Gabriel's Journey (12 page)

“I'll be safe, Gabriel. But your father may not be. Take Champion and ride to Chestnut Ridge before the fog lifts. See if you can find him. That's an order,” he adds sternly.

“Yes sir.” I salute him, sadness heavy on my chest: I may never see Captain Waite again.

The assistant and I are helping the captain off Champion just as a wagon pulled by a fresh team of horses wheels up to the porch. “Hurry!” the driver shouts. “We have to get everyone out now. Word is that Champ Ferguson and his guerrillas are killing all Union soldiers left behind.”

Guerrillas.
The word strikes new fear in my heart. I met guerrillas in Kentucky a while back, so I know they are renegades who have neither law nor mercy.

Captain Waite slings his arm around the assistant's shoulders. His face is flushed with fever. “Goodbye, Gabriel,” he says, forcing a smile through his pain. “You've been the finest aide an officer could ask for.”

“Thank you, sir. I've been honored to serve you.” Supported by the assistant, the captain hops toward the wagon. He doesn't turn back, so I doubt he's heard my words.

Crack, crack, crack.
This time the shots ring out from the top of Chestnut Ridge. In one swift move, I swing into Champion's saddle, gather the reins, and kick him into a gallop.

I hope it's not too late.

C
hampion gallops from the yard and into the mist. I steer him down the hill, through the brush and into the ravine. We follow the ravine to the left for a while before cantering up the mountainside.

By the time we reach the rock where I found Captain Waite, the fog is lifting, and the sun is poking through the clouds. I rein Champion to a halt and stare in stunned silence as the morning light creeps over Chestnut Ridge.

The hillside is littered with bodies: black and white, gray-clad and blue-coated, piled atop each other without thought of uniform or skin color. No one—Confederate nor Union—escaped the wrath of the bullets and balls, and hated enemies now lie side by side.

My throat grows tight. Ma was right. War is about death.

Movement along the top of the ridge reminds me I don't have time for ponderin' or prayin'.

Dismounting, I lead Champion back to the ravine and hide him in a clump of scraggly cedars. I pull the canteen and rucksack from the saddle and sling them over my shoulder. Crouching low, I run back to the bodies. I scurry around them like a rat, peering at faces. Here and there an arm stirs, a voice cries out, a leg shifts. There are plenty of soldiers—Rebel and Yankee—alive on this ridge, but many of them won't last through the day. I cringe with the knowing that I can't help them. I have to keep moving if I'm to find Pa and Private Black.

I spot Confederate stretcher bearers working their way from the summit. Ducking from sight, I pull a Rebel kepi from a dead soldier's head. I replace my blue cap with his gray and hope that with my now dirt-colored jacket the stretcher bearers will take me for a Reb. I feel like a traitor to the Union, but if it buys me time to find Pa, I don't care.

Ahead I spot a boulder jutting from the hillside. Heaped behind it, as if they were seeking protection from the bullets, are several soldiers in blue. As I scuttle toward them, I hear a gruff voice say, “Kill any Negro found alive.”

I dive behind the rock and flatten myself against the ground. Shutting my eyes, I go as limp as the dead.

Footsteps crunch closer. I hear a
whump,
as if someone's turned a body over. Then a voice hollers, “The Tennesseans sure gave these bluecoats heck. Nothin' left here but buzzard food.” The footsteps move away.

I squint one eye open, and my guts twist. The man's carrying a pistol in his hand as he steps over bodies. He's dressed in a butternut jacket, but I see no insignia. He's wearing blue jeans instead of Confederate gray.

Not stretcher bearers. Not soldiers.
These men with pistols are Rebel guerrillas.

A plea for mercy followed by a gunshot tells me they're bent on revenge.

I feign death until I hear no more voices and no more shots.

But the sun is rising, and I know I have to stir soon. Every moment I lie here increases the chances that someone will find me or Champion. Every moment I lie here lessens my chances of finding Pa and Private Black alive.

Surrounded by these departed souls, it's hard to believe that's still possible. But I
have
to keep looking.

I lift my head and listen. I peer up the hill and down. Far to my left, Confederate stretcher bearers are hauling their wounded soldiers to the top of the hill where an ambulance wagon awaits. They've a job to do but won't bother with us Union soldiers until last.

Inch by inch, I drag myself to the boulder. Resting my back against it, I face downward. I move my gaze from fallen soldier to fallen soldier, searching for sergeant's stripes or a sign of life.

A breeze ruffles a sleeve. A fly buzzes against a cheek.

Then I see it—the pointy end of a brown and white striped feather. Delirious with hope, I scramble down the hill. The feather's still stuck in the brim of Pa's cap, but the cap's lying on bare ground, as if blasted off his head. I snatch it up and hold it to my chest.

