Soldier of the Horse (11 page)

“How?” Hicks moaned. “The son of a bitch has already kicked me.”

Tom pointed. “Bite his ear.”

“What?”

“Bite his ear. He won't move.”

Tom eased part way off the horse's head and Hicks, with a doubtful glance at Tom, bent to clamp his teeth over its ear, lips drawn back in a fierce grimace. The horse froze in position, no longer struggling.

Tom backed away, steadied himself against a nasty roll of the deck, and scuttled to the ladder. Within minutes he returned with Bruce Johanson and two other privates. Hicks was only too happy to let go of the ear. He spat repeatedly. “Damn horse hair.”

Cowboy Bruce wasted no time rigging up a sling with canvas, ropes, and pulleys, and together they hoisted the horse to its feet. One of the men left to fetch a farrier—there were no veterinarians on board—who checked the horse over and pronounced him none the worse for wear after his ordeal. Not so Hicks: he was half dragged and half carried up the ladders to the sick bay.

Tom finished Hicks's watch with the horses, then went to see how he was doing. The lance-corporal looked pale but chipper, sitting up on a narrow bed that was bolted to the deck, his injured leg supported on cushions. His knee looked twice normal size and already displayed various hues of yellow and purple.

“Nothing busted, if you can believe this excuse for a medic,” Hicks reported. “Sure as hell hurts, though.”

Tom smelled brandy; the orderly had broken out the medicinal supply. Hicks offered Tom a swallow from his cup. “I couldn't believe it when you said to bite his ear. Where did you learn that trick?”

“Well, I've never actually done it, but I heard it works.”

“I guess I have something to write my mother about now. I'll tell you, though, I was pretty worried. I figured he'd fling his head up and knock out my teeth for good measure.” He reached for the brandy.

The medical orderly turned from where he'd been stowing his equipment. He wasn't much more than a kid, who'd either lied about his age or whose parents had signed for him. “Hey, Hicks—maybe you can use that technique when you're in one of those fancy English dancing establishments.”

“Don't get smart, buddy. You ain't old enough. Why don't you make yourself useful and go get my cigarettes from the mess.”

The orderly laughed as he left the compartment.

Tom figured he'd wash up before reporting to the galley. Strange—he hadn't felt sick since he'd first seen the horse flailing in fear down on the lower deck, and he was grateful for the respite. Not to mention the brandy.

♦  ♦  ♦

When they were still three days from England, the Atlantic decided the
Cape Wrath
and her passengers had been through enough. The winds died and the seas calmed, leaving only a long, slow swell that overtook the ship from the starboard quarter. A million tiny, breeze-swept wavelets sparkled like jewels in the early morning sun.

Quartermain assembled the troop on the upper deck and outlined the morning's program. “Something different today, men. Sergeant Planck tells me some of you fancy yourselves as pugilists. Let's see what you're made of.” There would be two teams, odd-numbered eight-man sections against evens.

The ship's crew had rigged a rough boxing ring with a single strand of rope outlining the space. Boxing gloves were produced and the men squared off two at a time for two rounds, then the next pair put on the gloves.

The sergeants were in their glory, taking charge of the affair. Quartermain was in one corner and Planck the other. They yelled instructions to their respective fighters, who went at each other with great enthusiasm and, for the most part, not much skill. The men crowded around, cheering on their friends and shouting insults at their opponents.

Tom had sparred before, in school, so he at least knew enough to keep his hands up and not expose his chin more than necessary. His first bout was with a shorter opponent who couldn't match him for reach, and Tom was happy to stay out of his way. The sergeants decreed it a draw.

When his name came up a second time it was against a Metis soldier named René Carbonnier. Carbonnier was the only man in the troop who could ride as well as Cowboy Johanson. A professional soldier, he was years older than Tom. He had been ill when the Straths were first sent overseas and was attached to the reinforcements to get him back to the regiment.

Tom didn't figure on having much trouble putting him away. What would a half-breed know about boxing?

Carbonnier wasn't a boxer, but he was canny and Tom had trouble pinning him down. He was tall and angular, and didn't hit hard, but his wiry physique helped him avoid Tom's punches. With seconds left in the final round Tom saw an opening and went for it, slashing a hard right over his opponent's guard. He was sure he had won, but just as his shot hit home he was rocked by a roundhouse blow that he had not seen coming. The bell rang. Again it was a draw, but this time both men were roundly applauded for their efforts.

