Gabriel's Triumph

by Alison Hart

  “Thank you, sir. The track’s sloppy from the morning rain. She’ll hate mud kicked in her face, so I aim to keep her in front the way she likes.”

  The old man nods. “Keep hold of your wits, and good luck.”

  The bugle blows. Peter leads Nantura from the paddock and onto the track. It’s a large field—four colts and three mares—and their hooves make sucking noises in the mud. Ahead of us, the groom Bates walks beside Alliance, who’s being ridden by the Tennessee jockey. Nantura jigs past them, splashing up muck, and Bates winks at me.

  The first heat of the race is a blur. At the tap of the drum, Nantura breaks fast. I’m so busy holding her steady that I don’t look over my shoulder until we flash past the finish-line pole. The nearest horse is five strides behind.

  It takes a furlong before I wrestle the mare to a trot. When I turn her around, Major Wiley’s laboring up the track toward us. Nantura skitters past, and he reaches for the rein. Concern fills his craggy face. “By golly, that was fast. I hope you left some steam for the last heat!”

  “Major Wiley,” I pant. “The mare took the bit in her teeth and ran. I just steered her in the right direction and hoped she kept her footing.”

  Just then the Tennessee jockey trots past us on Alliance. The jockey glares at me, his eyes blue dots in his mud-splattered face. Nantura snaps at Alliance’s rump, her teeth barely missing the Major’s derby hat.

  “Where’s Peter?” I need the groom. My arms are tired from holding the mare.

  “He’s keeping an eye on Washington,” Major Wiley replies. “This morning, Judge Davidson found some strange powder in his mare’s feed. And Colonel Whitman suspects someone tried to break into his supply stall last night. I’m not taking any chances.”

  I hold my tongue as I dismount. Now that Newcastle’s a big “hero,” I don’t dare accuse him of something I didn’t witness. I walk on Nantura’s right while the Major keeps her in check on the left. Together we get the mare to the barn before she can trample any racegoers.

  In the second heat, Nantura’s just as strong, and we distance the field in the first lap around the track. During the second lap, I hear her breathing harder, so I snug her tight. That’s when Alliance closes the gap. He inches up along the inside rail, and as we gallop into the dip, my mouth goes dry. A rider doesn’t want to be neck and neck in the dip. Too many things can happen there where the judges can’t see you.

  I kiss to Nantura, but the sloppy track and breakneck speed have taken their toll on her. From the corner of my left eye, I glimpse a raised arm. Before I can blink, a briar branch slashes through the air, raking my temple, cheek, and ear.

  Blood drips into my eyes. I clutch the reins with my right hand. Raising my left, I fend off the next slash. The briar thorns snag in my shirtsleeve, and I jerk my arm across my chest, snapping the branch. It slaps against my left side, stinging the skin beneath my shirt, but it’s a niggling pain compared to the fire in my face.

  Alliance creeps ahead.

  I swipe away the blood, then once again take both reins. I can bear losing because of another jockey’s skill, but not because of another jockey’s cheating.

  I jiggle the left rein. Nantura eyes Alliance, who’s ahead by a nose. She pins her ears, furious. I jiggle that rein again, urging the big mare left. She flows toward the inside, forcing Alliance closer to the rail where the dirt’s banked and the mud’s as sticky as mush.

  The colt gets bogged down and Nantura surges past him.

  We win by an arm’s length. Major Wiley’s all smiles when we pose by the judge’s stand. I’m grinning, too, although it’s hard to tell with the blood pooling in the corners of my eyes and mouth. None of the stewards question the blood, and I don’t complain. The Tennessee jockey’s trying to win, just like me.

  My third win! I think excitedly, marking them with three raised fingers. Soon I’ll have a handful of wins—and a pocketful of riches.

  “Masterful riding,” Mister Giles calls to me as we pass by the crowd in the grandstand. All his gentlemen friends are smiling, so they must have won big money on Nantura. He points one gloved finger at me. “I have plans for you, Gabriel Alexander. Big plans!”

  My chest swells with pride. My name ain’t in a newspaper yet, but one day it will be, I know it.

  When we get back to the barn, one of the major’s grooms takes Nantura. I dismount, wipe off my face and boots, and head to Washington’s stall. I need to tell Peter that Nantura’s ready for bathing. And I want to talk sweet to that pigeon-hearted Washington, who’s entered in the third race. But when I peer over the stall door, I know something’s wrong. Washington’s in the corner, his head drooping. Peter’s nowhere in sight.

