Soldier of the Horse Read online

  “For what it’s worth, the truth is that I didn’t have anything to do with Kravenko’s escape.”

  “That, of course, is what I believe. If I thought otherwise I would totally forbid Ellen to see you.”

  Tom felt his face redden. He didn’t want even a hint of disapproval from Ellen’s father.

  Evans continued. “Things have not been easy for me recently, Mr. Macrae. Ellen’s mother was ill for years, and I spent large sums on treatment for her in the east and the United States. In spite of that, we lost her. Then there was the cost of Ellen’s schooling in Toronto. I made some risky investments and lost what savings remained.”

  Tom nodded, wondering what was coming next.

  “I tell you this so you will understand my involvement with Henry Zink. I could see you had questions. Well, no fool like an old fool. I borrowed heavily from Zink, and he demanded my help with the Kravenko file in return for not calling my note.” Evans managed a rueful smile. “Desperate times all around, Mr. Macrae.”

  Tom didn’t know how to react. He understood the older man’s dilemma, but he resented Evans’s apparent doubts about him. “May I ask, Mr. Evans, what concerns you have about me?”

  Evans stood and paced behind his desk. Tom followed him with his eyes.

  “To be perfectly frank, young man, it has more to do with your situation than with you personally. You are in the army, and I understand you’ll be overseas soon. By all accounts this will be a bloody war. Mr. Macrae, I lost my wife not long ago. I have only two children, and one of them has now been rendered a . . . physically incapable. I do not want my daughter hitching her wagon, so to speak, to a soldier who may or may not return. I do not want her hurt any more than she has been.”

  Tom rose to his feet. He had been afraid that Evans’s reservations about him had something to do with his standing in society and his humble Red River origins, and was only too happy to put that out of his mind. “Sir, I have every intention of returning home. In one piece.”

  “I don’t doubt that, Mr. Macrae.”

  Evans came around his desk; the meeting was over. Tom picked up his cap. Evans was nervous, and he had every right to be. His unlikely association with Zink would be difficult to explain to his fellow lawyers and might even make him the subject of a police investigation. In the meantime, at the personal level, his son’s condition was a drain emotionally and no doubt financially. He would not want Ellen involved with a soldier at risk.

  “Best of luck over there.”

  Tom wasn’t sure Evans meant it, but he looked sincere. Leaving the building, Tom was a bit shaken at the thought that Evans really doubted his survival. Maybe he should be more concerned himself. “Hell, no,” he muttered to himself. “I’m going to be just fine.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Small, puffy clouds formed a washboard pattern across the blue prairie sky. The thirty men and horses of the 1st Reinforcement Troop trotted westward on the right-hand shoulder of the arrow-straight gravel road. Fields of stubble with a skim of snow stretched to the horizon on both sides.

  The horses were well warmed up and the troop had settled into a mile-eating trot. Tom’s thighs and buttocks were over their initial saddle sores. He and Rusty had reached an understanding: Rusty would still try to embarrass him whenever he could, but once Tom got him through the first hour or so of their day, the horse just couldn’t be bothered.

  To Tom’s surprise he was starting to enjoy army life. His days started at 4:30 in the morning, when he tended to the needs of his “long-nosed soldier” in the stable, and ended when Rusty was bedded down for the night. Between those times, they and their troopmates walked, shot, trotted, stabbed at dummies with swords, and galloped. Then they rode some more.

  Quartermain had started the day off by having the men fall in on foot on the Fort Osborne Barracks parade square. He was a ruler-straight figure in his gleaming, calf-high riding boots, belt, and shoulder strap. He paced in front of them, his riding crop in its familiar position in his right hand with the other end tucked under his arm.

  “You are a useless rabble. You want to be cavalrymen and the army wants you to be cavalrymen, but I have my doubts. A few of you can ride, but I still see bank tellers, teamsters, store clerks. Even a bloody lawyer if you can believe it.”

  Tom grinned as the troops guffawed.

  “You have two weeks to prove to me you can do the job. If you can’t ride to the army’s standard by that time, you will be shipped off to England to join the God-forsaken, boot-stomping infantry. Any volunteers at this point?” He waited. “All right then, mount up. Let’s see you look like a cavalry troop and not a bunch of farmers out for a Sunday ride.”