Tom held his hands out so Johanson could take the gloves off. “Never knew a Metis who could box,” said Tom.

“I reckon Carbonnier's been in the army long enough to pick it up. I know lots of Metis from out west, and maybe they can't box, but they can sure as hell ride and shoot. Hell, he's probably a better trooper than I'll ever be, and likely you, too.”

Tom thought it over. A lot of his contemporaries back in Winnipeg looked down their noses at Indians and people of mixed blood, but the descendants of Red River settlers included many with Indian ancestry as well as Scots. And Manitoba's history was intertwined with that of the Metis, people of French Canadian-Indian descent. His mother had hinted that her parents had aided Gabriel Dumont to leave the country after Canadian troops had put down the Northwest Rebellion. Ironically, Tom knew of several Strathcona troopers who were, like René, of part or full Indian ancestry and had found a home in the army.

After two bouts Tom's arms felt like lead and he was happy to stand at the back of the crowd and cheer on the boys. Absorbed in the action, he jumped when Lieutenant Inkmann came up behind him and spoke. “Just wondering, Macrae. Did you hear before we sailed that my brother Bernard has been sentenced to jail?”

“I did. My mother wrote me about it.”

“I am convinced they got the wrong man. You were Zink's student, and you were with him in the jail when he visited Bloody Jack Kravenko before his escape. Surely you know Bernard had nothing to do with Kravenko's jailbreak? You could have helped him in court.”

“Your brother and Zink were like that,” and Tom held up two fingers twisted together. “I couldn't do anything to help him. I just about went to jail myself.”

Inkmann's face turned rigid and his hands shook. “I want the truth, Macrae. I'll not stop until I get it.” He turned and stalked away.

Tom looked back toward the boxing ring. Quartermain was standing on a hatch cover making an announcement. “. . . and those who did well will have a chance to show us how good they are. We'll post a list of this afternoon's matches. Three rounds, if you last that long.” He jumped down.

Tom followed his friends to line up for the noon meal, but not before he saw Inkmann take aside a corporal named Alton, a street brawler with a mean streak who had fought earlier. He was obviously at home in the ring but had held back during a bout with Bruce Johanson, who was a popular soldier, well liked by all.

The afternoon bouts attracted off-duty seamen as well as the troop's officers. There was great excitement while the various matches played out to the cheers of teammates and jeers of the opposition. Tom watched as Cowboy Johanson pursued a lanky private who took advantage of his long reach to stay out of range of Bruce's flailing fists.

Sergeant Planck, who was in Bruce's corner, yelled at him as he mopped off his face between rounds. “What do you think you are, a bloody windmill? Keep your right up and jab with your left.”

A seaman rang the bell and Johanson leapt at his opponent, swinging his fists like a navvy with a sledgehammer. His opponent grinned and backpedalled, then slipped a wild punch and caught Johanson with a hard right. Johanson sat down with a thump. Planck and Quartermain charged in and pushed the other fighter away. Tom jumped forward and helped Planck get Johanson to his feet; blood leaked from one nostril. The victorious soldier skipped around the ring, arms in the air, as the crowd clapped and whistled.

Gordon Ferguson and Tom sat Johanson on a nearby crate. “Nice try, mister,” said Ferguson, “but I think ye'd do better to stick to bronco busting. Just hope ye show more against the Germans.”

Johanson grinned through a split lip. There was blood on his teeth. “I don't figure to box with Fritz. I'll club him with my bloody Ross rifle if it comes to that.”

A buzz went up from the crowd behind them as another bout came to a close with no clear winner and no casualties.

“Macrae. Alton. Get the gloves on,” Sergeant Planck yelled.

Tom swallowed hard. Alton was a tough guy, comfortable with the gloves on, and Tom had no desire to be in the ring with him for three rounds.

Ferguson pushed him forward and Planck tied the gloves on. “Ye can do it, Tom,” Ferguson yelled.

He found himself standing in the jury-rigged ring, suddenly remembering that Inkmann had taken Alton aside after he had words with Tom. That could only mean trouble, and here it was.

Planck whispered hoarsely into his ear. “You're going to have to protect yourself. Be patient and wait your chance—he's too good a boxer. Keep your hands up and your feet moving.” He nodded at a sailor and the bell rang.

