Gabriel's Triumph

by Alison Hart

  One of the women peers at us through the steam. She’s a girl, not much older than Annabelle, but she’s stooped like an old woman, as if the endless laundry has bowed her back.

  “This must be where your ma’s going to work,” Jase says.

  I nod, my eyes on the girl. Her face and hands are red and swollen from the steam and the lye. My heart grows as heavy as the boiling clothes. Is this freedom? Washing soldiers’ dirty long johns? I want to run back to the tent and tell Ma to come home to Woodville with me.

  But I don’t lift my feet from the mud, because I know that this is where Ma has chosen to be. With Pa. From now on, the rows of tents and steaming tubs, not Woodville farm, will be her home.

  Chapter Nine

  Whooo, whooo. The shrill train whistle jerks me from a dreamless sleep. I bolt upright, instinctively checking on Aristo. The colt’s head hangs above me over the wooden door of the stall in the train’s freight car. When he sees I’m awake, he strikes the back wall with his iron-shod hoof.

  “Quit that,” I warn. Feeling sour, I lean back on my blanket and stare up at Aristo. After he soundly beat Nantura in the match race at Major Wiley’s farm, there was no doubt the colt could win a real race on a track. But it’s a long journey to Saratoga, and Aristo’s been restless since we left a day ago. The train conductor’s already been back three times to complain about the colt’s kicking. But I can’t blame him: I’m pining mightily for Woodville Farm, too. It’ll be a wonder if we survive this train journey, much less win a race.

  Aristo bobs his head, trying to get my attention. When I ignore him, he snorts and pushes my shoulder with his nose.

  “Dang it, horse. I ain’t your handkerchief.” Hopping up, I toss a handful of hay into his stall and feed him a carrot. I wisely brought a sack full that Annabelle helped me dig from the kitchen garden. Carrots held out in front and two men holding crossed ropes behind his rump were the only way we got him in the freight car.

  I stroke his sweaty neck. The car’s hot, and flies settle on his rump. He pins his ears and stomps a hoof.

  “Shhh.” My body sways to the rhythm of the wheels on the track. “It’ll only be a while longer.”

  A whole night and day longer, but I don’t mention that. Aristo ain’t used to being cooped up. Since we left, he’s been locked in one of the narrow stalls built in a corner of the freight car. The conductor told me the other three would soon be filled with horses. “Don’t get too comfortable,” he’d said.

  Fat chance anyone could be comfortable in here. The floor is hard, and the other stalls stink of urine-soaked straw and rotted manure. Before loading Aristo, we cleaned out his stall, limed it, and put down fresh straw. The extra work held up the train, but it was worth the trouble. Mister Giles ran back and forth along the track, pressing silver coins in the palms of the station master, engineer, brakemen, and conductors, so they, at least, were happy to oblige. The passengers weren’t quite as forgiving.

  Clackety-clackety-clackety . . . The noise of the train is constant, reminding me of the drone of cicadas. The freight car door’s slid halfway open and I peer out. Last night, when Mister Giles checked on us, he told us we were in Columbus. “That’s in Ohio,” he explained, “the state north of Kentucky.”

  I look out at this place called North, but the countryside flashes by too quickly to take it all in. So far, Ohio looks a lot like Kentucky. Farms, small towns, trees, and fields. Disappointment sticks in my craw. Somehow, I thought North would be different.

  Whooo . . . whoo. Again, the whistle signals that the train’s approaching a station. Overhead, I hear the thudding of feet as a brakeman runs along the roof of the car to reach the brake wheel.

  Clackety, clack-e-ty, clack . . . e . . . ty . . . The rhythm slows. I force the door open wider and let the air blow on Aristo. He whinnies loudly, as if hoping another horse will answer.

  With a whoosh of steam and the clanking of couplings, the train pulls into the station. I grab Aristo’s empty bucket. The stifling heat makes the horse thirsty, and I fetch water for him at every station.

  When the train stops, I jump from the car. Passengers are streaming onto the station platform. There’s a sign saying what town we’re in, and I wish Annabelle were here to read it. I glance toward the locomotive, spotting a water pump.

  I hurry down the platform, dodging passengers exiting the cars. Pumping the handle, I fill the bucket and then head back, walking around the cowcatcher sticking out from the nose of the locomotive to the far side of the train so I don’t jostle into the departing passengers. Smoke and steam hiss from the smokestack, and I wave to the engineer with my free hand.