  Two by two the troop trotted west for an hour. When they reached a small stream, Quartermain led them off the road and ordered the dismount. Tom loosened Rusty’s girth and took him down to the stream to drink.

  Bruce Johanson, who had ridden at Tom’s side all morning, stretched and farted. “Nothing like a good ride to make a guy regular.” A broad grin, Johanson’s usual expression, split his face. “Can’t believe my good luck. The army pays me to ride a horse. They even provide the horse. Shoot—at a dollar a day I’ll be able to afford one of those fancy Winnipeg whores in no time.”

  Quartermain waited until the horses had drunk their fill before ordering the troop back up to the road.

  “Listen here,” he shouted. He waited for the creak of saddle leather and the men’s chatter to quieten. “Line up in single file along the side of the road and on my order, walk back toward town. I’ll order the last man to trot to the head of the column and then walk. Then the next man, and so on. If it goes well, we’ll move everybody along at a trot and do the final manoeuvre to the front at the gallop. Any questions? No? WALK—march.”

  Sounds easy, thought Tom. Johanson had contrived to be last man in the file in order to go first, as usual. Rusty and Tom were fourth from the rear. On Quartermain’s order Johanson reined his horse to the left into the centre of the road and trotted to the head of the column. The next two men in their turn followed suit. Tom waited for the signal. Quartermain nodded at him.

  Tom turned his horse to the left and touched him with his spurs. Rusty shot ahead, bolting up the road. Tom grabbed his saddle with one hand, sawing at the reins with the other. His mount bucked into the air, planted his forelegs hard and kicked up with his hindquarters. Tom nearly went over his head but somehow stayed in the saddle. The boys yelled and whooped as Rusty danced along the road. Tom transferred the reins to both hands and fought to hold him in.

  Quartermain cantered up alongside. “Let him go!” he shouted. Tom eased the reins and they hurtled forward like a rock from a slingshot. The mounted riders, ditches, and fields blurred by. Tom was quaking, terrified that Rusty would pull his sidestepping trick and dump him face first onto the gravel.

  After a hard half mile Rusty started to slow. Tom knew he had to assert control over his horse or his life would be miserable, and they’d both be at risk in battle. He spurred Rusty ahead into a ground-eating canter for a few minutes, then let him slow to a trot, finally turning him back toward the troop, which trotted toward them. He put the horse through his paces, turning him from side to side in the road, pulling him to a stop, walking again, then trotting back to join Quartermain and the rest of the advancing riders.

  “Fall in at the rear,” Quartermain ordered, and Tom reined Rusty into position.

  “Nice ride, cowboy,” Johanson drawled as he passed. Tom took it as a compliment, and gave Rusty a hard pat on the neck. The gelding shook his head and snorted.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  That afternoon Tom spent extra time brushing Rusty, who had settled down after their wild career of the morning, while Johanson, Gordon Ferguson, and a few of the other soldiers lounged outside the box stall. Ferguson, the former North West Mounted Policeman, was regaling the men with his adventures on the western frontier. Tom was amused by his Scottish accent, which put him in mind of some of the ol
der Highlanders living in Winnipeg. Fergie, as everyone called him, would quote Robert Burns on any pretext. When Tom had mentioned his own Scottish roots, Fergie had grasped his hand and shouted, “Gie us yer hand, mon! Gie us yer twa hands!”

  One of the sergeant instructors, Ronald Planck, walked briskly into the stable. He pointed at Ferguson and another man, Wayne Milroy. “I need two men—you and you—for a cleanup detail.”

  “. . . So I said get inta the cell or I’ll put ye in,” Ferguson continued, then looked at Planck. “I did cleanup yesterday. Ye’ll need someone else, Sergeant.”

  Even the horses seemed to stop swishing their tails and stamping their hoofs. Planck was English, a regular British army soldier who had been promoted rapidly after his infantry regiment had been decimated in the first months of the war. He was in Canada to teach bayonet drill and shooting, and was now wearing the badge of Lord Strathcona’s Horse. Planck’s working-class accent grated on Canadian ears; he was especially hard to understand when he was excited.

  “I said you, Ferguson. On yer bloody feet and get over to the mess hall.”

