Gabriel's Journey Read Free Page B

puckered flesh.
    I stare back, never having seen a man with one eye.
    â€œWhoa, Betsy,” the man says. The pony halts with a wheezy sigh. Cocking his head like a robin at a wormhole, the man studies me. Golden letters and curlicues decorate the wooden sides of his wagon, which looks like a box on wheels.
    â€œGood day, sir,” I say hesitantly.
    â€œ
Good
day? I’d say it’s a
bad
day,” he barks. “At least bad for you, colored boy. Why, you’re a sorrier sight than me. And I’m ’bout as sorry as they come.”
    â€œYes sir.”
    â€œ
Yes
sir? Are you agreeing that I’m ’bout as sorry as they come?”
    â€œNo sir!”
    â€œYou should say, ‘No sir, I ain’t sorry at all. I’ve got my youth and my two feet and my future ahead of me.’”
    â€œUh-h-h,” I stammer, not daring to reply nay or yea.
    He cackles. “Don’t mind me. I’m daft. Least that’s what the Rebels said afore they stole my wares.”
    â€œRebels! Was it One Arm Dan Parmer?”
    Rubbing his chin, gray with dirt and stubble, he thinks a moment. “Captain in charge did have one arm. Might be why he took pity and didn’t shoot me—’cause we had that number in common.”
    I shudder. “Is One Arm and his band of guerrillas headed this way?”
    â€œNah. Those Rebels know better than to show their scoundrel selves this close to Lexington. Where are you headed, black boy?”
    â€œCamp Nelson.”
    â€œI’m headed into the city to report those thieves and restock my wagon. But I don’t mind traveling the outskirts a ways if you’d like me to drop you at the Danville Pike.”
    â€œI’d be obliged.” I nod up at the keys. “Luckily they didn’t steal those.”
    â€œPah! They don’t want keys, since they have no doors. They stole everything else though: eyeglasses, tonics, combs, even a dozen cans of peaches.”
    My mouth waters at the mention of peaches.
    â€œBut they didn’t find my cash.” He winks his one eye. “Climb aboard, youngun. Betsy and I could use the company. Unlike most folks around these parts, we ain’t choosy about a traveler’s skin color.”
    I toss my bundle and basket into the back of his wagon, which is empty except for a pile of moth-eaten blankets, a stained ticking-striped pillow, and a feed bucket filled with moldy corn. I guess even the Rebels weren’t that desperate.
    Using the wheel spokes like rungs, I clamber into the wagon. He holds out one grubby hand. “Name’s Pie.” His clothes smell as if they ain’t been washed in his lifetime.
    We shake and I say, “Pleased to meet you, Mister Pie. My name’s Gabriel Alexander.”
    He clucks to Betsy, who gimps off. I sway in the wagon seat, glad for the companionship no matter how odorous.
    â€œName’s Pie ’cause I used to sell pies,” he explains, even though I didn’t ask. “Then it became One-Eye Pie, and now it’s back to jest Pie. Lost my eye in the war. A redcoat shot it clean through with a lead ball.”
    â€œA redcoat?” I know about redcoats on account of Mister Giles being British. “They ain’t fighting in this war.”
    â€œ
This
war!” He harrumphs in disgust. “I’m talking about the War of 1812 when we were fighting those blackhearts the British, not shooting at our neighbors.”
    I goggle at him. If Pie was fighting in 1812, then he’s older than Old Uncle.
    â€œI was ’bout your size when I enlisted. Lied and told ’em I was sixteen.” Pie launches into a tale of joining up with the U.S. Army. As he jabbers on, I gradually sag against the back of the wagon, half-asleep.
    Suddenly Pie’s voice rises, waking me from my stupor. “The firing was deafening!” he shouts. “All around me, soldiers toppled to the ground until I was tripping over