He's got to be here!
I dash from body to body, unmindful of the danger. And then, just beyond a tangle of brush I see three yellow stripes.
Pa!

He's face down, his cheek scrunched in the dirt, his rifle and arm stretched in front of him as if he fell trying to reach that summit. His hair and forehead are matted with blood.

I shoo away the flies and place my ear to his lips. “Come on, Pa,” I whisper, “you have to be alive.”

A soft rush of air brushes my ear.

Tears spring to my eyes as I gently turn him over. He has a long gash on his head as if a bullet creased his scalp, and he moans when I move him.

“Pa, it's Gabriel.” I yank the canteen and rucksack off my shoulder. I pour a little water on his face and on his wound. He tries to sit up, but I press him down. “Hush now, Pa. Guerrillas are hunting wounded coloreds,” I warn. “I've got to get you out of here.”

He stares up at me with startled, blood-crusted eyes as if he understands the danger. Keeping my eye on the movement to the west, I check his arms and legs, noting no other injuries.

“Do you think you can walk?”

He gives me a silent nod. Quickly, I bandage his wound. I tuck his cap in my jacket and place a Rebel kepi on his head as well. Two coloreds wearing Confederate gray caps ain't going to fool anyone for long—it just has to fool them long enough for me to get Pa on Champion.

“Did you see Private Black?” I whisper.

Pa has trouble speaking. I give him a sip from the canteen, and he finds his voice. “He . . . was . . . beside me . . . when I . . .” He flaps his hand to his left. “Over there.”

Crouched furtively, I scoot from soldier to soldier, but there's no sign of Private Black, or of life. Voices from atop the ridge remind me we're running out of time.

I look toward the ravine, which seems a mile away, then glance toward the stretcher bearers. They're still working along the summit and the west side of the hill, but they seem to be moving this way. I don't see the guerrillas.

Then I hear gunshots from the direction of Governor Sander's house, and I pray Captain Waite and the other officers are long departed.

“Come on.” Reaching around Pa, I help him to his feet and lead him down the hill toward the ravine. Pa leans heavily on me, both of us stumbling in our urgency to reach the cedars.

Champion greets me with a whicker.

I boost Pa into the saddle, and then untie the reins. The shooting grows nearer.

Pa clutches the pommel. Blood's pooling under the bandage on his head.

“Go,” I tell him, holding up the reins. “They won't find me in the thicket.”

He shakes his head. “We . . . go together . . . or not at all.” He stretches out his hand to me.

Shouts ring close by, and Champion dances in place. Grabbing Pa's hand, I swing up behind the saddle and land on the horse's rump. Startled, Champion kicks out, but I nudge him hard in the sides, and he plunges from the cedars.

We don't dare head in the direction of Governor Sander's house. I rein Champion to the east. He races along the ravine, jumping gullies and logs.

“Colored Yankees!” someone hollers.

My heart drums as loudly as Champion's hooves.

I glance over my shoulder. A handful of Rebels is charging after us, their revolvers raised. In front of me, Pa's slumped heavily. Champion's carrying two riders, and we're headed in the wrong direction. Betting money would be stacked against us, but I ain't quitting. That quick look told me those Rebels ain't ridin' Thoroughbreds, while Champion, like Aristo, was born to race and
win,
no matter what the odds.

Champion gallops gamely up the hill, and I steer him behind the cabin, trying to shake my pursuers. We reach the top of Sanders Hill and plunge down the other side. Pa's clinging tightly to the pommel, but I can feel his energy draining. To keep Pa from falling, I wrap one arm around his waist and steer Champion with the other hand as we fly up the hill. The bonfires are still smoldering, but there ain't a Union soldier in sight to come to our rescue.

I dare another look behind us. The Rebels have crested Sander's Hill. They halt as if worried a Yankee cannon might be aimed and waiting, but when they see it's all clear, they whoop like banshees and spur their horses.

Champion weaves around the fires and along the muddy path by the river. I fear he might fall, but he's sure-footed and true as his hooves grab the earth churned by departing horses and wagon wheels. Our brigade's had a night's head start, but there ain't no refuge for us here in Virginia. Our only hope is to catch up with the retreating troops.

Champion slows to a trot when we reach our camp from two nights ago. Discarded bundles, bloody bandages, cold campfires, and a dozen hastily dug graves are all that's left. I can tell by the ruts and hoofprints that Colonel Ratliff's brigade has fled across the river toward Clinch Mountain.

Champion's sides are heaving; his nostrils flare pink and his neck is lathered. I don't know how much longer the horse can carry us both.

