by Alison Hart
Keeping my gaze on my lap, I say, “The money was for food.”
The colored boy kicks the barrel I’m sitting on. “Shut up. We wasn’t talkin’ to you. We was talkin’ to the halfwit. Short Bit owes us a quarter and we aim to get it.”
My fingers tighten into fists. My anger’s starting to churn up the oysters. “Quit calling him a halfwit.”
Gordon snorts. “Why? He is a halfwit. Why else would they call him Short Bit? ’Cause the boy ain’t a whole bit. He’s missing two and a half cents. Two and a half sense, git it?”
I get it. Only I don’t like it. The problem is, if I fight them, they’ll beat me so badly I won’t be able to ride. If I don’t fight them, they’re going to pummel Short Bit. Least now I know where he got his bruises.
I glance over at Short Bit, who’s slouched on the bucket, head hanging like he’s been beaten so many times that one more won’t matter.
Only it does matter. I left the South hoping to see freedom. Only thing I found out so far is that skin color ain’t the only reason folks beat you down.
Slowly, I stand and raise my eyes to them. Their faces are pocked and greasy; their clothes are as raggedy as Short Bit’s.
“He’ll give you the money tomorrow,” I say, my words steady.
“Why should we believe you?” the colored boy sneers. “A slave who ain’t got nothin’.”
“We shouldn’t believe him.” Gordon grabs Short Bit by the collar and hauls him to his feet. “Quit talking, Danny. Let’s punch the little weasel’s teeth out, and next time he’ll cough up that money right quick.”
Gordon draws back his fist. Short Bit scrunches his eyes and turns his cheek. His arms hang limp like he’s given up.
I shrug. “Go ahead. Hit him. Except all you’ll have then are bloody knuckles. But if you wait until tomorrow, he’ll pay you fifty cents.”
Danny and Gordon look at each other with vacant expressions, like the offer is too tricky to calculate. “Where’s he goin’ to get fifty cents?” Danny asks.
“Same place he got money for sandwiches.”
Gordon frowns as if thinking on it, then abruptly releases his grip. Short Bit drops like an empty sack. “Noon,” he snaps. “And if he don’t have fifty cents, you’ll both git it. Git it?”
They saunter off, arms slung around each other’s shoulders, laughing at their cleverness. When I glance down at Short Bit, he has tears in his eyes. He rubs them, leaving dirty streaks. Then, without a word, he jumps to his feet and races out of sight.
I sigh. Not that I expected thanks. An explanation, maybe, but not thanks.
I move the barrel away from the door, pick up a brush, and go inside Aristo’s stall. The colt’s eating the last of his hay. Earlier, he polished off half a bucket of grain, so I know he made the journey just fine.
Wish I could say the same for me. Except for Short Bit, Northerners seem mighty mean-spirited so far. As I brush Aristo, I recall Gordon’s words: Bet he’s bribing you to sneak into Faraway’s stall and poison his water. It also seems that Northerners are as low-down as Southerners when it comes to winning races.
The idea sends a shiver up my spine. I vow not to leave Aristo’s side.
***
The next morning I wake before dawn. Mister Giles wants to work Aristo early, so I need to check the colt’s water and give him a flake of hay.
Draping the blanket around my shoulders, I open the stall door. Short Bit’s outside, crouched on the ground, his arms hugging his bare legs. He springs up, a frightened glint in his eye, like he’s ready for a cuff or a curse.
“I’m glad to see Gordon and Danny didn’t beat you up last night,” I say, hoping to ease his fear. Aristo sticks his head over the stall door and snuffles the boy’s cheek. Eyes still on me, Short Bit reaches up to stroke the colt’s neck. His clothes are filthy and he reeks of manure.
“Though you ain’t none too clean,” I add. “I’m surprised Aristo didn’t spook when he took a whiff of you.” Unwrapping the blanket, I fold it over my arm. “Well, I best get the colt fed and groomed. Could use some help. As I recall, someone needs to earn fifty cents to pay off those no-accounts.”
Short Bit nods.
“Then let’s get going.”
With Short Bit’s help, I get Aristo ready in time for Mister Giles, who shows up just as the sky’s changing from black to gray. He’s bright eyed and bearing biscuits with honey.