  Slowly, I make my way down another track that runs along the other side of the train. Water slops from the bucket onto my bare feet. Two girls with saucy velvet caps and blond curls peer down at me from the window of a passenger car. “Hey, you, colored boy!” one calls. When I look up, she tosses me a licorice twist.

  I thank her with a grin and tuck it in my pocket. As I approach the freight car, I hear yelling and the rat-tat-tat of hooves. My pulse quickens. Aristo!

  I set the bucket down and clamber over the coupling. A group of men are trying to load two horses—a chestnut and a bay—onto the freight car. My heart quiets and I wipe my brow with relief. Not Aristo.

  The chestnut is standing at the bottom of the ramp. His legs are stiff, his eyes roll, and his hooves are planted firmly. Halfway above him on the ramp, two men tug on the lead rope. Their faces are bright red from the strain. I’d like to tell them that no matter how hard they yank, they ain’t strong enough to pull that horse up the ramp. And by the looks of that horse, he ain’t going to budge.

  A man in a tweed suit, vest, and bowler hat watches from the platform. He has sharp eyes and a mustache that curls in a smile. A fat cigar pokes from his mouth. “I don’t have time for this. Get the whip, Hooks,” he tells a tall boy who hovers at the end of the ramp.

  “Yes, Mister Jeremiah,” Hooks replies as he scurries to a trunk.

  I wince, hating to see any animal whipped. There’s a better way to load a horse. But do I dare speak?

  Mind your own business, I warn myself. Turning, I retrieve the bucket of water and maneuver it over the coupling. Hooks is behind the horse, flicking its hind legs with the whip. Terrified, the horse rears so high that it falls over, and several ladies on the platform scream.

  The horse scrambles to its feet. There’s a gash on its hock. A lady swoons, and a little girl starts crying.

  “Go easy, Hooks!” Jeremiah growls after glancing at the gathering crowd. “Faraway needs to be fit to race.”

  Hooks nods. He’s getting ready to strike the horse again when the freight conductor bustles over. “Mister Jeremiah, we cannot have you beating your horse in front of the ladies and children.”

  Mister Jeremiah pulls his cigar from his mouth. “And what would you suggest I do? Carry him up the ramp like a suitcase?”

  “Well, I-I . . .” The freight conductor casts around as if searching for an answer. I look around, too, hoping to see Mister Giles. Mister Jeremiah is obviously an owner taking his horses to Saratoga, too. Mister Giles would be able to reason with him, but I doubt he’s left his private seat in the gentlemen’s car.

  “I don’t know how you’ll load those animals,” the conductor says. “But if you don’t get it done in”—he checks his watch—“fifteen minutes, the train is pulling out.”

  Setting down the bucket, I step onto the platform. The crowd is growing bigger, like they ain’t got anything better to do than watch. “Excuse me, sir.” I address Mister Jeremiah in my politest voice.

  He looks down at me with clear annoyance. Plucking the cigar from his mouth, he blows out a cloud of smoke. “Go away, kid. I don’t give money to street urchins.”

  “Sir, I’m the . . . uh . . . groom, for Mister Winston Giles’s horse, Aristo, and I can help you load that chestnut colt.”

  Jeremiah scowls and sticks the cigar back in his mouth.
“Winston Giles?” he repeats, the cigar wagging like a dog’s tail. “Never heard of him. But if you can get that horse in the car, I’ll give you a silver dollar.”

  “No need to pay me, sir. Just have your boy Hooks put the whip away.”

  He gestures with his cigar for Hooks to get out of the way. I run up the ramp and grab my carrots and the long ropes. It takes me a while, but I soon have a rope tied on each side of the freight car door. I explain to the two men how to stand at the bottom of the ramp, making a lane with the ropes. I lead the horse to the end of the ramp and tell the men to switch sides, crossing the ropes behind the horse’s rump as they go. “Stand far enough away so the colt can’t kick you. Now, slowly walk toward the freight car, keepin’ the rope taut above his hocks.”

  The two men oblige and I stand on the ramp with the horse’s lead rope. By now the colt has calmed. I feed him a bite of carrot, then back slowly up the ramp. The chestnut takes a step, retreating when the ramp clanks.

