Gabriel's Journey by Alison Hart Page A

touch the ledge. I dangle and twist in the cold rain. A rush fills me and I’m light as a bird in the air, but then my knuckles scrape against rough rock. My cheek smacks against a crag, and the stab of pain reminds me that if the knots don’t hold, I won’t fly like a bird.
    The glow of the torch greets me first. Then I hear encouraging voices and feel strong hands under my arms. They drag me onto an empty bit of trail in front of Sassy’s legs. My cheek and chest are bruised, and the skin of my palms and fingers is rubbed raw. For a moment, I curl in a ball and press my body joyously to the level ground.
    Pa kneels beside me, looking mighty worried. Water drips from the brim of his forage cap.
    â€œIs Private Murphy going to be all right?” I ask.
    Looking relieved, Pa helps me to a sitting position. “The surgeon will have to set his arm,” he says.
    I lean my back against the cliff. Pa pulls my kepi from under his jacket and places it back on my head. “You did well, Private Gabriel.”
    â€œThank you, sir.” Sassy dips her head and blows at my cap, as if inspecting me for injuries.
    â€œYour horse stood fast,” Pa says. “She knew what was expected of her.”
    Grinning weakly, I cup Sassy’s gray muzzle. She stamps her hoof impatiently, narrowly missing my leg.
Get up and get on,
she seems to be saying,
so we can ride
out of these godforsaken mountains.
    I couldn’t agree with her more.
    *  *  *
    The next morning we bivouac beyond a town named Grundy.
    Last night’s march cost General Burbridge eight men and seven horses. They were the unlucky ones who tumbled off the mountain and could
not
be rescued. Many horses have pulled up lame from the rocky trail, and a number of soldiers are in the hospital tent with fever from the chilling rain, or broken limbs from falls.
    They’ll be left behind, as will Private Murphy.
    It takes a while to get a fire burning with damp wood, but when it flames up, Pa has our squad circle around it. We are wet and weary, but we bow our heads in prayer, thankful that we didn’t lose one of our own.
    Braving the cold drizzle, Private Black, Pa, and I use our ponchos to pitch a rude tent. While Private Black fixes a meal of salt pork and corn dodgers, I check on Hambone, Sassy, Hero, and Champion.
    The four horses are tethered on a picket line between two trees. We’ve fed them their rations of corn, but we had to leave their hay on the other side of the mountain. I know they’re still hungry, so I lead them two at a time into a small meadow in the midst of the woods.
    While Sassy and Champion tear hungrily at the grass, I rub each down with a rag, checking for saddle sores and chafed skin. Then I pick their feet, looking for signs of hoof rot and stone bruises. Many of the cavalrymen have eaten and fallen asleep in their makeshift shelters, their horses half-forgotten in their exhaustion. But I can’t rest until I’ve looked out for the animals. I’ll always remember Pa’s words after I rode my first race:
Your horse ran his heart out for you. Least you can do is see to its care.
    As I rub Sassy, I admire Champion’s strong flanks and clean lines, and my mind drifts to Woodville Farm. If Champion was one of Mister Giles’s Thoroughbreds, he’d have sweet hay, clean straw, lush pastures, and a boy to brush him morning and night. For that, all he’d have to do was run races so rich men could bet on him. Pa said that we’ve marched over twenty-eight miles since leaving Pikesville. Our horses carried the greatest burden, yet they received no praise and scant food. I wonder how they’ll they fare in a battle against the Confederates.
    Captain Waite comes by, bulky and damp in his poncho. “I’ve heard many stories about last night’s bravery, Gabriel Alexander.”
    I salute him smartly, but I’m too worn out to boast. “It was my duty, sir.