“Good morning!” he greets us as he opens the stall door and strides in. “I trust everyone slept well.” He hands us each a gooey biscuit. I take a bite and close my eyes in rapture, deciding it tastes almost as heavenly as Cook Nancy’s.
Mister Giles walks around Aristo, inspecting him. “Horse looks like a champion, Gabriel.”
I jab a sticky thumb at Short Bit. “Aristo’s groom helped, too, Mister Giles. And . . . um . . . he’s usually tipped fifty cents. If that’s all right with you, sir.”
Mister Giles eyes Short Bit, who’s stuffing a biscuit in his mouth with dirty fingers. I can’t blame the man for his doubtful expression. If I saw the boy through his gentleman’s eyes, I’d have to grimace, too.
Reaching in his pocket, Mister Giles hands Short Bit a half dollar. “If Gabriel has appointed you Aristo’s official groom, then you must be worthy.”
I lead the colt from the stall. The morning’s gray and misty, and a few grooms are beginning to stir. Short Bit latches the rope to the snaffle ring, and Mister Giles gives me a leg up. Then he strides to a one-horse carriage tethered to a hitching post.
“Gabriel,” he says, his eyes twinkling as he climbs into the buggy. “Last night, I met William R. Travers, president of the Saratoga Association. Quite a witty fellow. Tomorrow’s Travers Stakes is named after him, you know.”
I nod a scant reply, my attention on Aristo. He’s so jubilant to be out of the stall that he’s springing in the air. Short Bit grips the rope with both hands, determined to keep hold.
“All night I played the charming Southern gentleman,” Mister Giles goes on, oblivious to the colt’s antics. “When the evening ended, Mister Travers personally invited us to work Aristo on the Saratoga track.”
“He did? Hurrah!” I whoop. Aristo leaps sideways, startling the carriage horse, which strains at its traces.
“Easy, easy!” Mister Giles hollers.
“Whoa. Whoa, now.” I rein the colt in a tight circle. Short Bit stumbles after us. Mister Giles settles the buggy horse, and we head off briskly to the new track.
The grandstand’s shrouded in fog, and the place is eerily quiet. Awe fills me. This will be Aristo’s first gallop on a real track. Ever since I laid eyes on the colt, I knew he was special. Now I realize that Saratoga ain’t just about my dreams. It’s Aristo’s chance, too.
Mister Giles drives the buggy around the grandstand and parks by the gap in the railing. “Start off slow, Gabriel. The colt had a long journey. After he’s warmed up—”
“Sir,” I interrupt. “No disrespect, but the colt will tell me when he’s ready.”
“Right, right. Of course. Use your judgment.”
Short Bit unhooks the rope, and I steer Aristo through the gap and onto the dirt track. The colt breaks into a trot, I rise in the saddle, and the worries of the past days and nights disappear in the rhythm of his stride.
Jogging past the grandstand, we round the turn to the backstretch. Aristo weaves wildly from side to side, jolting me with each bouncy step. He shakes his head, wanting to run, and I hum to him.
We trot once around the track. My cheeks grow damp from the mist; my fingers are slick on the reins. When Aristo again trots down the backstretch and his stride lengthens, I cluck. He breaks into a rocking canter, his muscles rolling like well-oiled wheels. His mouth feels soft in my hands, and steam rises from his sweaty neck.
He’s ready.
I press my heels into his sides. That’s all the colt needs. He flattens his ears, stretches out his long legs, and digs his hooves deep into the track’s smooth su
rface.
As Aristo gallops around the homestretch turn, the morning air brushes my skin and a grin spreads across my face.
I’m on the greatest horse, at the greatest track—and it’s the greatest feeling ever!
Chapter Twelve
Aristo thunders down the homestretch. I keep a tight rein, holding him back, and the colt fights me the whole way. When we fly past the gap, Short Bit halloos from his perch on the railing. Mister Giles cheers from his seat in the buggy.
Through the mist I see the judges’ towers, their peaked roofs rising above the fog. Aristo races past the finish line, and I raise my arm in pretend celebration.
A movement by the railing catches my eye. I glimpse the dark outline of a top hat, but we sail swiftly past, and I lose sight of whoever it is in the haze.
“Whoa, colt.” Aristo roots his head, wanting to keep running. By the time I pull him to a trot and get him turned, the specter by the railing is gone. Were my eyes tricking me or had someone really been there?
