey. I expected you home hours ago.”
I swallow hard, knowing I have to tell him about Captain.
I set the candleholder on the hall table. Dropping my chin to my chest, I walk slowly into the parlor. My heart’s hammering. I halt in front of the settee, my eyes on my dirty feet, my voice strained. “I, uh, have some bad news, sir.”
“As do I.” His sigh is heavy. “Mistress Jane is dying. It’s only a matter of time. I couldn’t bear it in her room any longer.”
I clasp my hands behind me. Even though I’ve lived at Woodville Farm all my life, I barely know my mistress. She rarely left the house. Annabelle told me that her only interests were flowers, music, and reading.
Mister Giles clears his throat. “Now, tell me your news. Was there trouble?”
“Yes sir.” I decide to start at the beginning. “When we woke this morning, Renny was gone. He’d taken the wagon, the team, and all the supplies.”
The settee creaks as Mister Giles slumps back in his seat. “I was afraid that might happen. Slaves in Kentucky have been stealing off every chance they get.” He looks up at me. “I’d hoped I could depend on Renny, but I suppose he saw this as a good chance to get away. And there’s no use hunting for him now that sentiment is in favor of the Yankees.”
“Yes sir.”
“Why did it take so long for you and Jase to get here?” he asks.
“Well, sir, we took a wrong turn, and then—” My words stick in my throat. How can I tell him his prize colt is gone?
“Go on, Gabriel. And then?” Mister Giles prods.
“And . . . and then two raiders jumped us about a mile from here. Sir, I’m so sorry, but they stole Captain!” I press my knuckles against my mouth, trying to hold back my sobs, but they burst from my gut until my shoulders shake and my nose runs.
Mister Giles fishes a handkerchief from his pocket and hands it to me. I blow hard, embarrassed. I’m supposed to be acting like a man, not a boy.
“Don’t grieve on it so, Gabriel. There are worse things than having a horse stolen.”
“Yes sir,” I choke out, only I ain’t sure what could be worse for Captain.
“It’s very late. We’ll speak about this in the morning,” he adds, dismissing me with a nod. “I’ll let your mother know you’re safe.”
“Thank you, sir.” I back out of the parlor into the front hall. Shrill keening comes from upstairs, and the hair rises on my arms.
It’s the sound of the living mourning the dead.
Sinking to my knees on the bottom step, I bow my head and pray.
I pray that Mistress Jane finds safe passage into Heaven.
I pray for Annabelle, Ma, and Mister Giles.
And I pray for Captain.
Chapter Four
A thousand dollars reward to bring my Thoroughbred, Captain Conrad, safely home to Woodville,” Mister Giles announces. He’s standing under the arched trellis gateway of the picket fence. Before him, a small army of horses and riders mill about on the curved lane in front of the Main House. “Catch Butler and Keats and I’ll add another five hundred.”
For two days after Mistress Giles was buried, the farm was in mourning. On the third day, Mister Giles sent messengers to all the neighbors. Within a few hours, over a dozen heavily armed riders had responded. Now it’s daybreak, and they’re waiting to head out.
I’m in the front yard of the Main House, standing with Old Uncle under an elm tree, watching the riders. I recognize Mister Ham with his sons Henry and Beale, Major Wiley, and several of his hired hands. Major Wiley owns the farm next to Woodville Farm. A month ago, Rebel raiders stole a barn full of his horses. Only five were recovered. He doesn’t want the reward money Mister Giles is offering; he wants revenge.
I want revenge, too.
“Wish I could go,” I mutter to Old Uncle. Old Uncle cares for the yard and gardens around the Main House. This summer the gardens are bursting with Mistress Jane’s favorite flowers. I hope she’s enjoying them from Heaven.
“You want to go so you can git shot?” he asks. “Or might be you want dat reward?”
“I don’t want the reward. I want to find Captain—to make up for losing him.”
Old Uncle shakes his head. “Don’t seem like you lost him. Seems like someone took him.”
“You sound like Ma.” I glance over my shoulder toward the Main House. Since Mistress Jane died, I’ve seen little of my ma. I spot Annabelle on the veranda, half-hidden behind a column, watching the riders, too. It’s the first time I’ve laid eyes on her since the burial. She’s wearing one of Mistress Jane’s hand-me-down black dresses, and her face is dull and lifeless.
Ma tells me that Annabelle’s grieving hard.
“Word has it that Butler and Keats were heading south toward Versailles,” Mister Giles goes on. “The Federals believe they were part of One Arm’s gang, which broke up when the majority of them were captured. Butler and Keats may be joining up with Sue Mundy’s band, so caution is necessary.”
“Why aren’t the Union soldiers after them?” Mister Ham calls out.
“Too many raiders scattered across the state, I gather,” Mister Giles replies. “Besides, these Rebels know the countryside and have allies in every farm and hollow. No soldier from the North is going to track them down.”
“Pa could find them,” I whisper fiercely.
Old Uncle grunts like he knows it’s true, too.
Minutes later, Mister Ham gives a signal and the men follow him down the lane. If I were older, I’d be riding with them.
