Gabriel's Journey (5 page)

I glance into the second stall. This horse ain't so sociable. Its head is tucked in the farthest corner. Talking softly, I unlatch the door. My bare toes squish in the wet straw. I stroke his neck and down his chest. The horse looks as if he was once handsome and muscular. Now my fingertips ripple across every rib. His near hind leg is wrapped with gauze, and I smell the festering wound.

The war's tough on soldiers,
Pa had told me,
but it's hell on horses.

The wound needs washing and fresh wrap. The horse needs sweet grass and grooming. And the stalls need a good mucking.

A sense of purpose fills me.

Now I know why I've been drawn to Camp Nelson. Ma and Pa need me. But so do the horses.

The tapping of drums and the trumpeting of bugles snap my attention away from the horse. I better hurry, or I'll miss Pa.

Holding my bundle under one arm, I latch the door and run from the barn. Colored soldiers are walking down the lane toward me, heading for the mess hall. As I trot past, one of them teases, “Where you goin,' boy? A Rebel after you with a whip?”

“Nah, just my ma,” I josh as I scan the squad for Pa, but he ain't with this bunch. Cutting off on the lane to the right, I take a shortcut to the colored barracks, down a path behind the Soldiers Home. Next to it, farther down, is the hospital.

Across the pike, a company of soldiers is drilling in the field beside the colored barracks. The men move in a wave of blue as a lone voice rings out, “Left . . . left. Left, right, left.” On the pike, two mounted soldiers patrol the road, stopping stragglers and checking passes. My steps falter. All I have is the telegraph from Captain Waite.

I turn tail, but not before one of the mounted guards sees me. “Halt!” he hollers, and I hear the dance of hooves.

I race for the hospital. It's a distance, but if I reach it, I can lose myself among its many wards and outbuildings. I round the back corner of the first ward and hunker behind a stack of firewood. The soldier canters his horse right by my hiding spot, but I reckon he'll be back soon for a closer look.

Behind the hospital there's a small building half-hidden in a stand of trees. I peer around the woodpile. To my left, patients in wheelchairs sit on a terrace, basking in the early morning sun. Some have bandaged limbs; others have no limbs at all. I don't see any mounted guards.

I take off for the trees, hunched low so as not to attract attention. My lungs are about to burst when I reach the outbuilding. The door's unlocked, so I rush inside. It's cool and dark, with only one small-paned window lighting the room. I shut the door and crouch behind a table, my heart pounding like the reveille drums.

Outside I hear the guard's horse trot past.

I hold my breath, listening for approaching footsteps. If I don't find Pa soon, I'll have to look for Captain Waite. Mister Giles told me that if I wish to stay at Camp Nelson, the captain would have to secure permission from the colonel of the regiment. With papers from him, I won't have to hide from every eagle-eyed sentry.

I huddle there in the shadows, waiting until I'm sure the guards have given up their search. Slowly I rise from behind the table, my eyes on that window. Nothing stirs beyond the glass panes, and I exhale with relief. As I sling my bundle over my shoulder again, my hand brushes something bristly. I drop my gaze to the top of the table, and goose bumps rise on my flesh.

A man gazes up at me, his bearded face waxy with death. Gasping, I scuttle backwards and bang into the edge of another table. I whirl. Another man lies on top, his unblinking sockets raised toward heaven. His cheeks are sunken, his arms skeletal.

Shuddering, I force myself to look around the room. Table after table holds a corpse. More are piled in a corner, like a steeple of flesh.

A scream clogs my throat.

This place is filled with the dead!

S
lapping my hand over my mouth, I lunge for the door, throw it open, and tear out of the building. I flee around the other side of the hospital and race blindly across the pike toward the colored barracks, all worries about that mounted guard scared straight from my mind. I glance over my shoulder, picturing dead soldiers chasing me—dry flesh flapping, brittle bones rattling—and the scream finally spews unbidden between my fingers: “Aieeeee!”

Whack!
I slam into someone so hard that I bounce into the air and land on the ground. A white soldier stares down at me. He's young, with only a trace of mustache over his lip.

