by Alison Hart
I trot around the track to the other side, my bare feet sinking in the soft dirt. Then I climb over the far fence rail, jump to the ground, and wind through the grass to the border of trees. Hiding behind a thick trunk, I stare at the hillside. Rows of white tents stripe the sloping field, and stacked rifles poke skyward.
A circle of soldiers, two deep, is standing around a fire, singing. I’m close enough to see the sparkle of uniform buttons and the gleam of white teeth in black faces.
It’s a company of colored soldiers! I’m so surprised I almost fall over. The chorus dies down, and one man’s voice booms out, deep and rich, “I walk in de battlefield, I’ll walk through de battlefield.”
The others join in: “I’ll walk in de battlefield, I’ll walk through de battlefield. To lay dis body down. To fight for de freedom land.”
My heart soars with their voices. Pa’s talked about colored men, both slave and free, who have joined the Union army. Oh, how I wish I could be a soldier and fight for freedom, too.
The snap of a twig makes me start. Then someone grabs my shirt collar and yanks me backward. “Let go!” I yell. Kicking and twisting, I try to get away.
“Hold still, boy,” a deep voice commands. I glimpse the blue sleeve of a soldier’s uniform. The hand tightens on the neck of my shirt, and the soldier drags me toward the firelight. “Lookee what I found!” he hollers to the circle of men.
Abruptly, the singing stops and all eyes turn to me. Letting go, the soldier shoves me, and I stumble toward the fire, too scared to yelp again.
The lone singer steps forward, fists planted on his hips. He’s as tall as a tree and has stripes on his coat sleeve.
“Well, well,” he thunders so loud my knees knock. “Looks like Private Campbell has found hisself a Confederate spy!”
Chapter Four
A Confederate spy? Fear dries the spit in my mouth, and I stammer so bad that I can’t set him straight.
“A scrawny spy at that,” the soldier booms.
“Must be why he slipped past the guards,” Private Campbell says. He squeezes my shoulder like he’s feeling a plucked chicken. “Think he’s too scrawny to string up, Corporal Blue?”
String up? Thoughts of hanging till I’m dead loosen my tongue and I blurt, “Sir, I ain’t no spy!”
“No spy?” Corporal Blue rears back as if astonished. “Then why you hiding in the trees?”
I wave toward the racetrack. “I was yonder and heard your singing, and I wanted to see a Union soldier ’fore I left Lexington. That’s all. Oh, please, Corporal sir, don’t string me up. I jest a slave boy riding horses for Master Giles.”
I clasp my fingers together, pleading. His lips are twitching in a smile, and the circle of soldiers bursts into guffaws.
“Boy, we know you ain’t no Rebel spy,” Corporal Blue says, not unkindly. “You too clean and well-fed.”
“You ain’t going to hang me?”
The corporal claps my shoulder. “We just joshing you. Come on, join us by the fire. I’m Corporal Benjamin Blue. What’s your name?”
Hesitating, I glance over my shoulder, wondering if Pa’s missing me. My fear’s slowly dying, but my cheeks grow hot with embarrassment. I pleaded for mercy like a pigeon-hearted Rebel!
Throwing back my shoulders, I muster a speck of dignity. “My name’s Gabriel Alexander.”
Corporal Blue holds out his hand. “Welcome, Gabriel Alexander, to Company H of the 100th United States Colored Infantry.”
I shake his hand, my fingers disappearing in his grip.
“So why you here?” he asks. “A runaway?”
“No sir. I’m from Woodville Farm. My master’s got a fine colt entered in the second race tomorrow at the Kentucky Association track.”
“Hear that?” Private Campbell calls around. “This boy says there’s a fine colt entered in the second race. You figure he going to win?” he addresses me.
I nod firmly. “Tenpenny’s the fastest colt in Lexington, and Jackson’s the finest jockey.”
Suddenly, the men around the campfire erupt. They call out horses’ names and lay bets. Tobacco plugs, coins, buckles, pocket watches, and smoking pipes are tossed into a pile. Private Campbell whips out a pencil and starts jotting down bets on the inside cover of a Bible. Seems the men of Company H have been studying on tomorrow’s race!
Corporal Blue watches with an amused expression. “We do more betting than shooting, that’s for sure.”
“What about fighting?” I ask. Now that there’s no threat of hanging, I aim to find out more about Company H.
