by Alison Hart
“Crenshaw? Is that you?” Mister Ham asks the speaker.
“Yes sir, Mister Ham. It’s me, my hired hand, and the Tylers of River Run.”
“Why are you men off your land?” Mister Ham asks. “Your horses should be turning soil, not galloping hard roads. Is there more trouble?”
Taking off his hat, Mister Crenshaw wipes his sweaty face with a handkerchief. “You could say. Soldiers chased One Arm and his bunch out of Georgetown, so now they’re raiding our farms for supplies and stock. We’re riding to Lexington to ask the Union soldiers for help.”
“God speed, then. We’ll be right behind you.”
The farmers bid us good day, then turn their mounts east toward Lexington. Renny snaps the whip over the wagon horses, and we start off in the same direction. Pa sinks back in the wagon bed, Jackson pulls his hat brim over his eyes, and Master takes his hand off his shotgun.
Only I can’t relax. I keep watching for raiders and Union soldiers. I’ve never seen a Union soldier. Pa says they look right smart in their uniforms. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to see a column of Yankees marching toward us right now! Marching for freedom for us slaves.
Mister Ham rides back to the wagon. “We best keep vigilant,” he tells Master. “The soldiers in Georgetown may be chasing One Arm this way.”
Master Giles nods. “Good. When Crenshaw alerts the troops in Lexington, they should set out this way, too. The soldiers can squeeze those raiders from both directions. It’s time those Rebel thieves are caught and hung.”
Mister Ham grins in agreement. Beale waves at me to ride up with him and Henry. As we trot along, I think about Master Giles and his allegiance. Master is from England, a place far from Kentucky, and Pa says he straddles the fence where the war is concerned. Master owns land in both England and Kentucky. He loves life on Woodville Farm, and doesn’t want the Yankees coming here and telling him how to live. Like most other members of the English aristocracy, he leans toward the Southern cause. But at the same time, he doesn’t want to get on the bad side of the Northern troops. As a compromise, Master flies the Union Jack, the British flag, over the farm, hoping to stay on good terms with both armies. But lately, since the Confederate Rebels started raiding nearby farms and towns, he’s gotten mighty riled up at them. Pa says he wouldn’t be surprised if Master’s ready to side with the North.
As we near Lexington and there’s still no sign of One Arm, I begin to relax. The edge is off Tenpenny, and he’s as calm as a cart pony. Letting the reins hang slack, I goggle at the sights. We pass a schoolyard filled with white children jumping rope and shooting marbles. I stare hungrily as the colorful marbles flash in the sunlight. Jase, Tandy, and me make marbles out of clay. Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a pouch of sparkly glass ones!
The school falls behind, and Frankfort Pike winds into a ravine where the tall trees hide the sun. The roadside’s thick with underbrush. We’re halfway to the bottom of the ravine when Tenpenny flattens his ears. Soon I hear what my horse has sensed: the faint thud of pursuing hooves.
Before I can see if it’s friend or foe, Master Giles calls out sharply, “Gabriel, hide Tenpenny in the woods. Now!”
I obey rabbit-quick, but Tenpenny balks, not wanting to leave the other horses. I pummel him with my bare heels. Finally he bounds through the brush. Briars snag my ankles and branches slap my cheeks as we crash through the woods. The sides of the ravine are craggy and steep, and Tenpenny scrambles for footing. I steer him to a level outcropping. Over my ragged breathing, I hear the jangle of bits and spurs. Through the trees, I glimpse riders spilling over the hill.
“Halt!” someone orders, and the flow of riders stops. Peering between Tenpenny’s ears, I see a ragtag assortment of slouch hats, forage caps, and flat-crowned derbies. Dust colors them all Confederate gray.
My skin grows cold. It’s One Arm and his raiders!
Three riders trot down the pike toward the wagon, which has halted at the bottom of the ravine. Mister Ham, Henry, and Beale ride up to meet them. The six men square off and warily greet each other.
I’m close enough that I can hear them. That means they’re close enough to spot me if they look. “Shhh,” I whisper to Tenpenny, fearful that he’ll neigh.
I rise up on the colt’s neck, trying to get a better view. If one of the men is One Arm Dan Parmer, I’ll know right away. His lower right arm is missing, and folks say he always holds his rifle in the crook of his elbow.