“P-pardon sir . . . I mean, C-Captain,” I stammer. “Pardon for knocking into you, but . . . but . . .
g-ghosts!”
I wave wildly in the direction of the hospital.

Laughter busts out all around me, and I stop stuttering long enough to realize I'm completely encircled by colored soldiers.

One of the soldiers addresses the young officer. “Cap'n Waite, sir, I reckon this boy must've stumbled into one of the dead houses.”

Two strong hands lift me from behind. “Stand up, Gabriel.”

I spin around. “Pa?”

He's not laughing with the others. “Men, this young man who claims to be seeing ghosts is my son, Gabriel Alexander. Son, you remember Captain Waite. And these are the soldiers of Company B.”

I lower my head, ashamed at my cowardliness.

“Don't fret, Gabriel,” the captain says. “There's not a man among us who dares enter a dead house, even on a bet.”

A chorus of “Amens” rings through the air.

Captain Waite suddenly turns serious. “All right, men, it's time to get a move on!” he shouts. “Attention!” The soldiers hastily assemble into even lines, all eyes to the front. Pa stands to the left, his three yellow sergeant's stripes on his sleeve. The trumpeter sounds several notes and the captain says, “Dismissed.”

Most of the soldiers head off. A few stop to introduce themselves: Private Joseph Black, Private Crutcher, Private Morton, and Corporal Vaughn, who has taken over Pa's position in the squad. I shake their hands numbly.

“Welcome to Company B, Gabriel,” Private Black says. “You gave us a good laugh!” Contrary to his name, Private Black is light skinned. “I'm especially pleased to meet you. My own sons are 'bout your size, and I surely miss them,” he adds solemnly.

Corporal Vaughn shakes my hand last. He's fresh faced, not much older than me. His palm is uncalloused, and he wears glasses. Might be he's a scholar. “Your pa has told us much about you.”

When all the soldiers have left, I finally look at Pa. His expression is stony. “What are you doing—?”

“I think I can explain,” Captain Waite breaks in. “Mister Giles telegraphed me about Gabriel's decision to come to Camp Nelson. He knew the boy would need an entry into camp, and thought I could supply it. He also wrote glowingly of Gabriel's skill with horses, something sorely needed in Company B.”

“Thank you, sir,” Pa says. I think I detect a hint of pride in his voice, but there's a dark frown on his face. “Permission to be excused?” When the captain nods, Pa puts his hand on my shoulder and leads me a few paces away from Captain Waite. “You left Woodville Farm and jockeying?” His tone is harsh.

“Yes sir. It was time to move on.”

His spine goes rigid. “Your mama and I specifically ordered you to stay at the farm.”

“But, Pa, I wanted to be here with you and Ma. I want to help the Yankees fight for freedom.”

“At Camp Nelson, we obey orders. We don't run away without permission.”

“I
can
obey soldiers' orders. But, Pa,” I protest, “I ain't a slave no more. I made up my own mind. And I didn't run away. Mister Giles gave me permission.”

“Does your ma know you're here?”

“Yes sir. Annabelle and me—”

“Annabelle! You brought her, too?” Pa jerks his forage cap off his head and slaps it against his leg. I've never seen him so riled up.

“I thought you'd be pleased I was here, sir. Captain Waite believes I'll be useful.”

Pa doesn't dare throw a murderous glance at Captain Waite, so he aims it at me. “Then I'll leave it to Captain Waite to decide what to do with you,” he retorts, and he strides off in the direction of the mess tent.

I watch him go, wondering if I made a powerful mistake by coming to Camp Nelson.

“Sergeant Alexander seems peeved with you,” Captain Waite says.

“That's for certain.” I pick up my bundle and dust it off. “And I wouldn't blame you, Captain Waite, if you sent me packin' after slammin' into you like that. I wouldn't want a coward like me in Company B.”

“Gabriel, you're too young to enlist in the company, but that doesn't mean you can't be useful. We have many civilians working and living at Camp Nelson.”

I don't know what a civilian is, but his words sound encouraging.