Frustrated, I kick the trunk of the elm tree, stubbing my still-scabby toe. I hold the throbbing foot while hopping on the other, and I hear Annabelle giggle. I grin at her, glad my pain brought some joy to her morning.
One-legged, I hop up the brick walk to the steps of the veranda. Annabelle’s thirteen like me, but in Mistress’s hoop skirt she looks close to a woman. I flush. I’ve grown up with Annabelle, but lately, I’ve found myself acting something awkward around her. She’s a house slave raised in the Main House and I was raised in the stable. There’s a world of difference between the two of us. “G-good morning, Miss Annabelle,” I finally stammer.
“Why, Gabriel Alexander, when did you get so polite?” she asks.
“I’m just paying my regards,” I reply. “I know you’ve been pining since Mistress Jane passed away.”
Her smile fades.
“I’m right sorry,” I add quickly. Dropping my injured foot, I leap up two steps, trying not to wince. The blisters I got from Pa’s boots—the boots those raiders stole�
��ain’t healed yet. “Ma says you’ve taken it hard.”
Her chin bobs. “Mistress Jane was good to me. I don’t know what I will do now that she’s gone.” Annabelle brushes a tear from her cheek. “Gabriel, did you hear that on her deathbed Mistress Jane gave me my freedom?”
“Why, that’s grand news!”
“Yes, I suppose it is. But what good does it do me? I know nothing else but this farm. I have no other family. I haven’t even been to Lexington, like you have.” Her lower lip trembles. “Freedom doesn’t mean anything if I’m too afraid to leave.”
“Seems you once told me that freedom ain’t just about leaving,” I remind her. “Might be that if you’re patient, the right course will come to you when your heart has healed.”
She straightens her shoulders, then gives him a small smile. “Might be,” she agrees. “I am impatient sometimes.”
“Like me. If I had my way, I’d be off looking for Captain.” I try to puff out my chest, which suddenly seems as puny as a banty rooster’s. “And if I was a soldier like my pa, I’d be after him like a jackrabbit. But Mister Giles won’t allow it. He says my job is to stay here and train Aristo.”
Annabelle tilts her head. “Really? I heard it was your ma who won’t allow you to chase raiders or be a soldier,” she declares, suddenly looking like her old self again.
I bristle. “Ma ain’t my boss! If I want to chase raiders or join the army, I will, just like that. But first I aim to win more races so I become famous.”
“Ooooh. Gabriel, the famous jockey.” Annabelle purses her lips, and I know she’s mocking me.
“I won on Captain, didn’t I?”
“Yes, but then you lost him.”
I grit my teeth. Annabelle is still as pesky as a tick burrowed in my skin.
“Gabriel!” Mister Giles calls from the gateway. He’s been jawing with Major Wiley, who stayed behind on his horse. “Come here a moment, please.”
“Yes sir.” I bid Annabelle a curt good day, then hurry down the walk. Major Wiley is a tough old man with snow-white hair. Some folks say he ain’t really a major, but Mister Giles claims he got the title in the state militia.
“Major Wiley would like you to ride two of his Thoroughbreds next week at the Association track.”
“You mean jockey them?”
“Yes. I told him that it was fine by me. I won’t be racing any horses until the mourning period is over.”
“What do you say, Gabriel?” Major Wiley asks.
“Why, I’d be honored, sir!” I toss a triumphant glance toward the veranda, but Annabelle’s gone.
“Good. I’d like to try you on Nantura, my three-year-old mare, and Washington, my four-year-old colt. And don’t worry, I’ll personally escort you to and from the track,” the Major adds. “I’m not planning on losing any more horses to those raiders.” He tips his hat to Mister Giles. “I need to be off, Winston. Rest assured, we’ll find Captain.” With a final nod, he spurs his horse and gallops down the lane after the others.
“It looks as if your reputation is growing fast, Gabriel,” Mister Giles says. “Major Wiley has good horses and he’ll pay you fairly. Now go tend to Aristo. Give him a good workout this morning. I’ve got big plans for that colt. Losing Captain won’t stop me from winning races.”
“Yes sir!” Pleased as a hog in corn, I run up the lane toward the training barn. Before Jackson left, he rode for Major Wiley. Earned good cash, too, as I recall. I grin, already hearing those coins jingling in my pockets. Add them to my fifty dollars, and I’ll soon be rich!
Aristo was turned out early this morning. Now he’s running across his pasture, acting like a horsefly’s after him. I climb the rail fence and whistle to him. The colt trots over, his coat red-gold in the morning sun. Sliding to a halt in the dewy grass, he paws like a wild stallion.
“Best get your wildness out of your system now,” I tell him. “’Cause I aim to saddle you this morning.”
Aristo hates the saddle. I’d race him bareback, but Mister Giles says Jockey Club rules won’t allow it. For weeks, I’ve been laying sacks and blankets across his back. He don’t pay them any mind. But as soon as I set that saddle on his withers and dare to tighten that girth, he blows like a cork from a jug.
Must be some way to fool that horse into loving the saddle.
Pa would know what to do.