As I trot past again, I spy a hunched form scuttling toward the grandstand, disappearing, ghostlike, into the fog. A chill tingles up my arms.
Someone had been there. And whoever it was had been watching Aristo and me.
“He looked terrific!” Mister Giles says as he and Short Bit run onto the track to meet us. Sitting deep in the saddle, I slow Aristo to a walk. I pat his neck, my chest bursting with pride, forgetting about the apparition.
Short Bit hooks the rope to Aristo’s snaffle ring.
“I never let him run full out and he was still flying,” I boast as I dismount. “If he can keep up that speed for a mile and three-quarters, we’re going to leave those other horses in the dust!”
“I believe you’re right,” Mister Giles agrees excitedly. “The fog was too thick for me to get a perfect time, but I ticked it off in my head. He ran about a twenty-three-second quarter mile.”
My jaw drops. I don’t know how to count past my fingers, but I know enough to realize that Aristo’s time is fast.
“And I believe we’ll keep that information to ourselves.” He levels a firm look at me, then at Short Bit. “No need for the competition to get wind of this colt’s abilities.”
“I’m afraid it may be too late for that, sir.” I point toward the grandstand. “Someone was standing by the finish line when we galloped past. He might have had a watch, too, although I doubt he got a good time on account of the fog.”
Mister Giles slaps his thigh. “I was afraid of that. Any idea who it was?”
“A man in a top hat.”
Mister Giles sighs. “That description fits just about every sportsman, gambler, politician, and swindler in Saratoga. Someone must have discovered we were going out early this morning.”
Reaching up, he runs his hand down Aristo’s neck, then turns back to me. I see the concern in his eyes. “The meet begins tomorrow. Aristo runs the next day. There will be folks who don’t want this colt to win. We need to be extremely vigilant if Aristo’s to have a fair chance.”
“Yes sir.” I peer over at Short Bit. He’s gnawing his lip and his eyes won’t meet mine.
That’s when a horrible thought hits me. Short Bit owes no allegiance to Mister Giles, Aristo, or me. What if someone’s paying him to report everything we do? How else did the man in the top hat find out we’d be on the track this early?
I narrow my eyes. I know all about spies. Both the Northern and Southern armies have spies in this war. And now that I think on it, it seems mighty odd that Short Bit’s been dogging my heels ever since we arrived.
Might be he’s a spy for someone who doesn’t want Aristo to win. That means that outside of Mister Giles, there ain’t no one I can trust at this track.
***
“Go, Abe, go!” I chant as the horses thunder down the homestretch. It’s the first day of the Saratoga Meet and the end of the Travers Stakes, the most exciting race I’ve ever watched. Gilpatrick’s in the lead riding Kentucky, Abe Hawkins on Tipperary is a nose behind, and the Morris colt runs third. Patti, ridden by the young jockey Billy Burgoyne, trails by two lengths; Ringmaster lags far behind, pretty much done for.
My eyes are on Abe. I’m leaning over the rail, men and boys pushing and shoving around me, watching his every move. He’s hunched on Tipperary’s neck, trying with all his skill to catch Kentucky. But his colt ain’t going to do it. Neither whip nor spur will make a difference. I can tell by Tipperary’s flat ears and high tail that he’s played out, and Kentucky crosses the finish line ahead by several lengths.
I frown, pondering why Abe didn’t win. The man rides even better than I expected. And Tipperary jumped to the lead. So what happened? Why’d the horse tucker out? What do I need to do tomorrow to make sure Aristo doesn’t get skunked, too?
I vault over the railing, joining the boisterous crowd streaming onto the track. Dodging through the revelers, I make my way toward the judges’ tower. Reporters, politicians, and track officials surround Gilpatrick and Kentucky. Mister John Hunter, Kentucky’s owner, is holding up a shiny trophy. He’s standing in the tower, giving a speech to all who will listen, which I gather is few. It is hard to make out his words over the deafening noise of the celebration.
I aim my sights again on Abe and Tipperary, standing off to one side. The jockey has just dismounted, and I hear Mister Ward, Tipperary’s owner, boasting loudly to a few reporters. “We’ll face Kentucky in Friday’s Sequel Stakes and win. You have my promise on that!”