“Fighting?” Corporal Blue grunts. “We just mustered in. We’re so new our boots squeak. ’Sides, we’re too busy toting and cooking for the white soldiers to fight Rebels.”
“Why are you toting and cooking for whites? You’re a Yankee soldier. Ain’t you free?”
“Oh, we’re free all right. Free to dig latrines, collect firewood, and haul water. Instead of the rifle, we wield the spade and ax. Most of these boys are ex-slaves who don’t know nothing ’cept work.” Corporal Blue touches the stripes on his shoulder. “Don’t misjudge us, though. We’re learning to clean our guns and drill, shoot straight, and march double-quick. We’re eager to fight. And when we get to Tennessee, we will,” he adds with pride.
“And one day I’ll join you,” I declare. “Then I’ll be free, too. And able to fight those Rebels.” I make a pretend jab like I’ve got a bayonet.
He chuckles. “You as skinny as a sapling. Too skinny to march far with a rifle, I reckon. But tag along with us. We can use a smart boy. We’ll make you our drummer. Then your new master will be the U.S. Army.”
The idea tempts me though I’ve never tapped a drum. “Company H got any horses?”
“Naw. Only officers and cavalry got horses.”
“Then I’ll pass.” I don’t want to tell him how much I’d miss Ma and Pa, Tenpenny and Aristo. “Maybe after I grow into a man strong as you, I’ll join up to fight for freedom.”
Corporal Blue laughs. “I believe you will.” Then his face turns grave in the firelight. “’Cause freedom, why, that’s worth fighting for, Gabriel Alexander. We may be digging latrines today, but one day, we’ll be battling those Rebels. Now stay a spell.” He steers me toward the fire. “We wants to hear more about tomorrow’s race!”
***
The next morning, Pa and me are awake before the sun. We feed Tenpenny half-rations, wrap his legs, and rub him glossy. Mornings like this, Pa and me work silent, but companionable. We don’t need to talk. We know each other’s minds as well as we know horses.
Part of me wants to tell Pa about meeting Corporal Blue and the colored soldiers last night, but another part says, “never mind” ’cause we need to concentrate on winning this race.
When I fetch the bridle from the spare stall, I see Jackson sprawled on the pallet, his mouth wide in a snore. The ladies must have kept him late.
I bridle Tenpenny and lead him from the stall. Pa hands me a cold hoecake. “Walk Penny around the entire track,” he says as he throws me up on the colt. “Let him stretch his legs and look at every rock and tree. I don’t want him spooking in the middle of the race.”
Pa has magic ways with horses, and his ways usually win races, so I don’t question him. Chewing my hoecake, I rein Tenpenny toward the track.
The colt wants to play. He bucks in place, rattling my bones.
“Penny, you got four miles of race this noon. You best save your fire,” I scold as we jog through a break in the fence. Fog shrouds the grandstand and far side of the track. I aim Tenpenny to the right, and he prances around the bend, his muscles rippling under my legs. Joy fills me. How I long to hear the sound of the starting drum. How I long to race!
When we pass the line of trees bordering the Union camp, I steer Tenpenny to the outside rail. The rising sun illuminates the hillside, and I see soldiers shaking blankets and making coffee. Several lean over basins set on a plank table. Steam rises from the basins, and the sol
diers splash water on their faces and lather up to shave.
I hear Corporal Blue’s words, “’cause freedom worth fighting for,” and for a moment, I pine for camp life.
Tenpenny snorts at a mockingbird. He careens sideways, almost dumping me in the dirt. I squeeze my legs into his side, pushing him forward. The mile track flows and winds like a river. It’s smooth in the middle, but banked and crusted along the inside rail. Rocks have been kicked up along the outside rail.
By the time we’ve walked around the track, the sun is up and the grounds are stirring with folks. Tenpenny’s loose, relaxed and hungry. With every step, he tries to snatch a bite of grass or leaves. Jackson’s sitting by the fire, head cradled in his hands.
“Did you find some pretty ladies last night, Mister Jackson?” I tease.
Opening one eye, he glares at me.
Pa’s in front of the stall with a bucket of molasses, corn, and oats. He pulls off Tenpenny’s bridle, and the colt attacks the bucket, tossing grain everywhere.
