Riding Freedom

AFTER TEN YEARS AT THE ORPHANAGE, Charlotte wasn’t like most girls her age. And who knew if it was growing up like a follow-along puppy in a pack of ruffian boys, or if it was just her own spit and fire. But she never had a doll or a tea party. She couldn’t sew a stitch and she didn’t know a petticoat from a pea pod. Wild hairs sprang out of her brown braids, and her ribbons dangled to her waist, untied. Her frock was too big and hung like a sack on her small frame. Smudges of dirt always covered her, and instead of girl-like lace, for as long as anyone could remember, she wore a strip of leather rein tied around her wrist.

Charlotte’s greatest misfortune was that Mrs. Boyle, the cook, had been put in charge of her. With the shape and personality of a very large toad, and without a mothering bone in her body, Mrs. Boyle certainly wasn’t going to teach Charlotte how to be lady-like. She couldn’t be bothered with Charlotte, except to order her around the kitchen. And although Charlotte knew how to boil oats and make mush for an army, and could peel mountains of potatoes and scrub pots and pans, Mrs. Boyle still yelled at her for the littlest things. For being too noisy or too quiet, or for gazing out the window at some horse in the pasture that needed to be ridden. Being in the kitchen was a thorn in Charlotte’s side, and she hated it worse than falling in a real briar patch.

Every day Charlotte did her chores in the kitchen as fast as she could. Then she hung up her apron and headed for the only place that made her happy: the stables. Today, Charlotte hurried there with one thing on her mind: winning the pasture race.

As soon as Charlotte approached, the horses started moving toward their gates and hanging their heads over to be petted. The smell of the sweet, dank hay and the horses comforted her like an old quilt on a cold day. The elderly stable master was raking the stalls.

“Hi, Vern. Is Freedom ready for the race?”

“Miss Charlotte, that horse is always ready to run, and as much as she takes a shine to you, I ‘spect you could talk her to the moon and back.”

Vern was tall and thin, with leathery skin the color of coffee with no milk. He tended the stables with a quiet, gentle nature. He didn’t talk much to anyone else, but he loved to tell Charlotte stories, most of them true, that left her in a spell with her mouth wide open.

Vern had named all the horses himself. He always said that naming something was important. That a name ought to stand for something. And that a horse should have a fine name fit for a fine animal. So the horses all had names like Justice and Hope and Charity, and Vern had a story that went with every one of those names. Hope for wanting a better life when he was a young slave on a plantation in Virginia. Charity because of the kindness of the people who had helped him through his struggles. But the story that Charlotte begged for most was the one about Freedom.

Freedom was Charlotte’s favorite horse. She had watched her birthing a few years earlier and had babied her ever since. It was on Freedom that Vern taught Charlotte how to ride. She often pestered Vern for the story about Freedom’s name. The story of how Vern ran away and hid in a root cellar with nothing but an old shirt to keep him warm. Ran all the way north so he could be free. And named a horse Freedom for something he won.

“You gonna beat William in the race today?” asked Vern.

“I aim to. He deserves to be taken down a peg.”

William was thirteen, and he bullied the younger boys. He threw rocks at the cats and kittens, he whipped the horses, and he couldn’t stand that Charlotte was better than he was at climbing trees and riding horses.

“I ‘spect you will,” said Vern. “Freedom trusts you. William’s ridin’ Justice, and Justice just as soon throw him off. That boy is full of no respect for horses. You know what I always say?”

Charlotte knew it in her heart. “A horse rides the way it’s ridden,” said Charlotte.

Vern nodded his head, and Charlotte led Freedom from the stall.