by Alison Hart
With a startled yelp, I spring back the same instant the lump shoots up from the straw. It’s Short Bit. His blond hair’s tangled, his lashes sprinkled with chaff.
“You scared me half to death!” I exclaim.
His eyes are as big as dinner plates, so I know he’s just as surprised. Aristo sidles over, nudges me on the arm again, and sniffs Short Bit’s head.
“Could have warned me you were goin’ to sleep here.” I wrap my blanket closer. Short Bit continues to stare at me, his shoulders rigid. The bruise on his eye matches his sooty cheeks, and his clothes smell like smoke.
I ain’t seen the boy since he warned me about the fire. My thoughts are still muddled. Did Short Bit have anything to do with the fire? And if not—as Jackson believes—then does he know who set it?
After a few minutes, I throw off my blanket. Immediately, the boy stiffens and that wary look creeps across his face again. “Don’t worry,” I say. “I ain’t blaming you for the fire.”
I get to my feet and stroke the colt’s neck, my back to the boy. “But it might be that you saw who did set it. Might be that’s why you’re so afraid.” I tilt my head so I can glimpse him over my shoulder.
Short Bit’s folded into himself, arms tight against his stomach. He’s rocking on his bottom, his eyes shut, and I gather my hunch is right. He does know something, and it’s made him truly afraid.
My heart feels heavy. I’ve got a ma, a pa, a home, and in my whole life I’ve never been as fearful—or as alone—as Short Bit.
“Anyway, thanks for warning me. You saved my life, Short Bit.”
He opens one eye.
I grin and whack Aristo on the neck. “More importantly, you saved this soon-to-be famous racehorse. And for that, I will be forever in your debt.”
“Gabriel!” A voice bellows through the barn. “Rise and shine!”
I hurry over to the stall door. Jackson’s striding down the aisle, dressed as natty as ever. “We’re going out on the town,” he declares.
I frown at him. “What are you talking about? It’s race day. I ain’t going to town.”
“Yes sir, you are.” He stops in front of the stall. “Angel and Riff will be here all morning to watch your horse. The Saratoga Chase ain’t until afternoon. You can’t spend your entire trip cooped up in that stall. So let’s go. And bring that urchin, too.” He jabs his thumbs toward Short Bit.
“I can’t leave Aristo. It’s too risky.”
“You have no choice. Mister Giles has ordered you to leave. He’s even lent us his buggy. He wants you, his jockey, rested for the big race—and he wants you clean.”
“But I ain’t dirty,” I protest.
“Don’t get all huffy with me, boy. This afternoon you and Short Bit will be parading Aristo past all the gentlefolk in the grandstand. Mister Giles doesn’t want to hide his head with embarrassment ’cause you two look like beggars.”
He runs his gaze down me. “That’s all the clothes you’ve got?”
“Shirt and britches. What’s wrong with that?”
“You look like a field hand. ’Bout time you dressed like a jockey.”
I bristle. “A jockey doesn’t need to look like a dandy to be a great rider.”
“A jockey also doesn’t need to look like he’s been plowing the fields. Now quit arguing and let’s go.”
I poke my chin out, all stubborn-like.
Jackson sighs. “Gabriel, you can’t defy Mister Giles’s orders. Besides, don’t you want to see Saratoga Lake? Sample the milk punch and fried potatoes at Moon’s Lake House?”
I prick up my ears. “Fried potatoes?”
“Called Saratoga Chips. Tastiest treat ever.”
“And Mister Giles ordered me?”
“Afraid so.”
“All right. I’ll go. Only Angel and Riff have to promise they won’t take their eyes off ’Risto. And we need to be back in plenty of time for the race.”
“Promise.”
I tell the horse goodbye, give Angel and Riff instructions, and leave with Jackson and Short Bit. I climb onto the carriage seat, and Short Bit kneels behind. Jackson unties the horse, and moments later we’re clipping down East Congress Street into town. Even though it’s early, tourists and race goers swarm the streets like ants.
Our first stop is a clothing shop tucked in an alley. Its tidy front room is filled with shelves and racks of clothes. A pretty colored lady who smells like Mistress Jane’s roses waits on us. She sizes me and Short Bit up with a glance, then walks along the racks and shelves pulling off clothes, the whole while giggling with Jackson.
When we leave, our arms are piled high with packages. Our next stop is the bathhouse.