“Gabriel, leave me,” Pa whispers. “Save yourself.”

“No,” I say fiercely, tightening my grasp around him. “We go together or not at all. 'Sides, Pa, I've been up against guerrillas before. And this time, they ain't bestin' me.”

A shrill
ki-yi-yi
sends shivers through us both.

“Run, Champion,” I urge, aiming the horse toward the Holston River. “You can outrun those Rebel nags.”

The short rest has given the stallion a chance to catch his wind. He races for the river and leaps into the water with such force that my kepi flies off my head. Legs reaching high, he trots across. In the distance, I see the rise of Clinch Mountain. If we can just make Low Gap, we might be able to hide in the crevices and boulders.

Champion springs up the bank and canters down the wide trail. His breathing's labored but he don't quit. The trail grows steeper and the woods thicker. I spy fresh horse droppings, and I pray we ain't far behind the 4th Brigade.

Gunshots dash my hopes. The Rebels are gaining on us.

Bullets whack the tree trunks lining the path. Pa and I hunker down on the horse's back, cringing as the shells zing over our heads. Champion stumbles, then rights himself, but I know something's wrong. Behind me, blood blooms on his rump, and his stride grows uneven.

Champion has been shot.

T
he Rebels are so close now I can hear the
huff, huff
of their mounts. “We've got them colored Yankees now!” one of the Rebels cries, the hate in his voice ringing in my ears.

I feel my innards plummet as I realize that without Champion to carry us, Pa and I ain't going to make it out of Virginia alive.

“I love you, Pa!” I shout in his ear, and if the Rebels hear, they must believe I'm daft. But Pa's slouched forward in the saddle as if unconscious, for which I'm grateful. At least he won't see the rage in those guerrillas' eyes when they kill us.

Champion slows to a lurching trot. I hold tight around Pa's waist and wait for a bullet to knock us off the horse's back.

A deafening volley fills the air. But the gunfire's coming from Low Gap. And the bullets are kicking up dirt in front of those Rebels, not us!

Champion startles, tossing me sideways, and I scramble to hang on. A trumpet blasts, and two dozen cavalrymen gallop toward us from Clinch Mountain. I see from the colors it's a company from the 11th Michigan.

When Champion stops, I lose my grip and fall with a thud by his hind legs. I jump up, but I'm barely in time to catch Pa and lower him to the ground. I kneel beside him. His eyes are shut and his bandage is soaked with blood, but he's still breathing.

The cavalrymen charge past us with whoops and hollers. The guerrillas have swung wide and are racing to distance them. The company's surgeon rides up and dismounts.

Standing on wobbly legs, I salute him. “Thank you, sir!” I croak through cracked lips.

“At ease, Private.” He pulls a rucksack from his saddle and bends to look at Pa.

“Will he be all right?” I ask.

“With good care.”

I hobble over to Champion. His legs are splayed, his sides heave, and his head hangs as he blows air in and out of his nostrils like a bellows. The wound on his hindquarters oozes blood. “Sir, may I use your canteen and antiseptic?” I ask the surgeon. “It's for my horse.”

I expect him to scoff and refuse, but he nods without looking up. “You did a fine job bandaging this sergeant, so I believe you can handle your mount.”

I pour water from the canteen into Pa's cap and give Champion a sip of water. Then I soak my jacket and rub it over his neck and chest to cool him off. With the last of the water, I cleanse the gash. The horse cocks his leg as if it hurts, but I probe gently with my fingers and determine that the bullet only grazed the flesh. I pour a little of the antiseptic over the wound and hand the bottle back to the surgeon. By the time the cavalrymen ride back, Champion's breathing has evened and Pa's sitting up.

The soldiers are grinning mightily. “Scared them varmints right back to Saltville,” a corporal brags. I salute the captain in charge.

“You two from the Fifth?” he asks.

“Yes sir. This is my— I mean, this is Sergeant Alexander of Company B.”

“Captain Waite's company?”

“Yes sir. Captain Waite broke his ankle. He's in the hands of Confederate surgeons. And sir, thank you for coming to our aid.”

“Our pleasure.” The captain scowls. “Sorry to hear about Waite. Hope those Rebel doctors take good care of him. Colonel Ratliff didn't agree with General Burbridge's order to leave,” he adds. “We fought side by side on that hill with you men of the Fifth. No one should have been left behind.”

The other riders murmur in agreement.

“Colonel Ratliff ordered us to stay behind and protect stragglers. We were glad to do what we could.” The captain grins. “Although you were the first being pursued by such a ragtag band. We've been itching all morning for a good skirmish.”

I'm mighty glad someone enjoys fighting. Me, I've had enough for a lifetime.