“Your pa will settle down,” Captain Waite says with a smile. “Especially when I assure him that the most dangerous job I'll assign you is picking out horses' hooves.”

I venture a smile back. “You mean I can stay?”

“Well, Gabriel, Company B has a stable full of horses, all of them rejected by the white companies. Each soldier is assigned one horse to care for, and there are extra mounts in case of problems.” He shakes his head. “And Lord knows we have problems. The colored cavalry, which barely has a name that's official, has been given the worst mounts in camp. They need grooming, doctoring, and training. Many of these nags are unbroken; some spent their lives behind plows. And others, like my own mount Champion, are like riding greased thunderbolts. They must have bucked off enough white soldiers to get themselves sent along to us.”

I grin. “Sounds like Mister Giles's colt, Aristo.”

“You'll need a pass from Colonel Brisbin. Right now, he's in charge of organizing the regiment, which will most likely be called the Fifth. The colonel's a well-known abolitionist who believes colored soldiers will fight as hard and valiantly as white. ” He points to the field of tents on the hill. “First I'll show you where to stow your gear. You can bunk with the drummer boys.”

“Thank you, sir, but a stall will do me fine.”

The approaching
clip-clop
of horses' hooves draws my attention to the road. The mounted guard who chased me into the dead house is trotting toward us, his expression more peeved than Pa's.

Stopping his horse, which is still lathered from the chase, he salutes Captain Waite. “Sir, permission to throw this guttersnipe from camp.”

“Permission denied, Lieutenant Wagoner. This boy is Company B's new stable hand.”

The lieutenant's nostrils flare, as if he detects a bad smell. “Sir, we don't need any more coloreds in camp. There are already too many refugees and Negro soldiers. The orders from headquarters—”

“Dash headquarters,” Captain Waite says. “I'll take the matter up with Colonel Brisbin.”

“Yes, Captain.” Lieutenant Wagoner scowls at me and then at the captain before cantering off. The lieutenant is years older than Captain Waite. I wonder how he and the other soldiers feel about taking orders from an officer so young.

“The lieutenant's from Tennessee,” Captain Waite mutters, as if that explains all. I'd like to tell him I don't need no explanation. Being in the North for a while already taught me that hatred knows no borders.

Still, I'd hoped Union soldiers would be different. Ain't they fighting to free the slaves? Why then are so many of them dead set against having coloreds in camp? Then I remind myself that Captain Waite has been mighty helpful to me and my pa, and Colonel Brisbin is an abolitionist, which I gather means he cottons to black folks. At least there's a few Yankees who ain't like the lieutenant.

That thought cheers me as I follow Captain Waite. I'm in sore need of some cheering up after my less-than-cordial reunion with Pa. He'll come around, I know. I just have to convince him that I belong here with Company B.

The next morning finds me nestled in a bed of sweet-smelling straw in an empty horse stall. I'm half-asleep, my blanket over my head, when something pokes me in the side. Flinging off the blanket, I leap to my feet, fists clenched, ready to smite skeletons and corpses. Only it's just Pa, leaning on a pitchfork.

“Think you're still in Saratoga fighting those bullies?” he asks.

I shake my head sheepishly. “No sir.”

“You slept through reveille and the call to breakfast.” He tosses the pitchfork and I catch it by the handle. “You'll have to clean stalls on an empty stomach.”

“But Pa—”

“I ain't Pa no more.” He gives me a stern look. “I'm Sergeant Alexander, your superior, and you will obey orders without question. Do you understand?”

I nod.

“Company B has about sixty men, divided into squads. I'm sergeant of the 1st Squad. We've sixteen men. That's sixteen horses and sixteen stalls. You'll muck, lime, and bed them all by tonight.”

“By
tonight?”

“Without question!” he barks.

I startle. At Woodville Farm, Pa and me worked side by side every day. Never once did I hear him yell.

“Stalls will be empty this morning because we're having mounted drill. Do the mucking then. Wheelbarrow's at the end of the stable by the manure wagon. Tonight, you'll help Private Black feed the horses. He'll show you the rations. Tomorrow you'll help Private Crutcher. Make sure you rise before the sun. Any questions?”