Alton danced, shuffled to his left around the ring, and advanced. Tom swung to his left as well, hands tucked close to his face. They circled warily, trading jabs for the first minute or so. Tom moved forward, peered over his gloves, threw a harder left. Alton easily evaded the punch and snapped a left of his own off Tom's forehead. Tom shook his head and stepped into Alton. They clinched, and as Quartermain pushed them apart a sudden searing pain shot from Tom's lower back up his torso. You son of a bitch, he thought. A cheap shot in the kidney.

Tom bent forward, clutching his left arm to his side. His knees felt as though they were made of rubber. Alton landed two businesslike punches on his face and Tom sagged. Before Alton could hit him again Planck was into the ring and holding Tom around the shoulders. He pushed him into his corner and sat him down on an overturned bucket. Ferguson crowded in. He wiped Tom's face with a wet cloth and it came away bloody.

Tom had trouble focussing but he could make out Alton in the opposite corner, relaxed and waving his gloved hands to the cheers of his teammates. Beyond him, Lieutenant Inkmann stood with his peaked cap pushed back, a satisfied expression on his face.

Planck knelt in front of Tom. “That's enough for you, laddie,” he said. “I'm throwing in the towel.”

“The hell you are.” Tom forced himself to his feet. “Ring the bell.”

“I'll grant you your nerve, but not much in the way of brains.” Sergeant Planck shook his head, and looked over his shoulder at the opposite corner. “Corporal Alton is a back-alley fighter,” he said. “Just keep out of his way for two minutes—hands up. Remember to keep those feet dancing. Watch him in the clinches—he's bound to try something else.”

The bell rang, and Tom strode directly to the centre of the ring. Alton looked at him and shook his head, grinning at the crowd. Tom crouched, hands raised to guard his chin, elbows low to protect his body.

Alton stepped forward and they exchanged punches. Tom stumbled back, breathing hard, while Alton closed in. They clinched; Tom jammed his arms under Alton's and thrust his elbows out to protect himself against another kidney shot. Quartermain came in to wave them apart and as they separated Tom threw himself at Alton. His left hand went behind the taller man's neck so he couldn't pull away, and his right fist smashed into Alton's nose. Blood sprayed onto Tom's face and shoulders as he stepped back. Alton went down like a sack of coal falling off a wagon.

Pandemonium broke out as the bell was rung again and again by the excited sailor.

“Attaboy, Tom!” yelled Ferguson.

Tom heard a muffled voice. “Macrae. Macrae.”

He looked around. It was Alton, a wet towel held to his face. “One more round,” he yelled. “One more round.”

The crowd went quiet.

Above the din Tom heard Quartermain say to Planck, “We gave your guy a second chance. Fair's fair.”

Planck looked at Tom while the crowd yelled encouragement.

“What the hell,” Tom shrugged.

The bell rang, and Tom again took the centre of the ring. This time Alton was cautious and kept his distance, jabbing from long range. I've got him, Tom exulted, and closed in, taking a punch to the cheek. Alton feinted high, slashed a low blow to Tom's crotch, doubling him over, and hit him in the face with an uppercut. Tom saw a brilliant flash of light as he fell to the deck, men's voices yelling furiously in the background.

He struggled to his hands and knees, his head too heavy to lift, and toppled onto his side. The shouts of his troopmates faded into the background, like a wave dwindling on a beach. It's a rough sea tonight, he thought, as he turned his head to the side and puked.

Ferguson and Johanson supported him to his bunk, where he drew his knees up to his chest and passed out.

GROUNDWORK

♦   ♦   ♦

The morning after they landed at Portsmouth, Tom woke from a fitful sleep to the juddering of the ancient railway carriage as it slowed to a crawl, almost stopped, then speeded up again. The train rattled and creaked, continuing northward across a low, rolling landscape. A grey sky hung close over farms and cottages. Tom looked around the railway car in the half-light of dawn. Men in khaki sat or leaned, propped against each other, as the wet, green English countryside slid by outside the window. Every inch of the carriage was taken up by semi-reclining soldiers who were draped on, around, and sometimes under heaps of packs and duffel bags. There was a steady drone of snores, coughs, and muttered phrases, the air thick with the smell of damp clothing and the sweat of thirty men in the confined space.