“Bring your new clothes in with you,” Jackson says as he climbs from the carriage. Short Bit and me don’t know what to make of a bathhouse, so neither of us moves. Jackson pulls us from the buggy by our ears.
A woman as round as a rain barrel meets us in the doorway. She’s wearing a damp apron and a colorful headscarf. When she sees Short Bit, she frowns so crossly at him that he draws in his head like a turtle. “This bathhouse is for coloreds only,” she tells Jackson.
Jackson snorts. “Sadie, this boy is so dirty he might as well be colored. ’Sides, he’s an orphan.” He heaves a sad sigh. “Who else is going to wash him?”
Sadie’s fierce eyes melt. “No mama? Oh my, oh my. Come here, young’un.” Grabbing Short Bit, she pulls him against her plump belly. “We’ll get you fixed up. Could be under all that dirt, you’re a right handsome poppet.”
Still pressing Short Bit to her skirt, Sadie leads us down a hall. “Room’s all ready. When you need rinse water, just ring the bell.”
She releases Short Bit and stands back. I step around her. The small room is even warmer and steamier than the summer day. There are two long tubs filled to the brim with water. Thick drying rags hang on pegs, and washrags, a bell, and two chunks of soap sit on a shelf between the tubs.
“Have at it, boys,” Jackson says, adding in a serious tone, “and make sure you scrub with soap or Sadie’ll come back and do it for you.”
As Sadie and Jackson leave, she twitters and slaps his arm. “Oh, Mister Jackson, you are one to tease. Though I do enjoy scrubbing your back.”
The door closes and Short Bit and me stare at each other. I ain’t never undressed in front of anyone except Ma, and that was when I was little. And Short Bit looks like he ain’t never taken off his filthy clothes.
I stick my finger in the water. I pick up the soap and smell it. Suddenly I hear a splash behind me, and water splats me on the back of the head.
I whirl. Short Bit’s in the tub, water up to his chin. Grinning mischievously, he splashes me again.
I swipe the droplets from my eyes. Reaching into the tub, I flip water on him. It turns into a wild fight, and soon I’m drenched. Still wearing my clothes, I slide headfirst into the other tub.
We’re enjoying ourselves, lolling in the soapy water, when Jackson sticks his head round the door. “Out, you two. My stomach’s growling. That means it’s time for Moon’s Lake House. Sadie’s bringing in two rinse buckets. Then dress and let’s be on our way.”
Two shakes later, we’re driving past the Saratoga Race Course gate and on to the lake. I’m smelling so sweet and feeling so scratchy in my new clothes that I don’t recognize myself. And there ain’t nobody going to recognize Short Bit. He’s scrubbed pink and wearing clean clothes that fit. Jackson even threw away Bit’s porkpie hat and bought us gentlemen’s sporting caps to match his own.
It’s about a two-mile jaunt. When the buggy reaches a cleared area in the trees and I glimpse the lake, my mouth falls open. I’ve seen ponds and rivers but never a lake like this, which appears to stretch as wide and blue as the sky.
There’s lots of buggy traffic, and dust is thick. Jackson pulls off to one side to point out sailboats, a steamboat, and smaller rowboats, all filled with gentlemen in bowlers and ladies holding parasols.
“How big is
the lake?” I ask. “As big as an ocean?” I’ve heard about oceans from Annabelle, but I’ve never even seen a picture of one.
“Yonder is the far shore,” Jackson replies, pointing across the lake to a mound of tree-covered land far in the distance. “If you have all day, you can ride around the lake.”
Jackson grins at me and then looks over his shoulder at Short Bit. “Next stop’s Moon’s Lake House. Who’s hungry?”
We both whoop. Moon’s Lake House sits high on a hill that overlooks the lake. As Jackson drives the buggy around back, I glimpse ladies and gents strolling along walkways that lead to the lake. Other fine-looking folk are sitting on benches, sipping from stemmed glasses.
“Place will be packed, but George is expecting us.” Jackson stops the buggy by a hitching rail near the kitchen entrance.
I jump from the seat. “George?”
“George Crum. He’s the chef. He’s the one who fries those tasty chips. I told him it’s about time he quits working for Mister Moon and starts up his own eating-place. Short Bit, you stay with the horse and carriage. Gabriel will bring you a plate.”
