Gabriel's Horses by Alison Hart

captain of the stable, not some Yankee.”
    â€œMight be that Colonel Sedgwick will make you a captain—right, Pa?” I ask. He doesn’t answer, and as we leave the barn, his face gets a tight look. My gut gets tight, too, ’cause it’s time to say goodbye.
    We hitch the mules, and then Pa holds me close. “Say hi to your ma for me,” he whispers, his voice husky. “Watch over her and that new babe she’s carrying. And Gabriel, keep riding and caring for the horses.”
    I nod, my own throat too clogged to reply.
    Moments later, Jackson whistles and slaps at the mules, and the wagon rattles down the hill toward the pike. I wave to Pa until he’s a blue speck. My heart aches, but I don’t want to cry in front of Jackson.
    Our wagon bed is filled with packages, notes, and coins to give to the families outside the camp. When we pass a sutler’s wagon, Jackson halts the mules. Using his own money, he buys overpriced tins of potted meat, cans of Borden’s condensed milk, and a dozen molasses cookies. Then we drive out Camp Nelson’s gates, passing the guards along the picket line. Jackson salutes them, but they stare straight ahead, their backs as straight as fence posts.
    As the wagon heads from camp, Jackson whistles. “Lookee there, Gabriel.”
    A hundred or so black men are walking toward us down the road. They’re wearing tattered clothes and carrying bundles.
    â€œThey must be recruits,” I tell him. “Pa says more are coming into camp every day.”
    Jackson halts the wagon, and the men pass us by. They nod tiredly, and we wish them luck.
    Suddenly a carriage pulled by a team of horses barrels down the road. Careening wildly, it flies around our wagon and the black men before rattling to a stop across the road, forming a barricade into Camp Nelson. Instantly the black men bunch together, and the guards run from their posts.
    Jackson and I watch, wondering what will happen next.
    The driver jumps from his seat, opens the carriage door, and helps out an elderly white woman dressed all fancy. “Stop those colored men!” she screeches. Her gloved finger points accusingly at the black men huddled in the road before her.
    â€œStop them this instant!” she repeats. One hand holding a parasol, the other lifting her hooped skirt, she hurries toward the guards. “I am Missus Francine Templar from Boyle County, and those two men wearing straw hats are my able-bodied slaves. They have run away from my farm and I want them returned!”
    â€œUh, missus, uh . . . we don’t have the . . .” Flustered, the guards stammer uncertainly until a small squad of mounted soldiers trots from the camp.
    â€œGood day, ma’am.” One of the horsemen nods to the woman. “I am Lieutenant Kline. I have orders from the post commandant to escort these recruits into Camp Nelson.”
    â€œThat’s fine, but I demand that you leave me my slaves. Those two, Lou and Jake. I need them to bring in the harvest and plant winter wheat.” She jabs her finger in their direction. “Lou, Jake! I
order
you into this carriage!”
    â€œMa’am. Please,
quiet
,” the lieutenant commands. Turning in the saddle, he addresses the band of recruits. “Your master or mistress’s consent is not necessary for your enlistment. No one has authority to order you back to the farm. Is there a man here who desires to remain a slave?”
    Black heads bob and shake, and murmuring rises from the group. “No!” they finally reply in one strong voice, weary no longer.
    Furious, Missus Templar stamps one foot. The mounted soldiers rein their horses around the slaves. With the guards leading the way, the recruits march past the carriage and the enraged Missus Templar and through the gates of Camp Nelson.
    â€œLook at that, Jackson.” I nudge him. “We just saw freedom. And Pa’s right: It
is
a