  Ferguson, whose dislike of all things English was well known, stood and brushed straw off his breeches. “Go ta hell.”

  Planck and Ferguson stood toe to toe, Planck flexing and unflexing his fingers. He grimaced. “So it’s like that, is it?” he said, and took off his tunic, calmly folding it and placing it, along with his cap, on a bale of straw. Fists raised in the classic Marquess of Queensberry stance, he advanced on Ferguson. “Come on, then, you Scottish refugee. I’ve not got my rank on now.”

  Stripped to the waist, Planck was thick-chested and muscular, and looked like he knew what he was doing. Ferguson is up against it this time, Tom thought.

  Planck crouched, left arm extended, right fist cocked and ready. Ferguson put up his fists, shot out a left jab—then without warning lashed out with his left boot, catching Planck square in the crotch. The sergeant was lifted off the ground then collapsed, groaning, in a heap. Clutching himself, he curled into a fetal position.

  The boys let out a collective gasp and melted away, apparently remembering duties elsewhere. Johanson clapped Ferguson on the back.

  “Better get lost,” Tom said to Ferguson, who left the stable.

  Tom and Johanson helped the sergeant to a sitting position, then to his feet, handing him his tunic and cap, which he eventually managed to put back on. Planck was very pale, his lips pressed together into a determined line. He didn’t thank either of them.

  The next day was cloudy, bringing warmer fall temperatures to the men of the 1st Reinforcement Troop, and Sergeant Quartermain cut short the morning ride to allow Lieutenant Inkmann and Sergeant Planck to march a section of eight men off to the rifle range. Inkmann rode ahead.

  Planck appeared to be functioning pretty well, considering he could barely stand upright the night before. Tom was surprised there was no hint of anything arising out of the incident. Planck was a solid man, burned brown by years of soldiering in far-flung corners of the Empire, and he kept up a running commentary on the shortcomings of the recruits. “Get in step, Ferguson. Didn’t they teach you to march in the Mounted Police? Pick it up, Johanson. You’re not behind the plow, boy.”

  The men marched grim-faced, trying to ignore the swarms of mosquitoes that still, this late in the year, attacked any exposed skin. Boots clumped a steady cadence on the gravel road, rifles over their left shoulders, right arms swinging high.

  In a few minutes they reached the rifle range. Tom could see Inkmann on his horse, a hundred yards down range toward the targets.

  Planck halted them and turned the section into line, so they were shoulder to shoulder. “Present—arms,” he ordered. Tom slapped his right arm across his chest to the stock of his rifle, pushed it upright, dropped the rifle into the “present” vertically in front of him, left hand on the pistol grip, right on the forestock, and slammed his right foot at a forty-five degree angle back of the left one. The boots of the other men in the section hit the ground at various intervals. Even Tom knew it wasn’t well done.

  “Shoulder—arms.”

  “Order—arms.” The rifles were lowered to the ground, right hands on the forestock, butts just clear of the right toes, left foot raised and stamped down into the attention position.

  “That was a shambles.” Planck shook his head. He took them through the drills again, until at last they got their timing down so they were acting in unison.

  “Stand at—ease. Now—pay attention to musketry detail.”

  Musketry? Tom grinned. Where are the ramrods and powder horns?

  “Find that amusing, Macrae?”

  “No, Sergeant.”

  Inkmann had ridden up. Planck called the men to attention and saluted the lieutenant. “Squad ready for musketry practice, sir,”

  “Carry on, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir.” Planck saluted again, then turned back to the squad. “Johanson—give me your rifle. The rest of you fall out, and pay attention.”

  When they were gathered round, Planck ran over the basics of the Ross rifle. A bolt action, .303 calibre repeating rifle with a built-in magazine, it was standard issue in the Canadian army. The Ross was manufactured in Canada, and the Canadian government had had much to do with its development.

  “Nobody other than Canadians uses it,” Planck continued. “Extremely accurate. Winning rifle at Bisley in 1913. For those who don’t know, that’s a shooting competition that includes the whole Empire. Questions?”

  Freddie Martens, a short, muscular, nineteen-year-old whom Tom was just getting to know, spoke up. “My cousin is back home in Calgary, injured in training,” he said. “He says the Ross is a piece of crap. They always jam up. We should get some other rifle.”