“We’re heading into Lexington for supplies,” Mister Ham tells the Rebels. “We have nothing of value.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” the rider in the middle replies. He wears an officer-style slouch hat and military jacket. His horse steps forward, toward the wagon, but Mister Ham and his sons don’t budge.
“Move out of my way,” the man orders, “or I’ll give the word, and my men will gladly ransack the wagon.” When he turns in his saddle, I spy the empty shirtsleeve tied up below his elbow. It’s got to be One Arm!
Beale levels his pistol barrel at the man’s face. “Give the word and you’ll be dead.”
Just then Master Giles walks up from the bottom of the ravine. “I say, gents,” he calls out, exaggerating his British accent. He carries the shotgun loosely as if the sight of a band of armed riders is no threat. “No cause for hard words. We are all on the same side. Captain Parmer, I presume?” He directs his question to the man in the middle, though I’ve never heard anyone say that One Arm’s a real captain.
The slouch hat bobs. “And you are Mister Winston Giles of Woodville Farm?”
“I am, sir. There’s no reason to take my men and wagon by force. Mister Ham is telling the truth. We are on our way to Lexington to procure supplies. Except for my colored men, my wagon is empty.”
One Arm seems to consider this. Or maybe he’s considering the pistol pointed at his face.
Master Giles raises one hand. “However, I do believe I can spare some cash for the Confederate cause. Enough to buy you and your men supplies in Versailles? I presume you’ll be headed in that direction since I have word that Union soldiers from Lexington are riding after you, perhaps headed this way as we speak.”
One Arm shifts in his saddle. A sly grin crinkles his sun-browned cheeks. “Then I’ll accept your offer, Mister Giles. I like a man who knows the value of cash and the worth of helpful information.”
Master Giles digs in his trouser pocket and draws out a leather pouch. My eyes widen. Not only is he warning One Arm about the Union soldiers, he’s paying off the robbers! I was wrong. Master’s a Confederate through and through.
Reaching down, One Arm opens his gloved left hand, and Master drops several gold coins in his palm. When the captain straightens, he pockets the money and then tips his hat. “Much obliged for the gold and information, Mister Giles. And I hope we meet again when the South is victorious. Come on, boys,” One Arm calls, reining his horse around. Suddenly, he jerks back on the rein and stares in my direction.
I duck down on Tenpenny’s neck, but it’s too late. He’s seen us. No matter how brave Beale and Henry are, we’re sorely outnumbered. If One Arm gives the word, his men will kill us all. Then they’ll steal Tenpenny and, with whip and spurs, ride him to his death.
“What’re you trying to pull, Giles?” Taking out his pistol, One Arm cocks it with his good hand. The barrel points right at my face. “You’ve got a horse hidden in those woods, which means it’s more valuable than your gold coins. Tell your men to stand aside, ’cause I aim to fetch it!”
Chapter Three
Dear Jesus,” I mumble into the colt’s mane, “don’t let One Arm shoot me and steal my horse.” I press my cheek into Tenpenny’s sweaty neck, afraid to breathe.
“Captain Parmer, if I were you, I wouldn’t waste my time,” Master Giles says, his voice polite, but hard, too. “It’s just my lookout. Any delay might cause your capture—or your death.”
The air is filled with silence. Feeling my fear, Tenpenny paws nervously. Do something, I te
ll myself. If I can get the colt to open ground, there ain’t no Rebel can catch us.
I peer around the woods, hunting for an escape route. To my right, the hill rises steeply. To my left, it drops into a ravine. I’m looking behind me when I hear the clank of spurs and the creak of leather. Dare I believe my ears? Cautiously I peek toward the road. Sweet Jesus has answered my prayers. The raiders are leaving!
One Arm holsters his pistol. “If you are lying to me, you’ll regret your bravado, Mister Giles,” he declares. Wheeling his horse, he gallops up the pike after his men.
I collapse like an empty saddlebag. The sound of rustling and crackling makes me look up. Pa’s fighting his way through the brush.
“Gabriel?” he calls worriedly. “You all right?”
“I’m fine, Pa.” I bite my lip to keep it from quivering. When Pa reaches us, he drags me off the colt and wraps me safe in his arms. For a second, I let his strength calm me. Then I pull away. “I’m mighty fine now those Rebels are gone. Penny and me were fixing to run if they came after us.”
