Gabriel's Journey by Alison Hart

primers to . . .”
    The flaps are pulled back and tied. I peek through the triangular opening. Two kerosene lanterns hanging from poles illuminate the tent. Its canvas walls bulge, and every bench is filled with soldiers in blue, women in headscarves, and workers in homespun. All heads are bent as they follow Annabelle’s directions.
    I hesitate for a moment, then slip into the tent. I scoot onto the end of a bench, whispering, “Pardon me, ’scuse me,” until the others slide over a hair to make room. I glance down the row, noting there’s one primer for the five of us on the bench.
    â€œScholars, I will hold up a card with a letter. Point to the letter in the primer and repeat after me:
A.”
    I crane my neck, trying to glimpse Annabelle over the forest of heads. But I can only see the card. As she holds more up, I repeat the letters along with the others. The lesson seems to drone on forever.
    â€œScholars, these letters make up words,” Annabelle says. “And the words become the sentences that we read in the Bible and in letters from home.”
    Someone next to Annabelle holds up a card with words written on it. I sit up straight and see that the person is Ma. “Every night we will learn more letters and two words,” Annabelle goes on. “Tonight’s words”—she points to the cards—“are HOPE and FREEDOM .
Hope
is what we need to keep up our spirits during this war.
Freedom
from bondage is what we
hope
to gain, so we can live in dignity. Now say them with me.”
    Reluctantly I pronounce the words along with the others. Over and over,
hope
and
freedom
ring through the tent in a chorus. Slowly, feet begin to drum and palms begin to slap. Despite my impatience to see Ma and Annabelle, my heart soars with the voices. I do believe that one day freedom
will
be for all.
    When the lesson is over, I push up front. But Annabelle’s talking to a serious man wearing a stiff black suit, so I make my way over to Ma.
    â€œIt’s about time you visited, Gabriel Alexander,” Ma scolds with a smile. But then she sees my uniform, and her happiness fades. Her eyes bloom with tears. “No, you
can’t
go with your pa . . . I won’t let you go!”
    I take her hands in mine. They’re as dry as husks from long hours of washing and scrubbing. “Ma, what was all that talk about
hope
and
freedom?”
I ask. “Are they only for white soldiers to fight for?”
    She shakes her head, unable to speak.
    â€œIf they want freedom, coloreds are going to have to march into battle, too,” I say, only my words don’t help. Ma lifts her apron to her face, and her shoulders heave with sobs. When she finally catches her breath, she says, “Gabriel, you believe this war will bring victory and freedom. But, chile, I hear the stories. All it’s bringing is death.”
    â€œMa,” I sigh. “Captain Waite has promised that I won’t be in harm’s way.” Then I add in a low voice, “I ain’t going to get killed.”
    Calming some, she hugs me. I notice I’ve grown taller these days from all the hard work—and maybe from my new shoes. Peering over Ma’s shoulder, I see that Anna­belle’s watching us, her gaze curious, as she stands with the man in the suit.
    Annabelle brings the man over, and Ma lets me go. “Gabriel,” Annabelle says, “I’d like you to meet Reverend John Fee.”
    The man nods at me seriously, holding his Bible, and I realize with relief that he’s no ladies’ man. As I shake his hand, I shift my gaze back to Annabelle. She’s hiding a teasing smile behind her fingers, which for once are not gloved. They’re as red and raw as Ma’s.
    When Annabelle sees me looking, her cheeks flush and she snaps her hands behind her back. “Reverend Fee has been gracious enough to provide primers,” she says