  “Major!” I holler. “Something’s wrong with the colt!”

  Major Wiley hobbles over. “Where’s Peter? I told that boy not to leave the stall,” he fumes as he throws open the door. There’s a half-eaten bucket of grain on the floor.

  “Dang boy knows not to feed him before the race!” He picks up the bucket to toss it from the stall, but I stop him.

  “Check it first,” I say urgently.

  His face falls as he realizes what I’m suggesting. He holds the bucket up to his nose and sniffs. Then he grabs a few kernels of corn and puts them in his mouth. Immediately he spits them out with a sharp bah!

  “Sticky and sweet, like some kind of tonic’s been poured on the feed,” he says. “Laudanum, probably. Sweet enough so the horse ate it.”

  I walk over to Washington. Flies buzz around his head and flanks, but he doesn’t even swish his tail. I place the flat of my hand under his nostrils. His breath fans my fingers; it’s shallow but steady. His eyelids are closed and his lower lip flaps like an old mule’s. “He’s out cold, but I believe he’ll be all right.”

  Major Wiley sighs heavily. “At least it’s not poison. Horse will be too groggy to run. I’ll have to scratch him from the race.” Rage makes his chin quiver. “Peter was supposed to watch him! Where could that boy be?”

  A chill works its way up my spine. Newcastle makes no secret of his dislike for coloreds. Would he hurt Peter?

  “Major Wiley, I doubt Peter would leave Washington,” I say quickly. “Might be something’s happened to him.” I bolt past him and head down the passageway. A groom is untacking Nantura. My eyes go to her stall. The door’s open wide.

  Breaking into a run, I rush down the aisle and into Nantura’s stall. Peter’s sprawled in the corner, half-covered with straw. My heart thuds against my chest.

  I kneel next to him. His lashes lie soft against his light brown cheeks. His chest rises and falls, and my terror drains away. Like Washington, he’s only sleeping soundly. His lips are sticky like the corn kernels, and I cast around to find what he ate or drank.

  I spy a bottle in the straw under his outstretched arm. Picking it up, I sniff the mouth: applejack. Laced with the drug, too? Ma told me that doses of laudanum were the only thing that brought Mistress Jane peace before she died.

  “Peter.” I jostle his shoulder, but he sleeps on. Like the dead, I think, remembering the time Jase and me found Auntie Wren, Old Uncle’s wife, stone cold on the floor of the summer kitchen.

  I sit back on my heels, and a heaviness fills me. I’m thankful that Washington and Peter are alive; they’ll be fine once they wake up. But for me, the day is ruined. The glory of racing and winning has been tainted by Newcastle’s cheating and greed.

  Chapter Seven

  I wake on the Sabbath, my legs aching from yesterday’s race and the ride back from Lexington. The sun’s streaming through the small window, lighting my corner of the cabin. Already it’s hot, and I’ve tossed off the quilt.

  Ma must have let me sleep, I think. Grooms and barn workers care for the horses every day. But the horses aren’t exercised on Sunday, so a jockey gets that day off.

  A fly buzzes against the windowsill, and I hear Ma moving around the cabin. I swing my legs to the plank floor. Next to the bed, my new boots stand stiff and pr
oud like two black soldiers. I bend over and inspect my feet. Not one blister!

  A clattering from the kitchen makes me jump from the bed. Mister Giles might let me rest on the Sabbath, but after Bible reading, Ma always has chores for me to do.

  As I pull up my britches, I peek around the sacking that hangs from the ceiling, marking off my sleeping area from the kitchen. Ma’s bent over by the cupboard, tossing plates and spoons into a basket.

  “Morning,” I greet her. Last night, I told her all about my adventures at the track. As she listened, she tsked and frowned and nodded. Then she hugged me tight, told me I was changing from a child to a man, and sent me to bed.

  Ma rises when she hears me, one hand pressed to the small of her back. Her face looks peaked under her headscarf. “Morning, lazyhead. I thought you might sleep the day away.” She waves at the table. “Come eat some grits. I brought them from the Main House. Annabelle cooked them. They should still be warm.”

  “Annabelle?” I wrinkle my nose as I walk over to the wooden table. Ma’s set a tin bowl upside down over the plate to keep in the warmth. I tip the bowl up and sniff.