Pa’s face shines with relief. “And where were you planning on running to? You and Penny ain’t deer.”
“Oh, me and Penny could outrace those raiders,” I boast. “No Confederate’s going to get my horse.”
Pa fixes me with a stern gaze. “Tenpenny ain’t your horse, Gabriel. Besides, no horse is worth a man’s life.”
I drop my gaze to my bare feet. I don’t want to argue with Pa, but only a coward would save himself and leave his horse for those thieves.
“Isaac! Gabriel!” Master Giles hollers from the road. “We better get a move on before Captain Parmer changes his mind.”
Pa boosts me back on to Tenpenny and leads us out of the woods. Master’s boarding the wagon. Mister Ham and his sons are watching the crest of the hill as if expecting more unwanted company.
We set off at a good clip, and when we trot from that dark ravine, I breathe easier. Soon the houses and farms grow closer together, and we ride into Lexington. I thought nothing could be as exciting as meeting One Arm, but I’m mistaken. The city is a wonder.
Mouth flapping, eyes popping, I ride down a wide street made of stones. Churches, hotels, and shops—not trees and scrub—line both sides. The buildings stand wall to wall with rows of windows glinting in the daylight. Chimneys and spires jut from sloped roofs, and signs arch over every door. If Annabelle were here, she’d be reading up a storm!
Since I can’t read, I ’cipher the shopkeepers’ wares by noting the goods hanging from awnings and displayed in windows: loaves of bread and shiny leather boots and fancy ladies’ hats. As I move down the street, I spot other items for sale: guitars, cigars, even fish that look freshly caught and strung up.
Why, a person can buy just about anything in Lexington!
Tenpenny’s jumping at all the sights, but Beale’s and Henry’s horses are used to the commotion. They ride close, keeping the colt from bolting.
“Mister Beale, what’s that say?” I ask, pointing to a building ahead. Swirly letters have been painted on the side of the store right on the brick!
“It says Curtis Confectionery.”
“Con . . . fec . . . sh-shun,” I stammer, giving up when the word ties my tongue.
Beale chuckles. “That means the shop sells sweets.”
“Mmm.” My mouth begins to water, and I remember I haven’t eaten since morning mush.
Turning to his father, Beale says, “The danger is over, sir, and the horse seems calm. Permission for Henry and me to catch up with you later at the hotel.”
“Permission granted,” Mister Ham tells his sons.
I watch longingly as they rein their mounts toward the stores. We’ve been riding all day, and I’m eager to stretch my legs and get a closer look at that sweet shop. At the thought of a licorice twist, my stomach growls. But no luck. Everyone else keeps moving along the street at a slow pace.
Tenpenny falls back beside the wagon bed. Pa tosses me a roasted sweet potato from the basket by his feet and gives Jackson a slice of Cook Nancy’s homemade bread.
As I bite into my potato, I stare at the sights. Lexington’s busy with more folks than I’ve seen in my life. They’re strolling along the walks and clustered around doorways. Half the faces are as black as mine, and Jackson tips his hat to all the colored ladies.
“Morning, Miss Pearl,” he calls. “Good day, Miss Adele.”
“I believe Mr. Jackson knows every lady in Lexington,” I say to Pa.
Finally Renny stops the wagon in front of a three-story hotel. Carriages wait out front, the coachmen holding the reins of the horses. On the pillared porch, gentlemen in top hats smoke and talk.
I eye the hotel. One day, when I’m famous like Abe Hawkins, I’ll stay in a fancy hotel, too. For now, though, I’ve got to bunk at the racetrack with Pa, Jackson, and Renny.
Master gives Mister Ham and Pa instructions and then bids us good day. Renny carries Master’s valise to the porch, handing it over to a servant. Then we head off.
Delivery wagons and carriages rattle past as we continue out of town. The sun is high, and Tenpenny’s neck is dark with sweat.
When we reach the racetrack, Mister Ham escorts us past the wooden grandstand to a long, low barn. I can’t see the track, but Jackson tells me it’s a mile long with the finish line in front of the grandstand. “So all the ladies can throw kisses at me when I win,” he says with a chuckle.