“Easy, hoss,” Pa says as he wraps a rope around Tenpenny’s neck. “Don’t want you getting colic.”
I slide off the colt’s back. “Jackson needs to keep to the middle of the track,” I tell Pa. “Against either rail be hard on a horse’s legs.”
Pa nods. “How’d he feel?”
“Right smart.” I scratch under Tenpenny’s mane. He’s happily slobbering grain. I figure the colt doesn’t know what he’s in for. The race for three- and four-year-olds is two heats of two miles each. By the last mile, he’ll be leg sore and heart weary.
“Pick out his stall, Gabriel,” Pa says. “Then fetch two buckets of water. I want one simmering on the fire. I’m taking him down to the creek.”
“Yes sir.” I hurry to the stall with basket and pitchfork. All across the grounds, horses whinny and men cuss. Several folks come by Tenpenny’s stall asking for the colt. This is Tenpenny’s first race, and all the trainers and owners want to get a good look at Woodville Farm’s latest entry.
I don’t tell them where Tenpenny is. I know that Pa has taken Tenpenny down to the creek not only to let the cold water firm the colt’s legs, but also to keep him away from the crowd. Pa doesn’t want some greedy owner poisoning Tenpenny’s bucket of water or pricking him in the hock with a needle—sure ways to keep a horse from winning.
The sun’s overhead when Master Giles stops by. I’ve finished cleaning the stall and fetching water, and I’m sitting on a bucket, wiping down Tenpenny’s bridle so it’s soft and supple.
“Morning, Gabriel.” He’s dressed like a gentleman in derby and frock coat, and he’s carrying an ivory-handled cane.
I drop the bridle and jump to my feet. “Morning, sir.”
“How’s the colt?”
“Rip-roaring, but he listened to my legs and hands. Jackson will be able to ride him to victory.”
Master points at me with his cane. “You’ve got the mind of a horseman like your pa, Gabriel.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Get on with your work now.” He heads into the crowd. By now, the grounds are filling with gentlefolk: men sporting top hats and ladies wearing hoop skirts. They climb into the grandstands. Their slaves wait by the carriages with picnic baskets, lawn chairs, and blankets. Working folks, black and white, crowd the rails, and everyone carries on like it’s a party. Seems like Lexington doesn’t know there’s a war going on.
I miss all of the first race ’cause I’m too busy walking Tenpenny, who’s wound as tight as Pa’s pocket watch. The colt throws his head, bumps me with his nose, and drags me hither and yon. I don’t scold ’cause I know he’s just scared.
I lead him toward the grandstand, which erupts with cheering, and I gather the first race is over. Minutes later, a gray mare limps from the track, her head hanging. A roan walks behind her, shaking with fatigue. The winner stands in the middle of the track. His heaving sides are dotted with spur marks, and his flared nostrils are red rimmed. His colored jockey tries to smile, but his lips are cracked and swollen. The owner stands beside them, fat-bellied and smug as he accepts the trophy and $1,500 purse. Some of the crowd cheers, while others boo. Along the rail, money exchanges hands, and several men get in fistfights.
My heart tightens. I stroke Tenpenny’s neck, hoping he’ll reach the finish line with ears and head high. We’ve conditioned the colt for weeks, and Pa doesn’t believe in spurs or whips, but hard running takes its toll on any horse.
Pa comes over, carrying the saddle and sheepskin pad he’s made special so Tenpenny’s back doesn’t get sore. Jackson strides beside him looking smart in his silks. He wears black boots, doeskin breeches, and a blue shirt and gold cap, Woodville’s colors.
I lead the colt into the circle of onlookers, joining the five other entries. Master Giles watches with the owners. They’re talking among themselves, downplaying their horse’s abilities, hoping to raise the betting odds.
Pa says a man could win a year’s wages if he placed the right bet. I sigh, wishing Pa was a betting man. Then I could buy a hoop skirt for Ma, and Pa could buy our freedom.
The bugle announces the parade to the track. Pa gives Jackson a leg up into the saddle. Jackson rides with short stirrups so he can stay off the horse’s back. Most other jockeys ride English style: They sit straight up with longer stirrups. Pa checks the girth one last time, murmurs last-minute instructions, and then stands back.
“Run like the wind, Penny,” I whisper before letting go of the rein. As the horses enter the track, Pa and me push our way to the rail to eye each entry. Pa points out things, and I tuck them in my mind for when I’m training my own horses.