  “Mmm. Smells good.” I sit at the table, grab a spoon, and dig into the steaming mound. “These grits are right tasty. Are you sure Annabelle cooked them?”

  Ma nods. “With buttermilk and bacon grease. Just the way you like.”

  “Why is Annabelle spending so much time in the kitchen now?” I mumble through a mouthful. “She’s never taken much to cooking.” Mistress Jane always spoiled Annabelle, which meant the girl only did chores that suited her. And a hot kitchen in the summer was never to her liking.

  “Times are hard. Elisa Sue stole away while Mister Giles was at the race in Lexington, and Cook Nancy needs her rest.” Ma folds a washrag and tucks it in the basket. “Mister Giles brought in a new girl from the fields to help, but she’s just learning.”

  “Might be Elisa Sue left to meet Renny,” I suggest.

  “Might be. The two did seem sweet on each other.” Ma flicks a look at me. “Seems slaves are fleeing the farm every day. Like birds flying north in the spring.” She turns abruptly and hurries into the bedroom.

  I stop shoveling grits in my mouth. I glance at the basket on the floor—it’s filled to the brim—then over to the bedroom doorway. I can hear Ma sniffling softly.

  The grits form a lump in my throat. “Ma, what’s wrong?”

  “I’m leaving, too, Gabriel. Tomorrow.” Her voice croaks like a spring peeper. “I’m joining your father at Camp Nelson. Captain Waite, your pa’s commanding officer, got me a job as a washerwoman.”

  The spoon drops from my grasp and clatters on the tin plate as I rise to my feet. “But Ma, you can’t leave without me!”

  Ma appears in the doorway, her cheeks glistening with tears. “You need to stay here, Gabriel. As much as it grieves me, you must stay at the farm.”

  My jaw flaps, but no words come out.

  “I waited until after the races to decide. I wanted to see if you were ready to be on your own.” She smiles proudly over her sadness. “And I believe you are. Not only are you a winning jockey, Gabriel, but you’re growing into a fine man.”

  “Well, I can keep growing at Camp Nelson!”

  “No. You’ll keep riding here. Keep saving your money. We’ll be needing it, all of it.” She presses one palm below her waist. I’d almost forgotten that she’s with child. Ma’s apron and skirt hide the signs.

  Crossing the floor, she places her hands gently on my shoulders. I turn my head, unable to look at her. “I wouldn’t leave so soon, Gabriel, but I don’t want this child born without your pa. Mistress Jane’s buried and mourned, and there’s nothing holding me at Woodville.”

  “There’s me.” Tears rush to my eyes. So much for being a man.

  She squeezes my shoulders. “Yes, of course there’s you. But you’re not a child anymore, and Mister Giles has plans for you.” With one finger she tips up my chin. “You want to be a famous jockey, Gabriel. If you leave with me now, you’ll never see that dream.”

  I wipe my tears. “Mister Giles has plans for me?” I vaguely recall him saying some such thing after I raced Nantura.

  She smiles, like she has a secret. “He’ll tell you about them this afternoon, I think. He’s expecting you after Bible reading. Now give me a hug and then help me finish packing.”

  I open my mouth to protest again, but she hushes me with a finger on my lips. “My mind’s made up.”

  “Can I travel to Camp Nelson with you at least? To see Pa?”

  She hesitates. “Only if Mister Giles allows.”

  “He’ll allow it,” I declare. “Or I won’t go along with his big plans.”

  Ma laughs at my bold words. “Oh, I’m going to miss you something powerful, Gabriel Alexander. But I believe you will be right fine without your mama.”

  ***

  “Come in, Gabriel,” Mister Giles calls. He’s seated at his desk, his back toward me. He dips a pen in an inkwell and writes on a sheet of paper.

  Arms crossed against my chest, I walk into the sitting room and wait until he addresses me. I don’t yet know how I will ask him about going to Camp Nelson with Ma. After I helped her get ready for the trip, I checked on Captain Conrad. The colt was contentedly munching hay in his old stall. Tandy was caring for him, so I knew he was in good hands.

  Behind me, I hear the swish of skirts and the scuffle of soft-soled shoes on the floorboards. When I glance over my shoulder, I glimpse a shadow rippling along the banister in the hallway.

  It’s either a haunt or Annabelle.

  “Gabriel.” Mister Giles suddenly twists in his desk chair.

  “Yes sir.” I snap to attention.

