Gabriel's Journey Read Free Page A

thumb. He glances up. I expect a surprised look when he sees a black boy standing on the portico, but his brown, wrinkled face is a mask.
    â€œI hear you’s leavin’,” Old Uncle says, his attention back on the beetles, which have chewed lacey holes in the leaves.
    I thump down the steps. “Yes sir. I came to say goodbye.”
    â€œFollowin’ your ma and pa to Camp Nelson?”
    â€œYes sir.”
    He grunts, as if satisfied. “A family should be together.”
    I hear a crunch as he snaps another beetle. “Take care, Old Uncle.”
    â€œAnd you, Gabriel Alexander.”
    I jog down the walkway and underneath the arched trellis. I need to retrieve my packed belongings from the barn—and say goodbye to the horses.
    My innards clench. I’ve put it off as long as I can.
    I drag my feet the whole way to the training barn, which is as silent as the Main House. All the workers are at the carriage barn, meeting to discuss contracts and wages. Seems Mister Giles forgot to mention Jackson’s most important demand—that grooms and stable hands at Woodville Farm be treated as free men.
    Since the flies are biting, the colts and fillies have been brought in for the day. I make my way slowly down the aisle, stopping at each stall. Savannah, Captain, Daphne, Arrow, Blind Patterson, Tenpenny, Sympathy, and at the end of the row, Aristo. Heads dip as they munch sweet hay. I breathe their scent one last time, admiring the sheen of their coats, the ripple of their muscles, the light in their eyes. I don’t want to forget them—ever.
    Leaning over Aristo’s door, I glide my fingers down his silky neck. He nuzzles my cheek and chews close to my ear.
    â€œâ€™Risto,” I whisper. “You are the finest colt in the States, and I’m honored to have been your jockey.”
    As long as I can remember, these have been
my
horses. How can I tell them goodbye?
    I can’t.
    Tears threaten, reminding me I ain’t a man yet. I dash down the aisle to the supply room, snatch up my basket and my blanket-wrapped bundle, and bolt from the barn.
    My bare feet pound the lane as I race past the Main House, the basket thumping my leg. I can’t hold back the tears and they roll down my cheeks, plopping from my chin like raindrops. I run past the armed guard at the end of the lane. Then, turning east on the Frankfort Pike, I fly across the bridge. I run until a stitch splits my ribs, and I finally double over, gasping. When I catch my breath and steal a glance over my shoulder, Woodville Farm is long behind me.
    *  *  *
    The sun is high overhead so I know I’ve been walking a good four hours. I’m wrapped in misery and loneliness, and my stomach grumbles. Cook Nancy’s vittles disappeared by the third mile, and the basket’s as empty as my insides—and my heart.
    I’ve left the only place I’ve ever called home, and the only folks I’ve ever called friends.
    A stick snaps in the brush, and I jump like a startled rabbit. Part of me expects to see Keats and Butler, those Rebel no-goods who stole Captain Conrad and knocked me senseless. Another part of me worries that One Arm Dan Parmer and his band might be back in Kentucky.
    Even though I’ve traveled to Camp Nelson before, I’ve always had company. This time I’m one skinny, scared boy on my own.
    The rattle of wheels makes me whirl in my tracks. A pony’s muzzle, followed by a pair of fuzzy ears, pokes through a cloud of dust kicked up by a peddler’s wagon. I spring to the roadside, clutching my bundle. The pony has a hitch in its walk, so it moseys by me, and I’m in no danger of being crushed by its hooves.
    A gnarled white man sits on the wagon seat. Behind him, keys dangle and sway from rows of hooks. The man peers at me with one eye; the other is an empty socket. A dirty rag is wrapped around his forehead. Too late, he tugs it down, angling it over the