Gabriel's Horses by Alison Hart Page A

wonderful thing to behold.”
    Buoyed by the sight, Jackson and me continue on our journey, stopping to hand out the goods to the families living roadside. Even though I’m sad about leaving Pa, my spirits stay high for several miles afterward. Just like on the trip to Lexington, I’ve seen and learned so many new things. Must be what Ma calls “growing up.”
    â€œAs soon as I can, I’m enlisting,” I tell Jackson. “Then I’ll be free, too.”
    He grunts. “Boy, didn’t you learn nothin’ at Camp Nelson? A black soldier ain’t free.”
    â€œThat ain’t true,” I protest.
    â€œThen why is your pa cleaning stalls for white soldiers’ horses?”
    â€œAll soldiers have duties,” I say, repeating Pa’s words. “Pa says Colonel Sedgwick is organizing colored troops. I bet next time we see Pa, he’ll be wearing a uniform with stripes on his shoulder. Already, he fought against Morgan. You watch, in no time he’ll be marching to Tennessee to fight Rebels.”
    Jackson shakes his head. “That’s foolish thinking, Gabriel, but believe what you want.”
    Angry at Jackson for doubting Pa, I retort, “You’re just against being a soldier ’cause you’re too cowardly to enlist.”
    Jackson tips his head sideways and studies me. I bite my lip, sorry for my words. Jackson ain’t a coward. But I can’t have him speaking against Pa.
    â€œWay I see it, most Yankees don’t care if black folks are free. That ain’t why they fighting this war,” Jackson says solemnly, like he’s thought on it awhile. “But you’re right, I
am
a coward. I don’t want to kill
or
die for freedom. That’s why I’m leaving for Saratoga tomorrow—to find freedom my own way.”
    Crossing my arms against my chest, I turn away. I don’t want Jackson to see the tears I suddenly can’t hold back.
    â€œI’m sorry I’m leaving you, Gabriel,” Jackson adds with a sigh. “And I’m sorry your pa left. But sometimes, ‘sorry’ ain’t enough to stop a man from what he needs to do.”

Chapter Eleven
    T he next day Jackson is to catch the train to Saratoga, New York. Renny will drive him in the carriage to the Midway depot. Before they head off, I hide in the weeds by the river where no one will find me.
    Leaving Pa was hard, but at least he’s in Kentucky so I reckon I’ll visit him again soon. But Jackson? I ain’t
never
going to see my friend again. Now I know how Pa felt when he snuck off to enlist. Like him, I just ain’t brave enough to say goodbye.
    When the sun gets hot and the mosquitoes pesky, and I reckon Jackson and Renny are long gone, I climb from my hiding place along the riverbed. In the distance, I spot one of Master Giles’s armed guards sitting under a tree by the bridge across the river. Since the scare with One Arm, someone patrols the pike around the clock. This sentry is sleeping, his rifle across his lap, his hat tucked over his face to keep off the flies.
    I walk alongside a field of corn, colorful with field slaves plucking corn worms from the leaves. Their fingers are swollen from the stings. Their bare arms are scratched from the leaves. The sun beats on their heads, and sweat streams down their necks.
    Since the war started, Master’s lost many slaves. Some died from the fever. Some ran north. Some ran to enlist. Some just ran.
    Master’s always spouting off against slavery, yet he still owns slaves. He has so many, I don’t know a lot of their names. As I walk past the pickers, they stare at me, probably wondering why a strong boy like me ain’t working. If they were to ask, I’d tell them I haven’t worked since I got home from Camp Nelson. I’d say that I don’t care if I’m caught and whipped. Newcastle’s going to whip me no matter.
    Mister Yancy, the colored