Gabriel's Journey by Alison Hart

side by side every day. Never once did I hear him yell.
    â€œStalls will be empty this morning because we’re having mounted drill. Do the mucking then. Wheelbarrow’s at the end of the stable by the manure wagon. Tonight, you’ll help Private Black feed the horses. He’ll show you the rations. Tomorrow you’ll help Private Crutcher. Make sure you rise before the sun. Any questions?”
    I throw back my shoulders. “No
sir!”
    He leaves without another word.
    As soon as the stall door shuts behind him, my shoulders droop. I kick my blanket into the corner. I know why Pa’s acting like a drill sergeant. He’s hoping I’ll scurry back to Woodville Farm like a whipped dog.
    Only that ain’t going to work. My pass from Colonel Brisbin is in my pocket and I’m determined to be a soldier.
    Thrusting the pitchfork like a sword, I attack the wall. “Take that, you Rebel vermin!”
    â€œWhoa, boy.” Private Black rests his arms on the top of the stall door. “Save that for the real graycoats.”
    I perk up. “We fightin’ them soon?”
    He laughs heartily. “Yes sir. Right after we sweep the aisles, dig the wells, and clean the privies. Oh, and learn us how to fire rifles.”
    â€œYou ain’t fired a rifle yet?”
    â€œYou see any rifles when we were drilling yesterday?”
    I shake my head.
    â€œCaptain Waite promises us broomsticks for tomorrow’s practice.” Again, the private breaks into laughter, and I can’t help but join him. “I’ve got a present for you.” His eyes twinkle as he pulls something from his back pocket. It’s a Yankee kepi. He tosses it on my head. “Belonged to the drummer boy.”
    â€œThank you!” I settle the cap on my head, avoiding the question of what happened to the drummer boy.
    â€œNow you look a real soldier.”
    I hear the notes of a bugle.
    â€œThat means ‘to horse’,” Private Black explains. “A good cavalryman has to learn the commands signaled by the trumpeter. Come on.” He gestures for me to follow. “I’ll show you ’round.”
    Unlatching the stall door, I jog after him. The last two soldiers are leading their mounts from the stable.
    â€œDon’t worry ’bout your pa,” Private Black says as we walk down the aisle. “He’s a good sergeant. The men in our squad respect him. He should be captain of Company B, but ain’t no colored officers allowed. Cap’n Waite means well, but I believe that boy’s just left his mama. Luckily your pa and Reverend Fee keep up our spirits. The reverend not only preaches, he works hard to get the colored soldiers supplies and respect.”
    I nod. “I’ve heard of the reverend.”
    â€œYour pa’s good with the men
and
the horses,” Private Black goes on. “And we do need someone who knows horses. Most of these men who used to be slaves ain’t even been on a mule before.”
    I slip in a brag. “Pa trained racehorses.”
    Private Black chuckles. “No breds for the colored soldiers. Me, I’ve been assigned a slab-headed roan I named Hambone ’cause he’s so pigheaded.” He stops in front of the last stall. It has a barred top door, like a jail cell. “This here’s Champion, Cap’n Waite’s mount. I call him Devil.”
    I peer through the bars. Champion is a sixteen-hand stallion, as glossy and black as a crow except for a brilliant white star. He’s a Thoroughbred, no doubt confiscated from a Rebel owner’s stable. When he sees me watching him, he pins his ears and lunges, raking his teeth against the iron bars.
    â€œThat horse is rank. Cap’n Waite don’t ride him enough.” Private Black lowers his voice. “I believe the captain’s a mite scared of him. Not that I blame him. Your pa appointed me the horse’s groom ’cause of my