Gabriel's Horses by Alison Hart Page B

driver, sits in the shade of a tree, fanning himself with a wide leaf. There’s a bucket of water and a dipper beside him.
    â€œMornin’, Gabriel. Drink?” he asks.
    â€œNo sir, but I ’spect those workers are thirsty.” I nod in the direction of the corn.
    â€œI ’spect you’re right,” he replies, only he doesn’t move to offer them any.
    I continue on, not sure where I’m going. I do know where I’m
not
going. I’m not going near Newcastle or the stable even though I’m lousy with missing the horses. I know, like Pa said, that I need to care for them, but my fear of Newcastle keeps me away.
    Sweet singing floats from the orchard and stops my journey. I search the grove, spotting Annabelle up in a peach tree. Her bare toes cling to a lower branch while she reaches over her head for early peaches. Her straw hat’s hanging from a leafy twig; a basket is propped in the crotch of three branches.
    I can’t resist. I tiptoe through the grass. When I’m right beside her, I yell, “Boo!”
    â€œAiiieee!” Annabelle screams. She sways and starts to fall.
    Grabbing her around the knees, I hold tight until she regains her balance. Her skirt bunches up, and when I let go, she reaches down and slaps me soundly.
    â€œGabriel Alexander, how dare you peek up my dress!” she shrieks.
    â€œI wasn’t peeking up your stupid dress! I was trying to keep you from busting open your pig head. Next time I’ll let you fall.”
    â€œNext time don’t sneak up on me!” For a second, she glowers down at me, and then her expression softens. She pats at her skirt, making sure it ain’t hitched up. “Well, then, sorry I slapped you. I thought you weren’t being a gentleman.”
    â€œOh, like
you
such a lady.” I rub my cheek.
    â€œIt was just a tiny slap. Couldn’t have hurt
that
much.”
    â€œIt like to’ve knocked my ear off,” I grumble, and we both start giggling.
    Annabelle passes me the basket and climbs from the tree so slowly and daintily, I have time to select a ripe peach from her basket. I take a big bite, letting the juice run down my chin.
    â€œYou could have asked permission,” she says, snatching the basket from my hand. “These peaches aren’t for slave boys. They’re for making peach pies for Master and Mistress.”
    I snort and swallow the sweet flesh of the fruit. “Why don’t you tell them to pick their own peaches?”
    Her mouth falls open.
    â€œThen tell them to make their own pies,” I add. “I bet Mistress don’t even know how to hold a rolling pin.”
    â€œGabriel Alexander, what sassy remarks. What’s gotten into you?”
    â€œNothin’.” I toss my pit into the weeds. I wipe the juice off my chin with the back of my hand.
    â€œDid your trip to Camp Nelson make you too big­headed to live here anymore?” Annabelle sets down the basket and pulls her hat from the branch.
    â€œNo. But it did teach me something about freedom.” I pick up the basket. “Best let me carry that for you.”
    Again she stares at me. “You might be bigheaded, but I do believe you learned some manners on your trip.”
    â€œNaw. But my trip did show me something of the world. There’s a whole lot of life beyond Woodville.”
    She tips her head forward and puts on her hat. “Like what?” she asks.
    As we walk through the orchard, I tell her about Camp Nelson, the slaves marching to enlist, and the women outside the camp who’ve run away to be near their husbands. “Pa says the slaves are enlisting to find freedom.”
    â€œSounds to me like the men who enlisted left their women and children to starve,” Annabelle says.
    â€œYou sound like Jackson,” I tell her. “He scoffs, saying that black men who enlist work just as hard as slaves. ‘Freedom’s in Saratoga,’