Abe stands quietly behind Mister Ward. Sweat trickles down his solemn face, and now the reporters are calling out questions to him.
“Abe, Southerners rate you the best jockey in the world!” one shouts. “You think you’ll keep that title in the North?”
“Tipperary was the favorite to win the Travers, Abe,” another says. “You had such great success in St. Louis. What went wrong today?”
I turn my eyes to Abe, wanting to know the answers myself. But someone jostles me on his way past, and I miss the jockey’s words completely.
Frustrated, I throw down my cap and stomp on it. Suddenly I see Abe parting the crowd, heading in my direction. I stare at him, speechless, until he’s right on top of me. “Mister Hawkins,” I blurt out, “I aim to be a famous jockey like you.”
Smiling, he sets a hand on my head. “Then, son, b-b-be honest with your horse, and it’ll give you its b-b-best,” he says in his well-known stutter.
“Thank you,” I whisper as he passes on by, a swarm of folks clamoring after him. I can still feel the pressure of his hand, and I think on his words: Be honest to your horse and it’ll give you its best.
Sounds like Pa’s advice, and I’m going to follow it.
I’m pushing my way toward the railing when someone shoves me hard in the back. I pitch forward onto the track. Folks stride right on by me without stopping to help. Then I feel the nudge of a boot in my side. Flipping over, I look up. Danny and Gordon are staring down at me, amusement in their eyes. Short Bit hovers like a shadow behind them.
“Hey, Kentucky boy, you owe us fifty cents.”
I bridle. “Short Bit paid you. Why should I give you money?”
“You want your horse to stay safe?” Danny kicks me in the ribs.
Pain shoots up my side, making my eyes water. But the thought of them even touching Aristo makes me sick. “Yes,” I reply through clenched teeth.
“Then you’ll pay us.” Danny brings back his foot for another kick, but the stewards hustle over. “Move on, boys!” they order. “Move on and clear the track for the next race.”
I jump to my feet. Gordon and Danny flash me nasty grins and join the throng leaving the track. For an instant, Short Bit stares at me, his eyes wild, a fresh bruise blackening one cheek. Then he whirls around and disappears after them.
Bile rises in my throat. I’m growing weary of greedy, mean-spirited folks. Then a stab of worry replaces the pain in my ribs.
Aristo. This morning, Mister Giles paid a guard to keep
an eye on the colt while we watched the Travers. After Danny’s threat, do I dare trust anyone?
Breaking into a run, I weave around the spectators and revelers, dash from the track, and run down the lane. By the time I reach the Trotting Course and Aristo’s barn, my insides are bursting.
The guard’s asleep outside Aristo’s stall. The colt thrusts his head over the half door, and greets me with a lusty whinny.
Doubling over, sides heaving, I groan with relief.
Fingers circle my upper arms and I’m jerked upright. Gordon and Danny flank me. Danny sticks his face in mine. “Got that money?”
I shake my head. Their fingers tighten around my arms, burning my skin.
“We want it now.” Gordon says.
“I ain’t got any money,” I choke out, still breathless. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t give it to you!” I add, struggling to break their hold on me. Pa always told me to think long and hard before laying a hand on a critter or another person. But I’ve had enough and I’m ready to fight.
“You wanna bet?” Danny growls.
I narrow my eyes. “Go ahead. I’ve been beaten and whipped by fellows meaner and sorrier than you two.” I glare at them with false bravado. My heart’s hammering beneath my ribs, but my gaze bores into theirs until Danny glances uneasily away.
“Don’t pay those threats no mind,” Gordon tells Danny, but there’s no fire in his words now. “Pat him down. See if he has any money.”
Danny lets go of me and steps back. “You pat him down.”
“No, you do it,” Gordon snaps. “I’ve got hold of him!”
Seeing my chance, I yank my arm from Gordon’s grasp and whirl to face them. “Ain’t neither of you going to pat me down.” Raising my fists, I stand my ground.
Aristo bangs the door with his hoof, and the guard wakes with a start.
“Ho, you boys get outta here,” he shouts, and, turning tail, Gordon and Danny run off. I lower my fists. Thank you, Jesus, I murmur, my moment of courage spent.
I wish I could believe that I’ve seen the end of those two.
