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tents?” I ask. “My ma lives there. She’s doing laundry for the colored cavalry.”
    â€œGo down de pike past Camp Nelson House. Dere’s a lane to de east. De colored cavalry are bunking in tents on de hillside. Stay off de road—guards be patrollin’.”
    â€œHow far once we turn onto the lane?”
    â€œIf you fall into Hickman Creek, you’ve gone too far.” Chuckling, he raises the lantern and heads off.
    I tap Annabelle’s shoe. “Wake up,” I whisper. “We need to go.” I uncover the valise and basket and brush them off. By the time I’m finished, Annabelle’s standing and shaking the hay off her dress. It’s too dark to see her face, but she’s hastily tying her hat. I gather she realizes the urgency.
    Voices drift from the front of the stable, and my blood quickens. I toss the bundle over my shoulder and pick up the valise. Annabelle takes my hand in hers, and we steal silently into the shadows.
    To stay on course, we follow the direction of the pike, but instead of marching like soldiers, we scurry like mice between buildings, woodpiles, and sheds. Finally we reach the dirt lane and head east. I hope the old man’s right. When Ma, Jase, and me came to Camp Nelson, Pa took us to the tent city where Ma lives now. I think I could find it in the daytime, but it’s hard to get my bearings in the dark.
    In spite of my doubts, we boldly trot up the unoccupied lane. The sky’s turning gray, and it won’t be long before roosters crow and bunkhouses stir. Farther south, I spot a whole field of tents rising from the early mist like rows of tombstones. “That must be where the cavalry soldiers are living,” I whisper to Annabelle.
    By the time we come upon the two rows of wall tents occupied by the washerwomen, Annabelle and I are puffing. I count as we run down the muddy lane between the rows. “Ma’s is the fourth one on the right,” I tell Annabelle.
    She yanks me to a stop and points. “This is the fourth.”
    The flap’s tied shut from inside. Around me, I hear coughing, a baby’s cry, and the sound of bedclothes being shook. Folks are waking, but Ma’s tent is silent.
    Dropping on my knees, I belly-crawl under the front. The inside of the tent is dim. “Ma?” I call hoarsely.
    â€œGabriel?” someone exclaims above me.
    I crane my neck. Ma’s standing over me, an iron skillet raised high, ready to crash on my head. Her eyes startle at the sight of me, and she sets the skillet on the ground.
    â€œThank the Lord I didn’t strike you!” she exclaims, pressing her hand against her bodice. “I thought you were some drunken hooligan. Chile, what are you doin’ here?”
    Helping me to my feet, she envelops me in a hug. Her arms feel like heaven, but I pull away, thinking a man ain’t supposed to be hugging his ma. “I’m here to join the other recruits,” I tell her. “I know I ain’t old enough to fight, but I can help in other ways.”
    â€œPardon me!” someone hisses from outside the tent. “Gabriel?”
    â€œSorry.” I untie the flap and a head pokes in.
    â€œ
Annabelle?”
Ma gasps. “Why on earth have you brought that poor chile with you?” she asks me in a scolding voice, as if I’d had any say in the matter.
    â€œIt’s not like I invited her along,” I mutter.
    The opening in the tent widens, and Annabelle stoops to enter. “Oh, Missus Alexander!” she exclaims when she sees Ma. The two cling to each other, weeping.
    I light a candle on an upturned box. Ma has tried to make the tent comfortable. There’s fresh straw sprinkled on the dirt floor and clean quilts mounded on straw in a corner. But except for a three-legged stool and knitting needles, yarn, and a tin plate and cup on the wooden box, the tent looks the same as it did weeks ago. At least Captain Waite had