The captain straightens in his saddle, ready to be on his way. “Sir,” I call, “did you happen to find a Private Black from Company B this morning?”

“Not that I know of.” He shakes his head. “Scant few survivors have come by here, but we're under orders to wait out the day, just in case. I'll send a detail to escort you and Sergeant Alexander to your regiment. Colonel Ratliff's brigade should be camping on the other side of Clinch Mountain tonight. We've an extra mount for your pa. Do you think your horse can make it?”

“I won't leave him behind!” I declare.

“Whoa, son.” He holds up his palm. “I'm not asking you to leave him.”

I lace my fingers through Champion's mane. “He'll make it. I'll lead him the whole way if need be.”

A cavalryman rides up with a horse trailing behind him. It's Hero! “That's my pa's mount,” I tell them.

The surgeon grins as he takes Hero's reins and hands them to me. “Sergeant Alexander's horse helped me lead a wagon of wounded to safety. He's a fine animal.”

It takes three of us to boost Pa into the saddle. But once he's seated on Hero, he attempts to sit tall. “I'm ready,” he says.

It's a long, slow walk over Clinch Mountain. By the time the detail from 11th Michigan leads Pa and me into the 4th Brigade's camp, it's past dark. Several white soldiers rise from their fires to meet us. They help Pa off Hero and take us to where the Fifth have bivouacked. As I walk the horses around the campfires, I notice that the lines of the white and black regiments have blurred. Soldiers of the 11th Michigan, the 12th Ohio, and the 5th Colored Cavalry are seated together, talking of the battle.

When we reach Company B, a grand hurrah rings out. The regiment surgeon and his assistant escort Pa to the hospital tent. A lieutenant sitting on a rock outside the tent limps over to me. His arm is in a sling. “What happened to Captain Waite?” he asks. “His company was in front of ours on that ridge. Seems his men got hit the worst.”

“He's a prisoner,” I tell him. “Broke his ankle. Confederate surgeons took him to a hospital. I've brought his horse.”

The lieutenant jerks his thumb toward a tree on the other side of the hospital tent, where a dozen sentries stand guard around soldiers squatting beside a fire. “We've got Rebel prisoners to exchange. I'll petition Colonel Brisbin on Captain Waite's behalf. Care for his horse until he returns.”

“Yes sir—and thank you, sir.”

“You did well, Private Gabriel,” he says. “All the soldiers of the Fifth did well. I am proud to have been part of this regiment.” The moment he strides off, I realize who he is: Lieutenant Wagoner, the guard who called me a guttersnipe and tried to toss me out of Camp Nelson when I first arrived.

I lead the two horses to the outskirts of camp, where the company's mounts are picketed in a field. I strip off Champion's and Hero's tack and rub them down. Corporal Vaughn brings me two nose bags of corn. As soon as Champion is cool, I strap on one of the bags and let him eat, which he does in great, gulping bites. I gather he'll be just fine.

“Any word of Private Crutcher?” I ask Corporal Vaughn as I strap a nose bag on Hero. The corporal's wire glasses are crooked, and melancholy is etched on his face.

“We buried him by the Holston River. Lieutenant Rhodes said a prayer.”

I nod sadly, remembering those graves we passed. “And Private Black?” I ask hesitantly, afraid to know the answer.

He shakes his head. “I checked all the wagons, hospital tents, and ambulances. He's not with the dead or the wounded.”

“I couldn't find him on Chestnut Ridge, neither,” I say, my voice cracking.

“I've been listing the wounded, dead, and missing,” Corporal Vaughn says, holding up a ledger. “It's a horrible accounting. I'm glad you and your pa made it, Gabriel,” he adds. “And I'm sorry I didn't stay behind to help.”

“You had orders to follow.”

“Yes. Orders.” He sighs and, turning slowly, shuffles off into the night, his shoulders bowed. I wonder how so young a man will bear such a heavy burden.

When Hero and Champion are settled, I search among the other horses, finally finding Sassy tethered alone. The officer who rode her left her saddled and dirty. Her ears prick when she sees me, and then flatten again.
Where have you been?
her eyes seem to ask.

I check her hoof, which has cooled, and feel a pinch of gratitude that she and most of our horses survived. I pull off the saddle and rub her down, too. But before I can finish, exhaustion and sorrow overwhelm me. Resting my head against Sassy's sweat-crusted neck, I break into sobs, grieving over those lost in battle.

When my tears are spent and Sassy is fed, I find Pa in front of the fire by the hospital tent. He's leaning against a tree trunk, his legs stretched toward the warmth. His cap is beside him, the hawk feather bent, and his head is freshly bandaged. Pain and weariness are reflected in his gaze. I sit beside him, pull up my knees, and wrap my arms around my dirty trouser legs.