Short Bit nods agreeably, but I can’t believe my ears. In Kentucky, colored folks never give orders to whites. Even the little white children boss around the slaves.
As Jackson and I walk away, I ask, “How come Short Bit can’t come?”
“Cause he’s a groom, Gabriel. You’re a jockey. In the North, there’s a big difference. People treat jockeys with respect.”
I frown as I puzzle over this respect thing. It’s not unfamiliar to me. Mister Giles respected Pa. And Pa’s soldiers respect him. But white people respecting colored jockeys? Must be why Jackson likes New York and why Abe Hawkins gets his name written up in the Northern newspapers.
I bob my head. “I like the sound of respect.”
Jackson chuckles. “Course, folks love you when you’re riding winners and have money in your wallet. Soon as you’re riding losers and your wallet’s empty, you eat in the buggy like Short Bit. Or you don’t eat at all.”
A colored lady meets us at the back door. Her glossy black hair is swept in a bun, and she’s wearing a fashionable hoop skirt. “Well, Mister Jackson, it’s about time you came back.”
Jackson winks at her. “Couldn’t keep me away, Miss Lacey.” He introduces me and I whip off my cap. Taking my hand, the lady shakes it as if I’m a gentleman. “Pleased to meet you, Gabriel.”
I blush. She’s slightly older than Annabelle and almost as pretty.
“Your table is ready, sirs.” She gracefully gestures to a round table and two chairs set up under a tree. Two colored men in day suits already occupy a second table, and a third is empty.
I twirl the cap in my hands, not sure what to do. I ain’t never been in an eating establishment, nor had a pretty lady show me to my seat. I cut my eyes to Jackson, following his lead. He pulls out a chair, sits down, and places a linen napkin on his lap.
I slip into the chair opposite his, and tuck the napkin in my lap. Miss Lacey immediately brings us two drinks in frosty mugs made of glass. I take a sip of the concoction, glorying in the sweet taste. Then I lean over the table and whisper, “This must be milk punch.”
“It is.” Jackson raises his glass in a toast. His drink is a golden color and I can only guess what Miss Lacey spiked it with. “Here’s to first place in our races,” he says. “And to fame, to freedom, and to the North.” I raise my glass, and we clink them together.
“Jackson, I still ain’t figured out the North. If colored folks are free and colored jockeys respected,” I ask between sips, “how come we can’t eat inside with the whites?”
He sets down his glass. “Freedom don’t mean the rules are the same for black and white, Gabriel. Maybe if the North wins this war, things will change.”
This war. Abruptly, I lower my glass. In all the hustle and bustle and worries, I’d forgotten about the war!
Just then a tall man wearing a floppy white cap strides through the kitchen door. His dark face glistens with sweat, his apron is grease-stained, and he smells like Ma’s lard-fried potatoes. A rolled-up newspaper is clutched in one hand, a heaping plate in the other.
“Jackson!” He waves the newspaper at us. “Miss Lacey said you were here. Glad you made it back.”
“I wouldn’t miss your potatoes for anything, George.” The man sets the plate between us. It’s filled with small, golden-crisp slices of potato. Jackson quickly helps himself to a handful.
I snatch several chips, too, and pop them in my mouth. They’re hot, crunchy, and salty, and I just about swoon. I’m reaching for another handful when George pulls up a chair and plops down. His face is grave. “Have you heard the news?”
“Which news?” Jackson asks. “That the fire at Mister Baker’s barn might have been set on purpose? Or that the long shot colt Aristo’s a sure bet to win in this afternoon’s Saratoga Chase?” He winks at me.
“Forget the races. I’m talking about the war.”
I stop chewing and listen closely. Maybe not everybody’s forgotten about the war.
George unrolls the newspaper. “On July thirtieth, three hundred and thirty-five Union soldiers were killed by Rebels in Petersburg, Virginia,” he reads. “One hundred and eight of them were black soldiers.”
Shaking his head, he closes the paper. “Jackson, this war has gone on too long, and too many have died.”
I try to swallow my mouthful of chips. It’s hard to cipher three hundred, but even ten dead soldiers would be too many. The same day I was parading through Saratoga like a tourist, Rebel bullets were cutting down those Union soldiers.
A wave of sadness washes over me. I think of Ma scrubbing army uniforms and Pa drilling his men. I think of the runaway slaves enlisting at Camp Nelson, hoping for freedom, and I’m ashamed that I’m eating Moon’s fried chips and worrying about a horse race when others are dying.
