Gabriel's Journey by Alison Hart Page A

hastily.
    â€œYes, but the lessons are prepared and executed by Miss Annabelle,” the reverend says. “I have confidence in her gifts as a teacher. And I have great trust in your father as a leader,” he adds, with an acknowledging nod to Ma. “I hear his unit will soon be marching.”
    I puff out my chest. “Yes sir, and I aim to march with them.”
    Annabelle blanches. Turning away, she busies herself with gathering primers.
    â€œI will pray for the soldiers every night,” the reverend says. “It was nice to meet you, Gabriel Alexander.”
    A group of women has clustered around Ma and Annabelle, so when the minister leaves, I hurry after him. Fort Pillow is on my mind.
    â€œReverend, might I have a word with you?” I ask, trying to sound like a grown man.
    â€œYes, Gabriel. How can I help you?”
    â€œCan you tell me anything about Fort Pillow?”
    His brow furrows and he shakes his head sadly. “A terrible massacre. The newspaper reported three hundred Negroes slaughtered by Confederate soldiers.”
    Massacre?
Slaughtered?
My breath catches in my throat.
    â€œAnd for no cause.” The reverend sighs. “The fort had surrendered. The Union soldiers had lain down their arms. The Rebels should have taken the colored soldiers as prisoners of war, not killed them on sight. The night I read the news of Fort Pillow was the first night I ever questioned my faith. We must all pray that such a terrible thing shall never happen again.” Still shaking his head, the minister continues on his way, disappearing into the dark.
    A chill races up my spine as I duck back into the yellow glow of the tent. No wonder Captain Waite refused to tell me about Fort Pillow. No wonder he made me promise to keep my silence. No soldier could march bravely into battle carrying visions of a massacre along with his rifle.

Chapter Eight
    A nnabelle pretends she doesn’t see me when I enter the tent again. Starting from the back, I make my way down a row, picking up primers. She’s purposefully avoiding me, keeping benches between us. I dart up the aisle and block her way.
    â€œExcuse me, Gabriel,” she says. “I must finish my work.”
    â€œAnd I will gladly help.”
    â€œI don’t need your help!” Sticking her nose in the air, Annabelle whirls in a wave of calico and hurt feelings, then hurries in the opposite direction.
    I follow her, not ready to give up. “I enjoyed your lesson,” I say. “The words
hope
and
freedom
will forever stay in my mind.”
    â€œI’m glad,” she murmurs. “Perhaps you could attend another lesson.”
    â€œMy company will be leaving soon,” I say. “Perhaps at the next lesson we could learn the word
goodbye.
Soldiers arrive and depart from here like it’s a train depot.”
    Without looking at me, Annabelle silently stacks books in my arms. We work this way until my arms get tired and I begin to lose patience. “Conversation might make the work go faster,” I suggest.
    â€œNot if the conversation is about someone leaving to
fight,”
she says. She’s trying to sound curt, but she just sounds upset. “Yesterday I received a letter from Mister Giles. Your pa wrote him about your ma returning to Woodville Farm after the babe is born.” She touches my arm. “Gabriel, Mister Giles is eager for all of us to return. He wants me to help him with his correspondence and you to jockey his horses. We could leave tonight if need be!”
    I shake my head firmly. “Might be I’ll go back home after the battle at Saltville,” I tell her. “But not now. I can’t leave Pa, Private Black, Captain Waite, and the others. The soldiers in 1st Squad, well, they’re like family.”
    Annabelle stares at me with such confusion that I know she don’t understand. Might be I don’t understand either how the soldiers of Company B have