  From inside the car, Aristo whinnies. The chestnut pricks his ears. I wave the carrot and the two men press the ropes against the horse’s hind legs so it can’t move backwards.

  I hold out the carrot, talk sweet, and wait patiently for that horse to make up his mind to load. After a spell, Mister Jeremiah frowns and checks his watch. Hooks scowls and taps the whip against his leg. The baggage handlers are loading the last trunk onto the baggage car.

  The sun’s beating down, and sweat beads on my brow.

  Finally, Mister Jeremiah puts his watch away. He shakes his head in disgust and flaps his hand at Hooks as if to say, “Time for the whip.”

  “Come on, horse,” I whisper. “Or they’ll hit you again.”

  “All aboard!” the conductor hollers.

  Aristo whinnies a second time. “Come on,” I cajole in my prettiest voice as Hooks steps behind the horse. Suddenly, with a bob of his head, Faraway strides up the ramp and into the freight car.

  Cheers erupt from the crowd.

  Thank you, Lord, I pray silently. Hooks leaps up the ramp, and without so much as a thank-you, snatches the lead rope from me. He backs Faraway into the stall opposite Aristo. Using the same method, we quickly load Senator, the bay horse.

  I roll up my ropes and carry my bucket into the freight car. While Aristo drinks, two men remove the ramp. Hooks and a second fellow throw a valise, an empty bucket, and a small trunk through the door. The whistle blows, warning everyone that the train is departing.

  The train starts moving. At the last second, Hooks vaults into the freight car. Reaching down, he grabs the other fellow’s hand. “Hurry up, Cuffy,” he snaps. As the train picks up speed, Cuffy trots beside the car, a scared expression on his face. I’m thinking he ain’t going to make it when Hooks hauls him into the car.

  Cuffy claps Hooks on the back. As the two shove their luggage and supplies into the middle of the car, they don’t even grace me with a look.

  I sit down on the blanket, my back against Aristo’s stall door. He’s contentedly munching hay, happier now that he’s got other horses for company.

  Hooks pulls a deck of cards from his back pocket. He sits on the trunk, Cuffy leans back on the valise, and they begin to play poker.

  I watch them as they toss pennies in a growing pile and raise the stakes. I had them pegged as grooms, although now I have my doubts. They haven’t paid a whit of attention to the horses. Plus, they’re white. That alone makes me mighty curious. I’ve never seen a white groom before. White trainers and white jockeys, yes, but in Kentucky all the grooms I’ve seen are slaves.

  I check out their clothes. They’re both wearing blue denim pants and leather brogans, and my homespun britches and bare feet suddenly embarrass me. Seems that workers in the North dress in style.

  Hooks shoots a suspicious look at me. “What are you staring at, darky?”

  Startled, I avert my eyes. “Nothin’.”

  Hooks bounces off his seat on the trunk. Swift as a cat, he grabs my shirt collar and yanks me to my feet. “You think you’re better than me?” he hisses. “Just ’cause you got that horse loaded?”

  Speechless, I shake my head. He’s a foot taller and a good fifty pounds heavier than I am.

  Behind us, Cuffy chuckles.

  “Or maybe you’re thinkin’ you’ll ask Mister Jeremiah for my job?” He tightens his grip, cutting off my air. I scrabble at his hand on my collar, trying to loosen his fingers. He only tightens it more, like a noose.

  “Well, don’t even think it.” His face is inches from mine and spittle sprays my cheek. “’Cause if you do, this is what’s goin’ to happen.” With a jerk, he drags me across the floor and thrusts me into the open doorway of the freight car.

  I grab onto the door frame, bracing myself. The air slaps my cheeks. My fingers cramp. He shakes me hard, and my grip on the doorframe weakens.

  “Got the message?” Hooks growls.

  I can barely nod. He lets me go, and for an instant I’m suspended in air, my shirt billowing. The ground rushes beneath me as the wind tries to pluck me from the freight car.

  Chapter Ten

  Straining hard, I drag myself from the buffeting wind and back into the car. Gasping, I lean against the wall.

  Hooks is sitting on the trunk, fanning out his cards as if nothing happened. Cuffy’s still chuckling to himself.

  I rub my throat. It’s raw and bruised from the strangling collar. Worse, my hopes are raw and bruised as the realization hits me: The North ain’t any different.

  I should have known it. Newcastle was from the North, and he’s about as no-account as they come.