We stop at the far end of the barn in front of two empty stalls bedded with straw. Pa climbs from the wagon, his legs stiff. Jackson jumps nimbly out and strides off to join a group of colored men jawing by a fire in a cleared area beneath a grove of trees. Other jockeys, I gather. Seeing them laughing and talking has me wishing I was a jockey.
Tired, I slip off Tenpenny and lead him into the stall. He neighs loudly. Several horses answer. I unbridle the colt and give him a few sips of water, then leave him to munch a flake of hay while I help Pa and Renny unload the wagon. Soon the second stall is filled with two ticking-covered pallets, blankets, bundles of hay, and a sack of feed. When the wagon’s empty, Renny takes the team down to the livery. Mister Ham’s already gone back to town, so it’s just Pa and me.
“Unwrap Penny’s legs,” Pa says. “I’ll fetch a bucket of water from the pump so you can wash him down.”
“Yes sir.” I take a halter in to Tenpenny. He butts me, then tries to scratch his nose on my shoulder. I push his head away, showing him who’s boss. For the rest of the afternoon, I wash, walk, and groom Tenpenny. While I work, I keep my ears pricked for news. Pa and Jackson spend much of their time chatting with the other trainers and jockeys. I find out there are three races tomorrow. Tenpenny’s in the second one, racing against five other horses. By sundown, Pa and Jackson have eyeballed every one of the entries. Now they’re sitting on wooden boxes outside the stall door, and while I bed Tenpenny down for the night, I catch snatches of their discussion of tomorrow’s race.
“The Louisville horse, Famous Tom, will be carrying weight,” Jackson says, keeping his voice low, “’cause his jockey’s light.”
“Looks like Jersey Gent, the horse from up North, had a spavin the last race,” Pa adds, sipping coffee from a tin cup. “I noticed the swelling on his hock. And Judge Fahill’s entered his nag, Virgil.”
Jackson whistles. “That broken-down colt? He should be put out to pasture.”
“The Judge probably wants to run up the bets on the other horses. What do you hear about Doctor Rammer’s mare, Lilith, from Lexington? Who’s jockeying her?”
Jackson snorts. “Rammer’s slave Levi is riding. He’ll fall off when that mare leaps at the starting drum. And I hear word that the jockey from Louisville spurs his mount over the finish line.”
Spurs! I snort, echoing Jackson. One thing I know for sure: a horse needs a gentle hand.
“Sounds like the entry to watch is Blue Belle,” Pa says.
Jackson nods in agreement. “She’s a fine mare, and Mister Parris brough
t a slave from Virginia to ride her.”
“They’ll never beat you and Penny,” I say from the stall.
“You’re right there.” Standing, Jackson adjusts his shirt cuffs and vest. “Enough talk. It’s high time I get to town.” He winks at me before he strides off. “Before the lovely ladies start to miss me.”
Minutes later, Pa comes in the stall and runs his hand down Tenpenny’s legs, checking for heat or puffiness. Then we picnic by the fire with the other grooms and trainers, trading a loaf of Cook Nancy’s bread for coffee and bacon. By the time we finish eating, my jaws are cracking with yawns. Pa throws me a blanket before bedding down in the spare stall. I’m tuckered out, but I want to check the track before I curl up with Tenpenny. I haven’t had a chance to see it since we rode up.
I listen for Pa’s snoring and then jog past the campfire. A few blanket-wrapped bodies lie on the ground around it, and two men sit on a log drinking from tin cups. Past the fire, it’s darker.
Slowly, I make my way toward the wooden grandstand. A white fence surrounds the wide dirt track. Leaning on the top rail, I stare down the track to the first bend. It’s too dark to see much farther, but I can pretend I’m a jockey, galloping my horse to the finish line, the folks in the grandstand hallooing.
I’m picturing it so clearly, I really hear the halloos.
The chorus grows louder and I realize it’s singing. Voices as haunting as whippoorwills are coming from the other side of the track.
Who’s singing at this late hour? I wonder. Ducking under the rail, I climb the steps into the grandstand until I can see across the track. There’s a line of trees on the other side of the far railing. Beyond the trees, I spot dozens of fires lighting the hillside like stars in the sky. Men in blue uniforms stand around the fires, and I catch my breath: Yankees!
I patter down the grandstand steps and vault over the rail onto the dirt track. I can’t leave Lexington without seeing a real soldier.