  “That was masterful riding the other day!” Rising from the chair, he paces across the floor. “You were the talk of the meet. Of course, not all the talk was favorable.” He lets out a hearty laugh, the first I’ve heard from him since the mistress died. “But what else would you expect from those who lost bets?”

  He picks up the sheet of paper from the desk and waves it. “This is an entry form from the Saratoga Association for their August meet. Think of it! There will be horses from New York, Pennsylvania—even Canada!”

  I nod, pretending that I understand. I know the name Saratoga since that’s where Jackson went to be a jockey. But I’ve never heard of those other places.

  “Five days of racing!” Mister Giles continues. “There will be the Travers Stakes, the Congress Spring Purse, and the Saratoga Stakes. That famous colt Kentucky will be racing, not to mention Tipperary, Aldebaran, and Fleetwing. Can you imagine? And we’re going to be part of it!” He throws his arms wide.

  “Part of what, sir?”

  “The August meet, of course. I’m entering Aristo, Gabriel. You’ll be his jockey. And you’ll be riding against Abe Hawkins and Gilpatrick.”

  My jaw falls slack. Abe Hawkins? The famous jockey?

  “We leave for Saratoga in five days.”

  “S-Saratoga?” I stammer. “That’s mighty far from Woodville, ain’t it?”

  “Just think, Gabriel, Aristo will be racing against the finest horses on the finest racecourse in the United States!” Mister Giles’s excitement is catching, and my mind starts spinning like a whirligig. In Saratoga I’ll get to see Jackson, and I’ve missed him a lot. Even better, this would be my chance to be famous, just like Abe Hawkins. But then dizziness, or maybe it’s fear, comes over me in a rush.

  Aristo’s mighty fast, but he ain’t never been tried on a racetrack. And how could Mister Giles think I’d have a chance against a jockey like Abe Hawkins?

  “Sir,” I say, my stomach churning. “I don’t mean to doubt you, but I’ve only jockeyed three times. And Aristo’s only raced against his stable mates.”

  Mister Giles waves one hand in the air. “No problem. Tomorrow, we’ll try Aristo against Nantura. Major Wiley’s already agreed.”

  “What if Nantura beats him?”

  Mister Giles fr
owns down at me, his fists on his hips. “I thought you had faith in Aristo. I thought you would be excited about Saratoga. This is your chance to prove yourself, Gabriel. To race against the best.”

  “I am excited, sir. But it’s all too large for me. I ain’t never been farther than Lexington.”

  Mister Giles again laughs heartily, like I’m making a joke.

  I flush. Maybe Newcastle was right. Maybe I am a milksop.

  I lick my lips, which are as dry as cornhusks. “Sir, I would be honored to ride Aristo. But I also want the colt to have the best jockey at Saratoga. And that would be Abe Hawkins. Or what about Jackson? He should be riding in Saratoga by now.”

  Mister Giles claps me on the back. “Admirable idea, Gabriel, but it’s you I want. This trip will be new and frightening for Aristo. We’ll be traveling north to New York by train, and the colt will need you every mile of the journey and every furlong of the race.”

  Traveling north. I repeat Mister Giles’s words in my mind. Jackson said that’s where real freedom is.

  “How long will we be gone?” I ask.

  “About ten days.”

  “Can I travel with Ma to Camp Nelson first?” I ask. “I’d like to see Pa.”

  “Why, of course.” Mister Giles rubs his hands together. I haven’t seen him this excited in weeks. “Then it’s settled! I’ll buy train tickets and make the other arrangements. We’ll leave Friday.”

  “Yes sir.” I bow slightly at the waist. “And thank you, sir.”

  As I back out of the sitting room, someone grabs the tail of my shirt and pulls me into the hall. It’s Annabelle, and she’s glaring at me with pure fury in her eyes.

  “Gabriel Alexander!” she hisses as she yanks me into the dining room. “Are you a lack-brain? You have a chance to travel on a train to the North! To Saratoga Springs! I’ve read about that place in the New York Tribune. It’s a famous resort, and they called it the ‘wickedest spot in the United States.’ Why, you should be ecstatic, not bumbling and downcast.”

  I snatch my shirt hem from her grasp. Annabelle’s always throwing her “learning” in my face like she’s better than me. “I don’t know what ec . . . ecst . . . I don’t know what that word means, Annabelle, but I don’t care for your bossy tone. You ain’t mistress of this house, and I ain’t some field slave you can cuss.”