I throw back my shoulders. “No
sir!”

He leaves without another word.

As soon as the stall door shuts behind him, my shoulders droop. I kick my blanket into the corner. I know why Pa's acting like a drill sergeant. He's hoping I'll scurry back to Woodville Farm like a whipped dog.

Only that ain't going to work. My pass from Colonel Brisbin is in my pocket and I'm determined to be a soldier.

Thrusting the pitchfork like a sword, I attack the wall. “Take that, you Rebel vermin!”

“Whoa, boy.” Private Black rests his arms on the top of the stall door. “Save that for the real graycoats.”

I perk up. “We fightin' them soon?”

He laughs heartily. “Yes sir. Right after we sweep the aisles, dig the wells, and clean the privies. Oh, and learn us how to fire rifles.”

“You ain't fired a rifle yet?”

“You see any rifles when we were drilling yesterday?”

I shake my head.

“Captain Waite promises us broomsticks for tomorrow's practice.” Again, the private breaks into laughter, and I can't help but join him. “I've got a present for you.” His eyes twinkle as he pulls something from his back pocket. It's a Yankee kepi. He tosses it on my head. “Belonged to the drummer boy.”

“Thank you!” I settle the cap on my head, avoiding the question of what happened to the drummer boy.

“Now you look a real soldier.”

I hear the notes of a bugle.

“That means ‘to horse',” Private Black explains. “A good cavalryman has to learn the commands signaled by the trumpeter. Come on.” He gestures for me to follow. “I'll show you 'round.”

Unlatching the stall door, I jog after him. The last two soldiers are leading their mounts from the stable.

“Don't worry 'bout your pa,” Private Black says as we walk down the aisle. “He's a good sergeant. The men in our squad respect him. He should be captain of Company B, but ain't no colored officers allowed. Cap'n Waite means well, but I believe that boy's just left his mama. Luckily your pa and Reverend Fee keep up our spirits. The reverend not only preaches, he works hard to get the colored soldiers supplies and respect.”

I nod. “I've heard of the reverend.”

“Your pa's good with the men
and
the horses,” Private Black goes on. “And we do need someone who knows horses. Most of these men who used to be slaves ain't even been on a mule before.”

I slip in a brag. “Pa trained racehorses.”

Private Black chuckles. “No breds for the colored soldiers. Me, I've been assigned a slab-headed roan I named Hambone 'cause he's so pigheaded.” He stops in front of the last stall. It has a barred top door, like a jail cell. “This here's Champion, Cap'n Waite's mount. I call him Devil.”

I peer through the bars. Champion is a sixteen-hand stallion, as glossy and black as a crow except for a brilliant white star. He's a Thoroughbred, no doubt confiscated from a Rebel owner's stable. When he sees me watching him, he pins his ears and lunges, raking his teeth against the iron bars.

“That horse is rank. Cap'n Waite don't ride him enough.” Private Black lowers his voice. “I believe the captain's a mite scared of him. Not that I blame him. Your pa appointed me the horse's groom 'cause of my experience. Devil here and me get along fine as long as I carry an ax handle and don't turn my back on him.”

“You worked with horses before?”

“Yep. I'm a teamster. The Yankees impressed me into labor when Camp Nelson was first built, and I drove many a wagon to Tennessee. I got tired of looking at the backside of a horse, so I enlisted as soon as President Lincoln made it law.”

Hooking my fingers through the bars, I study Champion. I can read a horse like Annabelle reads a book. There's a glint of fear in Champion's eyes that tells me his story: he's been whipped too many times. Now his gnashing teeth and flat ears say, “Stay away. I don't want to be hurt no more.”

The horse don't need an ax handle. What he needs is a soft touch.

“I'd like to be Champion's groom,” I say.

Private Black shrugs. “Far as I'm concerned, he's all yours. I'd rather be on the field drilling with my squad than tussling with that crazy animal. Only it ain't up to me.”