  Blinking, I fight back the rising tears. I refuse to let a Northerner see me cry.

  That night I sleep in Aristo’s stall, pressed in the front corner. I feel safer next to the colt’s iron-shod hooves than in the open freight car.

  When I wake, sunlight’s streaming through the doorway of the car. I rise, stretch stiffly, and give Aristo’s flank a pat. The outside air feels fresh and crisp, but it can’t mask the rank smell of the dirty stalls.

  Ducking under Aristo’s neck, I peer over his door. Hooks and Cuffy are passed out on the floor. Several empty bottles roll between them. Last night they jumped from the train at several stops to buy cheap whiskey. Never once did they bring water to their horses or check the gash on Faraway’s leg.

  I touch the bruises on my neck, wondering if I dare give their horses a drink. I don’t fancy getting tossed off the train, and according to Mister Giles, Saratoga Springs will be the first stop this morning. The horses might be able to wait until then.

  I don’t know if I can wait, though. The stop will be none too soon for me.

  I bundle up my blanket, unlatch Aristo’s stall door, and slip through. I ready my few things, tying them into my blanket. Then I feed and water Aristo and brush him until his coat shines like copper. When he steps off the train, everyone in Saratoga will note the arrival of the greatest horse in Kentucky.

  Quietly I step from the stall and around Hooks’s legs. There’s half a bucket of water left, and I offer it to Aristo. But the colt must know that the journey’s coming to an end. Ignoring the water, he stares out the door, his mane ruffling in the wind.

  I look, too. We’ve left farmland behind, and all I can see are trees, which cover the rolling hills like green quilts on a lumpy mattress. The forest is so thick that it’s hard to picture a town like Saratoga nestled in one of the valleys.

  When I turn back, Hooks and Cuffy haven’t stirred. Stepping over Hooks, I give Faraway and Senator the rest of the water. Senator sucks the bucket almost dry, then noisily slurps the few drops at the bottom. Hooks groans like he’s waking, and I scuttle back to Aristo’s stall.

  I press my back against the door. Clutching the bucket, I stare down at Hooks and decide that I’ll crack his head with it if I need to.

  Hooks yawns and sits up, but he’s so slow moving and bleary eyed that I decide he’s not much of a threat. I set the bucket by my feet and pull
Aristo’s halter from a hook on the door. Cuffy keeps on snoring, even when the whistle blows and the brakeman runs overhead. As I slip the halter onto Aristo, my heart starts pattering. We’re finally here!

  “Get up.” Hooks prods Cuffy with the toe of his shoe. “Get up, or Jeremiah will know we’ve been drinking.”

  Cuffy groans. Hooks throws the bottles out the door, and they shatter on the gravel beside the track. Then he stands, sways to get his balance, and aims a hard kick at Cuffy’s ribs.

  With a howl, Cuffy pops upright. “What’d ya do that for?”

  “Look smart. We’re pulling into the station.”

  The train hisses as it slows. I stick my head out the door and watch the cars ahead wind up the tracks through a deep cut in the tree-covered hills. Then the trees grow sparse, revealing dirt lanes and white clapboard cottages. Gradually, the lanes change to roads and the clapboard cottages give way to two-story buildings.

  Down the track, I glimpse the Saratoga Springs station. Horse-drawn vehicles surround the station: swift rockaways, fringed surreys, and sturdy coaches. As the train draws near, a swarm of drivers hurries onto the platform.

  When the train stops, the conductor shouts, “Saratoga Springs—twenty minutes for breakfast!” Passengers pour from the train. Everyone’s arriving for the racing meet, I gather.

  Hooks and Cuffy toss their baggage to the ground and jump off after it. Freight handlers secure the ramp, dropping it with a clank. Aristo impatiently raps the stall door with his front hoof.

  I scratch his forehead. “Easy does it, colt.” But like me, he’s had his fill of this ride.

  Two men unload Faraway and Senator. Aristo whinnies after them. I peer up and down the bustling platform. There’s no sign of Mister Giles.

  Buggies filled with passengers, satchels, and trunks begin to leave the station. As I watch them drive away, panic churns in my stomach. I’m about to go down the ramp when I spy Mister Giles approaching along the platform. A hunched-over man in a snuff-colored overcoat hobbles beside him. Behind them, a baggage handler pushes a handcart stacked with luggage, the racing saddle teetering on top.