Only Pa ain’t here, I remind myself once again. Before he enlisted in the army, Pa was the head trainer at Woodville Farm. When he left, Mister Giles hired a trainer from the North named Newcastle. The man was quick with a whip and a nasty word. Lucky for me, he didn’t stay long. Now no one’s in charge of training, and Mister Giles tells me to use my judgment with Aristo. Me, a boy of thirteen. Sometimes the responsibility feels heavy on my skinny shoulders. But today I feel strong, like I can handle it.
A bee buzzes past and Aristo takes off again. I let him play for a while, enjoying his antics. I’m watching him kick his heels to the sky when the idea comes to me: the colt loves to buck. It’s not that he hates the saddle. Throwing the saddle off is just one more excuse to kick up his heels.
I slap my leg. “Why, I’ll be a caught possum!” Listen to the horse, Pa always told me. If I’d been listening harder to Aristo, I would have figured this out sooner.
Jumping from the rail, I run into the barn and get a rope, a bucket with a handful of feed, and an old racing saddle. Moments later, I slip through the gate into Aristo’s pasture. Setting the saddle on the ground behind me, I shake the bucket while calling the colt. He prances over, all excited to see that feed. When he dunks his head in the bucket, I slowly stoop and pick up the saddle. In one swift motion, without a pat or hello, I toss it onto his back and tighten the girth.
The colt explodes. He rears, knocking over the bucket, and charges across the field. When he races back, I vault over the top railing, narrowly missing his flying hooves. He wheels, bucks in place, and then gallops off again.
I raise my eyes to the heavens. “Lord, please don’t let the fool horse break a leg.”
“Gabriel, what in thunder are you doing?” Cato hollers as he hobbles down the lane from the carriage horse barn. Cato’s in charge of the riding and carriage horses. His brother Oliver runs the mare and foal barn.
“Mister Giles told me to saddle that colt,” I tell him. “And that’s what I did.”
Cato cuts his eyes to the Main House like he’s scared Mister Giles might show any moment. “Best hope that colt don’t crack a hoof or break his wind.”
“I’m praying he won’t. But I wasn’t going to fight that saddle on him—that was Newcastle’s way. This way, the colt’s fighting himself. And from the looks of it, he’s enjoying the battle.”
Twisting and leaping, Aristo flies around the pasture. Gradually, his bucking turns into a gallop, then a canter. Finally, he trots towards us, his neck arched, his eyes gleaming. The saddle’s tipped on his withers.
Cato shakes his head. “It’s a wonder that old saddle stayed on.”
“It better. I ain’t taking it off his back until the horse feels bare without it.”
Cato raises one brow like I’m batty.
I shrug. Might be I have lost my wits. But I don’t think so. Aristo lips up the spilled kernels of grain. He’s blowing hard, but it seems he’s already forgotten the torment perched on his withers.
Beside me, Cato chuckles. “I believe you’ve got your pa’s magic, Gabriel.”
“Naw. This was just horse sense. I’m leaving that old saddle on him all night. Then tomorrow I aim to ride him in that saddle. The magic will be sticking to that leather seat while the colt is bucking!”
***
After breakfast the next morning, Jase gives me a boost onto the colt. All last night, I left Aristo out in the paddock, saddled up. Now he’s acting like he’s forgotten it’s on his back. Aristo keeps one ear cocked, as if he’s thinking about tossing me off. But I stick like a burr to that saddle. Before long I have him trotting around the pasture li
ke one of Mister Giles’s riding horses.
The colt’s learned to listen to my voice from all the training in the paddock, and he listens to my hands and legs when I work him bareback. Now I’m teaching him to listen with me in the saddle.
If Aristo had his way in a race, he’d gallop full out from start to finish. But a winning horse has to canter easy and save his strength. I need to teach him to listen to my commands so he doesn’t burn out in the first heat.
“All right, colt, feel my heel in your right side? Feel my fingers tickling the left rein? That means move left,” I tell him. “You need to learn this in case a jockey comes up on your right and tries to bump us into the rail.”
With a switch of his tail, Aristo sashays left.
“Now I’m signaling you to move right. Feel it?” I press my left leg into his left side and jiggle the right rein. Arching his neck, Aristo floats to the right, and my heart floats with him.
We practice weaving from side to side at a trot, and then I squeeze him into a canter. The colt’s doing fine until he hears the rap of shod hooves coming up the lane. He plants his legs, swivels his head, and stares at the horses approaching in the distance. I recognize Major Wiley and Mister Ham. It’s the riders who left yesterday in pursuit of Captain.
I trot Aristo over to the gate. Reaching down from the saddle, I lift the latch and pull it open. As we jog up the lane, I search for a riderless horse among the returning party.
Mister Giles is hurrying from the Main House, a linen napkin tucked in his shirt like he’d been eating his morning meal. We reach the group about the same time. The men are slouched wearily in their saddles, and their horses look jaded.
“Did you find the raiders?” Mister Giles asks. “Any sign of Captain?”
Major Wiley shakes his head. “We rode day and night, following reports that Butler and Keats had joined Sue Mundy’s gang and were riding west from Versailles. Tracked them to Bardstown, but they had a head start and our mounts were played out. It appears they’re making for the Missouri border.”
