Gabriel's Journey Read Online Free PDF Page A

of death.
    I start after Annabelle, my mind awhirl. What awaits her at the end of this journey, I don’t know, but I say a silent prayer that she won’t regret her decision.
    As we travel south, the bright sun chases away the thoughts of haunts. Having Annabelle along slows our traveling. Every mile she stops to pry pebbles from her shoes and slap dust off her skirt. Still she joins in when I sing “Camptown Races” and listens eagerly to my stories of Saratoga. I’m glad for her company.
    The sun is dropping behind the trees when we finally come upon the first of the many refugee camps that dot the roadsides before the entryway into Camp Nelson. Annabelle has never heard of refugees, so I explain that these are slave women and families who followed their husbands or fathers to Camp Nelson, or who were thrown off their masters’ farms. I warn Annabelle about the stick-skinny black children, and when a horde of them clusters around us, grabbing at Annabelle’s skirts, purse, and valise, she tries not to shrink against me.
    I’ve learned some tricks from my other trips to the camp. Pulling pennies from my pocket, I toss them into the grass and weeds. The children scatter like chickens after corn, and we hurry past the shanties and makeshift tents. A bone-weary black lady stooped over an iron pot calls to me, “Boy, are you entering Camp Nelson?”
    â€œYes ma’am,” I reply.
    Dropping her wooden spoon, the woman hastens over. She clasps her fingers around my arm and begs me to find her man, Private John Barrett. “Tell him baby Ellen has died of the fever,” she says.
    A dozen more women quickly gather round me and Annabelle. Their homespun dresses are threadbare, their cheeks are hollow, and there’s desperation in their eyes as they implore us to take word to recruits, laborers, and soldiers inside the camp. Annabelle repeats names, trying to remember them. But I notice that the women direct their urgent messages at me and cast suspicious glances at Annabelle.
    When we finally break away from them, Annabelle is breathing hard. She presses a handkerchief to her mouth as we hurry the last few yards toward the entrance.
    â€œGabriel,” she whispers from behind the white lace hanky, “I’ve never seen such dirt and hunger and sadness. I tried to be polite and helpful, but no one would even grace me with a look!”
    â€œPerhaps they’ve never seen a colored girl wearing taffeta and carrying a parasol,” I say, my voice low, too. “Nor heard one who speaks like a white lady.”
    Halting in her tracks, Annabelle stares at me. “Am I so different?”
    I curse my tongue. No matter what I reply, it will not suit Annabelle. To my relief I’m spared further questions by the approach of a guard in Union blue.
    â€œState your business,” he says, his young face grave beneath the brim of his forage cap.
    I pull a telegraph from my bundle. “I’m here on orders from Captain Waite. I’m to work with the colored cavalry.” I try to sound official, but my knees knock. Mister Giles personally telegraphed Captain Waite, who telegraphed this message in reply. The two became acquainted when Captain Waite’s white company of soldiers helped saved Woodville Farm from One Arm and his raiders. But what if this picket doesn’t let me in?
    He passes the telegraph back to me. “You’ll bunk in the tents of the colored cavalry,” he snaps, “on the hill behind the colored barracks.”
    I exhale in relief.
    Giving him a pert smile, Annabelle hands him her letter. “And I am here to meet with Brigadier General Speed S. Fry.”
    He skims the letter, then hands it back to her with a dismissive snort. “The brigadier general doesn’t need a secretary.”
    â€œOh, but I write letters in the finest hand,” Annabelle explains.
    â€œExcept it’s a
colored
hand,” he says curtly.