Private Morton brings us plates of beans and salt pork. Silently, I dip my spoon into the beans. Though I've not eaten for a day and a night, I can barely swallow.

“Corporal Vaughn said that Private Crutcher was buried beside the Holston,” I say as we eat. “I saw him come off the battlefield. I knew he didn't have long to live, but Pa, he did
not
want to be buried in enemy territory.”

“I believe Private Crutcher's soul will rest easy. He would've been glad to know that Union soldiers dug his grave and said a prayer over him.”

“I hope so.” I sigh. “And there's no sign of Private Black.” I tap the pocket inside my jacket. “He entrusted me with a letter to his sons.” My lower lip begins to quiver. “In case . . . in case he . . .”

Pa wraps one arm around my shoulder. “Go ahead and cry, son.” He nods at the soldiers clustered around the fire. They all bear the marks of battle—bandaged legs, arms in slings, bound ribs—and they're staring blindly into the flames with bloodshot eyes. “You won't be the first to shed tears, or the last.”

I lean against his chest, but this time the tears won't fall. “I failed Private Black.”

“You didn't fail anyone,” Pa says. “You looked as long as you dared. We can still hope he isn't among the dead. So from this moment on, when we think of Private Black, we'll picture him striding down the lane toward his home.”

I suck in a breath. “You mean deserting the army? He could be shot for that.”

“Not deserting. He was too honorable for that. No, I mean let's think of him striding down that lane, heading home to those boys he loves so dear.”

Closing my eyes, I picture the scene. Private Black with a face-splitting grin as Joe and Ben fall into his arms.

Pa's right. Seeing my friend that way chases away the notion of him lying on that battlefield.

“Pa, I don't want to fight anymore,” I say quietly, my words for his ears only. “I don't want to lose another friend like Private Black or Private Crutcher ever again. In truth . . .” I hesitate, afraid to tell him of my feelings.

But he squeezes my shoulder, urging me to go on.

“In truth, before we went into battle, I called myself a coward. Now I know it's true. When we get back to Camp Nelson, I'm taking off my soldier's uniform. I'm sorry, Pa, but I've decided I'll muck stalls forever before marching again.”

I'm surprised when Pa laughs instead of scolds. “Why, that ain't being a coward, Gabriel. Look around at these wounded men. Do you think any of them are staring into the fire thinkin' excitedly about their next battle? Not on your life. Like me, their minds are on their wives and homes. Your ma's face is all I see right now. So
I
believe you should call yourself a hero. Who risked his life and stayed behind to rescue Captain Waite and me when our own general turned coward?” He gestures toward the soldiers in the camp. “None of these men here did.”

“They'd already risked their lives on Chestnut Ridge,” I say. “'Sides, they had to follow General Burbridge's orders.”

“Burbridge?” Pa snorts. “The men told me that when our brave general knew we were losing, he ran to save his own skin. I've come to believe your ma's right, Gabriel. This war ain't about victory or defeat or freedom for coloreds. It's about death. The Rebels may believe they won, but as I charged up Chestnut Ridge, I shot soldiers clad in gray and watched them fall alongside our own. I'd say that tonight there are just as many Confederates as Union grieving for their dead and wounded.”

I frown, my head muddled about heroes and cowards, victories and defeats. Too much has happened since we marched from Camp Nelson. The only thing I do know for sure is that, as far as I can figure, the battle at Saltville did nothing to bring slaves closer to Jubilee.

On the other side of the fire, a lone soldier plays a tune on his harmonica, and I recognize “Amazing Grace.” He plays softly as one soldier starts to sing, then a few others chime in.

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like me . . .

Soon all the soldiers—colored and white—join in. Their voices fill the meadow and the night sky, and chills travel up my spine as the words swirl around me.

I once was lost but now am found,

Was blind, but now I see.

Just then, in the middle of all the singing, I realize something else. I sit up. “Pa, remember when you told me that the horses would bring me—bring
us
—to freedom?”

Pa looks at me curiously. The flames from the burning logs heats my face like a fever as I try to explain. “Well, I finally realized you're right. Mister Giles wrote in his letter that we could come back to Woodville anytime. When you and the Fifth don't need me anymore, I'm going back there with Ma and the new baby. I've been missin' Short Bit, Jase, and Tandy—even Old Uncle—like all heck! And with me riding and Jackson training, Mister Giles's Thoroughbreds will be unbeatable on the racetrack. I've already got two hundred dollars in the bank, and with a few more wins, I might even be able to earn enough to buy Aristo.”