Gabriel's Journey Read Free

him
I’ll be back someday,
he’s out the supply room door.
    Now it’s my turn to heave a sigh. I’ve already bid farewell to Jase, Short Bit, Tandy, and the other stable workers. And I’ve said goodbye to Cook Nancy, who packed me a basket of vittles, and to Mister Giles, who helped me get permission to enter Camp Nelson. But saying goodbye to all of them together ain’t nearly so hard as saying goodbye to Annabelle.
    I find her in the parlor of the Main House. She’s sashaying around the room, whooshing a duster in the air. She starts chattering about yesterday’s lessons with Jase and Short Bit. “Short Bit can recite the alphabet and Jase can write his name. I know you’re learning your numbers on account of all the purse money you’re winning, but you need to join our lessons, Gabriel. If you don’t, you’ll be the only stable boy who can’t read.”
    â€œI’d like to learn to read, Annabelle,” I say, my tone wooden.
    â€œAnd do you know that Cook Nancy’s written a letter to your ma already?” Annabelle asks. I know by the way she’s attacking the chair rungs with those feathers that she don’t expect an answer. “And Mister Giles has entrusted me with his correspondence. He’s appointed me his secretary.”
    â€œThat’s a powerful title.”
    â€œI do believe you’re right, Gabriel,” she agrees. “Secretary sounds so much grander than slave.” She spits out
slave
like it’s a cuss word, then patters on. “Mister Giles says this war will soon be over and every slave will be free. Then we’ll all be paid wages, like you and Jackson. He says that those who can read and write will be highly valued.”
    â€œMaybe I can join Ma for reading and writing lessons at Camp Nelson. Reverend Fee has a school there.”
    â€œPish posh.” Annabelle’s back is to me as she swipes the feathers along a picture frame. “Why, I can teach better than some wattle-necked old . . .” Her voice trails off. Tilting her head, she looks at me over her shoulder. A frown creases her brow. “What did you say?”
    I gulp. Annabelle’s piercing eyes have a way of tying my tongue. “I-I said I’ll soon be leaving for Camp Nelson.”
    â€œFor a visit?”
    I shake my head.
    â€œFor
ever?”
The feather duster drops from Annabelle’s fingers and the handle clatters on the wooden floor. Her lower lip trembles.
    Holding my breath, I nod. Then I clench my hands behind me, girding myself for her sharp cry and flood of tears. Instead she ducks her head and rushes from the room, soundless except for the rustling of her skirts.
    I gaze after her as she flees like an apparition up the winding stairs.
    â€œAnnabelle!” I call, but her name sticks in my throat.
    You are a treed possum,
I think, cursing myself. Why is it so hard to tell her that I’ll miss her? Folks say I have a magic touch with horses, but those charms sure fail me with Annabelle.
    Hurrying from the parlor into the entrance hall, I look up the stairs. Silence floats from the second floor. I strain my ears, and when I don’t hear the scuffle of returning shoes, sorrow fills me. As soon as I get to Camp Nelson, I’ll learn my letters so I can pen Annabelle a proper goodbye.
    Bong . . . bong . . .
The clock in the parlor strikes seven times. It’s time to go. I can’t tarry any longer.
    My eyes cut to the carved panels on the front door. Slaves are forbidden to use the main entrance unless they’re serving the master, but I’m a slave no more. This may be the last time I leave this house.
    I grasp the shiny brass knob, heave open the door, and walk boldly onto the veranda.
    Morning sun streams from the east. At the bottom of the stairs, Old Uncle kneels in the rose garden. He’s picking beetles off the leaves and pinching them between his finger and