“Girth is too slack on Famous Tom.” He nods toward a rangy gray. “Halfway through the first heat of the race, the colt will sweat off weight, and the saddle’s going to slip.”
Next comes the horse from the north. “Jersey Gent’s got that spavin, so he’s favoring his right hind leg. If Jackson crowds him to the outside rail, the colt will break down.”
When a shiny sorrel jogs past, Pa shakes his head. “Doctor Rammer’s mare Lilith is nice, but the jockey Levi won’t make it through the whole race. The stewards had to attach pouches of lead shot to the saddle to make weight. A jockey’s got to be light, Gabriel, but he’s also got to be tough.”
I’m light and tough, I think as I study Levi. He’s not much older than me, and slight-built like me, but he acts like a whipped hunting dog. Pa says Doctor Rammer is mean to his slaves, and I count my blessings that Master Giles is good to us.
“How about Virgil?” I ask when a tall bay walks past. The colt’s nose is high, and his eyes roll.
Pa frowns. “Judge Fahill doesn’t care ’bout his horses. And Virgil, well, he’s ’bout run to death.”
Last to come past is Blue Belle, a sleek red-bay with four white socks. The Virginia jockey sits proud in the saddle, and Belle dances by like she’s the Queen of Lexington.
“That’s the one to beat,” Pa notes.
By now, my heart’s pattering with excitement. Across the track, I see a line of men in blue uniforms crowding against the outside rail. They’re waving caps and shouting hoorahs. Seems betting does come before drilling.
I nudge Pa. “Look, colored soldiers.”
The bugle trumpets, and in front of the grandstand, the six horses attempt to line up. Pa explains that the man at the starting line holding the drum is the Jockey Club president. Next to him is a steward, who watches to see when the horses are straight.
Tenpenny’s against the inside rail since he’s drawn the inside post position. Next to him is Blue Belle, then Jersey Gent, Virgil, and Famous Tom. Lilith is on the outside, and Levi is having problems settling her behind the line. The crowd roars, the mare rears, and Levi almost tumbles off.
Then, for a blink, the horses are lined up even, and the Jockey Club president taps the drum. Tenpenny leaps forward with the others. Jackson reins him sharply to the middle of the track before taking hold and easing the colt to
a slow gallop. There are two miles in this first heat, and he doesn’t want Tenpenny to give out early.
As the horses make their way down the backstretch, they bunch tight, except for Famous Tom, who takes the lead. “In the first heat, the horse needs to run a mile in a little under two minutes,” Pa explains. He’s got his watch in his hand to keep time. “Anything faster, he’ll burn out. Slower, he won’t make the distance.”
“What’s the distance?”
“See that flag yonder?” He points to a white flag sticking up on the rail about forty feet before the finish line. “When the lead horse crosses the finish line in this first heat, any horses that haven’t reached that flag are eliminated. That keeps riders from pulling a Sweeny.”
I give Pa a blank look and he explains, “A Sweeny is when a rider holds his horse back in the first heat, trying to save energy for the next heat.”
Suddenly, all the horses disappear from sight. “Dangerous spot there,” Pa says. “Even the judges can’t see. Jockeys could be whipping each other—or worse.”
I gnaw my lip, wondering what “worse” could mean. I spot Master Giles high in the grandstand, his field glasses trained on the dip. Behind him are ladies wearing flower-covered hats like they have gardens growing on their heads. The ladies clap excitedly, and I turn to see the horses barreling toward us down the homestretch.
Tenpenny’s in the middle. As he canters past, Pa yells for Jackson to keep a hold until the last turn. I watch the colt gallop around the bend. His neck’s arched, so I know he ain’t weary yet.
Before I know it, they’re racing down the homestretch again. This time, the horses are sprawled out. Tenpenny’s third in line with Blue Belle right beside him. Both look winded yet strong. Famous Tom crosses first, but just like Pa predicted, the saddle slips and the jockey pitches sideways. Lilith is second. As they cross the finish line, Levi yanks the reins. But he can’t slow the mare, and two grooms dash off after them. Blue Belle comes in third, beating Penny by a nose. Jersey Gent and Virgil canter up last. Virgil’s so far behind, he won’t make the distance, and Jersey Gent’s favoring his right leg. The first heat is over.