Chapter Fifteen
Later, when we’re driving back to the Trotting Course, I ask Jackson how we can think about winning a race when soldiers are dying in Petersburg.
Jackson gestures to the carriages passing by. “You think these rich white folks going to Moon’s Lake care about the war?” He shakes his head. “Naw. They’re drinking wine, planning what to wear to tonight’s soiree, and making bets on the horses.”
“Don’t they know the war’s important?” I persist. “That folks are fighting for freedom?”
He steers the buggy horse around an open-sided road coach filled with gaily dressed ladies and gentlemen. They eye us suspiciously, like we’re vagabonds. “You know what I’ve discovered ’bout freedom since I’ve been in the North, Gabriel?” Jackson asks. “Freedom’s about money. And to get that money, so you can really be free, you’ve got to work hard, and you’ve got to have a skill. And Gabriel, you and me have a skill: it’s called jockeying a horse. If rich folks want to pay us for riding in races, then by golly, that’s how we’ll find freedom.”
Slapping the reins sharply, he grunts in disdain. “Unless you want to die in the war. I gather that’s one way coloreds can be free from the injustices on this earth.”
“I don’t want to die,” I say quickly.
“I didn’t think so.” Jackson smiles. “You’re more like me than you want to admit, Gabriel.”
Falling silent, I ponder his words. Behind me, Short Bit’s using his fingers to scoop fries and eggs into his mouth. The boy’s white and free, yet he has no kind of life. I rub my forehead, itchy under my new cap. Even here in the North, the truth about freedom ain’t so easy to grasp.
Soon the buggy turns into the Trotting Course, which bustles with grooms, owners, trainers, and horses. My pulse quickens, and I forget my pondering.
“How much time before the Saratoga Chase?” I ask Jackson.
“Plenty.” He claps me on the back. “I’ll be rootin’ for you, Gabriel.”
“Thanks. I’ll be rootin’ for you, too.” I start to jump from the carriage when he stops me with a
hand on my arm. I look over my shoulder at him. His face is grave. “Don’t ever give up on those dreams of yours, Gabriel. Whatever you decide they are.”
I nod, leap from the carriage, and run into the barn. Short Bit’s on my heels, still shoveling fries in his mouth. Aristo stares white-eyed over the half-door like he’s expecting us. Grinning, I cup his muzzle, but he tosses his head as if to say, “Let’s get going!”
While Short Bit cleans the stall, I take Aristo for a long walk. Then we groom him until he shines like a new penny. The whole time, we’re working quiet but together, like Pa and me used to do.
I’m brushing out Aristo’s tail and Short Bit’s picking out a front hoof when I catch him peering up at me. I give him a grin, and for the first time since our run-in with Danny and Gordon, he grins back. Somehow I know—just like I know a horse’s heart—that Short Bit would never harm Aristo or any other horse. Or me.
“Short Bit!” someone hollers, and we both jump. For an instant, the boy cowers. Then he drops Aristo’s hoof and darts from the stall, slamming the door behind him.
I look out. Mister Baker’s standing in the doorway of the barn, the sunlight behind him. I can see the outline of his top hat and his hunched back.
My eyes widen as I suddenly recognize that odd shape. Mister Baker was the specter by the railing! But why was he watching Aristo? He has no entry in the Saratoga Chase.
“I told you to help Mister Jeremiah this morning!” the man barks when Short Bit runs up. He grabs Short Bit’s upper arm and hustles him from the barn.
At the same time, Mister Giles strides into the barn, carrying a valise. Walking next to him is a well-dressed gentleman that I recognize as Doctor Crown, Jackson’s boss. “Are you dressed and ready, Gabriel?” Mister Giles calls down the aisle.
“Almost, sir.” I lead Aristo from the stall for their inspection. The colt’s acting high and mighty, and I can tell that Mister Giles is pleased. “Sir, I think I know who timed Aristo the other day. It was Mister Baker!”
Mister Giles gives Doctor Crown a knowing look. Then Mister Giles says in a low voice, “I believe you’re right, Gabriel. There have been rumors that Mister Baker was responsible for setting the fire. People are saying that he was paid off by a wealthy, unscrupulous owner who has a horse entered in the Saratoga Chase. We’ll make sure The Saratoga Association looks into your information and the accusations.”