  Sergeant Planck reddened under his tan. “That’s not for you to decide, soldier. Anyway, you can thank your own Canadian government for the Ross.”

  Ferguson interjected, his brogue a contrast to Planck’s English accent. “Why couldn’t the army buy Winchesters? That’s what I had out west. Perfect for mounted work.”

  Planck turned to his latest tormentor. “You’re in the cavalary now, and your main weapon is your sword. If you don’t like the Ross, I couldn’t care less. You’ve still got to use it. I don’t give a damn about what you did in the police or when you were cowboys or what you used to fight off the redskins.” He glared at the men. “The British army has been fighting wars since Christ was a boy soldier. You’re in the army now, and you’ll do as the army says.”

  “We’re not in the British army,” Johanson observed.

  “All right, enough,” fumed Planck. “Retrieve your rifles. Fall in.”

  Tom picked up his rifle and lined up with the others, standing at attention.

  “Rifles at the high port,” bellowed Planck. The men let out a collective groan and raised their arms overhead, their rifles, weighing in at just under ten pounds, held horizontally.

  “Right turn.” The men turned into a single file. “Double—march.”

  They moved off at the double, an awkward, painful run over rough ground, the rifles heavier with every step. Tom had been in the army only a few short weeks, but he had seen quite enough of this form of punishment.

  “Right wheel.”

  Tom was at the front of the file of doubling men. He turned right and the rest of the section followed him. Planck kept them running, wheeling every forty or fifty yards, in a square pattern, while he stood in the centre and watched them.

  Tom’s back ached from the unnatural posture. His arms shook, and just as he started to waver and stumble, there was a commotion behind him. He saw over his shoulder that Martens had collapsed. Johanson tripped over him and fell.

  “Halt. Shoulder arms.”

  Tom and the rest of the section fought for breath while Planck growled at Martens and Johanson. “You two—on your feet. All you men will report for extra stable duty tonight.”

  Planck ignored the chorus of groans.
“Now, back to the task at hand. Fall out. On the firing line, prone position. Open breeches. Check your bores are clear and magazines empty.”

  Guiding them through safety procedures on the rifle range, Planck paced behind the soldiers, correcting firing postures, adjusting grips, ensuring rifle butts were firmly tucked against right shoulders.

  “Load magazines.”

  Tom took five .303 shells from his pouch and pushed them into the rifle’s magazine.

  “Ready.”

  Eight rifle bolts opened, caught shells pushed up from eight magazines, and closed, propelling shells into breeches. The rifle felt cool to Tom as he moved his right hand from the bolt to the pistol grip, index finger to the trigger. His left elbow was on the ground, hand clamped firmly on the forestock. The Ross was cocked, ready to fire.

  “Aim.”

  Tom peered through the rear sight and lined up the foresight on his target, the second one from the right. It was only fifty yards away but suddenly looked a lot farther as he squinted down range.

  “Fire.”

  A scattered volley of shots rang out. Tom flinched at the deafening reports on both sides of him, then bore down, sighted again, and fired. The Ross leapt, banging his shoulder.

  “Open your bolts,” Planck ordered.

  Ears ringing, Tom slid his bolt back.

  Planck pointed out what hopeless specimens they were; at only fifty yards there were just two bullseyes, Tom’s and Ferguson’s.

  On Planck’s order bolts were cycled, pushing fresh rounds into the breeches. The firing drill was repeated, each shot followed by Planck’s comments.

  “You bleeding hayseeds,” he complained. “The British army is over in Belgium right now firing fifteen aimed shots a minute. So let’s get it right, shall we?”

  He was scathing and meticulous as he stalked from man to man. “It’s not going to bite you, Martens. Press it into your shoulder. Grip firmly, like you would a dancing partner, if you had one. Ferguson! Nice shot.”

  Slowly, the ragged volleys became more synchronized. Magazines were reloaded and the men told to fire at will. When magazines were empty and bolts drawn back to demonstrate there were no rounds in the breeches, the privates rested their weapons on the ground. Planck led them down range, where they removed the now-shredded paper targets. They placed new ones, then lined up at a hundred yards, twice the previous distance.