Soldier of the Horse (32 page)

Epilogue

♦   ♦   ♦

On October 4, 1920, a six-foot-tall, broad-shouldered man in a three-piece business suit walked carefully up the steps of the Empire Club in downtown Toronto. He never held onto railings, but he didn't take chances, either.

When he reached the portico Tom stopped and lit a cigarette, one habit he could not shake after shrugging off his uniform for the last time the year before. At least he had put on some of the weight he had lost. Funny, he was feeling out of sorts coming here on this occasion; he'd have a drink if one was offered. Absent-mindedly he reached into his inside breast pocket—the side opposite to his cigarettes—and felt the letter. Still there. He could have quoted it word for word but preferred to take it out and read it once more, the firm, no-nonsense but feminine handwriting.

Dearest Tom,

I know it has been months since I wrote you, a letter written when I was at a low ebb. Can you forgive me, Tom? I was lonely and afraid, afraid of what the future might hold. Afraid of what might happen to you, and afraid I might not be able to handle it. And it had been a long time. As I write this my brother Ned is downstairs, drinking, and Joan, his wife, is looking after the baby. It is not a happy picture. I have just heard that you have been wounded. One thing is clear to me now, Tom, and that is that you are not like my brother, and never could be like him.

It is snowing, but the sun is breaking through. The sun sparkling on the flakes as they float down reminds me of our ride in the cutter, our brief time together. I remember your pride in your family, and the way you cared for Belle after our accident. You are a good man, Tom, and I pray for your safe return. We must be together, no matter what. I love you.

Ellen

He smiled as he put the letter back in its envelope with its King George stamp and postmarks and changes of address in varying hands from what seemed like half the western world. The army post office address in France was nearly obliterated by two English postmarks that were on top of the address for Number 4 Canadian Hospital, which was stroked out and followed in turn by a Southampton post office address. From there the letter had gone to Halifax, then finally completed the circle at the Winnipeg Depot where it had reached him after the war was over. He and Ellen managed a good laugh when it finally turned up. Tom carefully refolded the letter, returning it to his jacket pocket.

He could have been on his way home by now, but he had stayed overnight out of curiosity. He wondered what two and a half years had done to Seely. Tom had heard from Bruce, while he was still in hospital, that the former statesman, politician, and brigadier-general had swallowed German gas, and his days of roaming the forward positions in person had come to an end.

Tom was not a member of the Empire Club and doubted that any former enlisted man was. A hall porter raised an eyebrow, but Tom ignored him and the man subsided into his cubbyhole, waving vaguely toward double doors leading into a ballroom.

Tom slid into the back of the room. Officials of the club seated at a head table included a sprinkling of men he recognized as former army officers. A few members of the audience were in uniform.

The introduction had just finished and Seely started to speak. “Mistah President and Membaahs of the Empaah Club of Canada . . .” His topic, he said, was “a very thrilling story—the story of your Canadian cavalry.”

The general knew how to move a room. He addressed many of the former officers present in personal terms, playing to their pride in the exploits of the Canadian army, and the cavalry in particular. The general's south-of-England, drawn-out vowels and missing consonants thrust Tom back in time, the room around him blurring, out of focus. The general had survived the war, and so had Bruce Johanson, now back home in Alberta, looking down his nose at city slickers who couldn't ride, and Quartermain, glaring fiercely at new recruits to the peace-time army. Gordon Ferguson, the last he had heard, was thinking about moving to the west coast. At least they had made it safely home, as had Tom.

But he couldn't dwell too long on the past. His wounds plagued him every day and he was still unable to shut out the horrors of the war. Before he could stop himself he saw, once again, Flowerdew tumble from his saddle, the boy Longley go down in the act of raising the trumpet to his lips. Again he was alone on galloping Toby, bent low over his neck, blood lust up, sword levelled, blood spattering from his flayed legs as Toby grunted in pain. Horses screamed and men moaned for their mothers and Planck bled out on the ground. René Carbonnier insisted on a
coup de grâce
for his horse, then died in Tom's arms. Inkmann hovered, he who had long since joined his brother in whatever hell awaited them. Tom shuddered and left the hall, the general's cultured tones fading.

♦  ♦  ♦

Ellen straightened and pushed with both hands on her lower back. Any day now, and it couldn't happen too soon. She wondered again whether it was to be a boy or a girl. A daughter who would be close to her, as she had been to her mother? Or a son, to make Tom proud? But he'd be proud, either way. She poured two cups of coffee, then sat and picked up the
Free Press
.

Her mind wandered. How different things could have been, how improbable her present happiness, if she had chosen Harry. Harry had left town to return to Toronto, never having spoken to her again after she returned his ring and told him in her letter that she would wait for Tom. I wonder if Carol went with him?

Tom walked into the kitchen and bent to kiss her, holding her for a moment. He looks tired, she thought. Too long out of town on a business trip with his legs acting up. He never slept well when his legs were bad.

“I'm staying home today,” he said. “I feel like this is the day.”

“Since when do men have intuition about babies?” she laughed. “Besides, that's what you said last week. You go to work. Daddy is just around the corner in case I go into labour.”

A headline on a small story on the front page caught her eye.“General Seely. They're quoting his speech, the one you heard in Toronto. Did you hear what General Foch had to say?”

“No, sweetheart. I think I mentioned I left early.”

“General Foch—he was the French general in charge of the Allies when the Germans were defeated, wasn't he? Anyway, here's what Foch said to Seely:

 

I do not forget the heroism of the valiant Canadian Cavalry Brigade. In the month of March, 1918, the war was at the gate of Amiens. It was vital to maintain at any price the close contact between our two armies, the British and French. On March 30 at Moreuil, and on April 1 at Hangard en Santerre, your brigade succeeded, by its magnificent performance and its unconquerable élan, in first checking the enemy and finally breaking down its spirit. In the highest degree, thanks to your brigade, the situation, agonizing as it had been at the opening of the battle, was restored.

“He's talking about the big picture,” said Tom. “All I know is it was a bloody mess from where I saw it.”

She sent him off to work, and he promised to stay close to a phone. Like many veterans, he had not gone back to his former pursuits. All thoughts of Zink—still behind bars—and the practice of law were long behind him; he was employed by Eaton's, working his way up in the hardware department.

Tom hardly ever spoke about the war, and even when he did, it was only to make casual, general comments. Nothing specific.

“Aren't you ever going to talk about it?” Ellen had once asked.

“Not now. Maybe not ever.”

Maybe, she thought, it's for another generation to explore.

Her father would be over shortly to stand by in case he was needed to get her to the hospital. She gathered the breakfast dishes, and was leaning into the sink when a sharp pain wrenched her body and a cascade of water flooded down her legs.

Yes, she thought. Yes.

Acknowledgments

 

This book is a work of fiction and as such, characters, places, and incidents are products of my imagination or are used fictitiously. That being said, I have tried, where possible, to be true to the events my father described to me and to the times in which my characters are placed.

This book would not have been possible without the great support and unerring advice I received from my wonderful wife, Patricia Sandberg, our sons, Scott and Ross, my sister Lamont, and friend Phyllis Hinz.

Comments on the manuscript were generously provided by the Rainwriters, especially Ed Griffin and Carol Tulpar, as well as all the others; early versions were reviewed by my friends Robert Smith and Cyndi Kilroe.

Historical research was accomplished with the generous assistance of Warrant Officer Donald E. MacLeod, Curator, Lord Strathcona's Horse (Royal Canadians) Museum and Archives, in Calgary.

Jean-Paul Brunel and his wife, Nicole, were our gracious hosts in Moreuil, France. Jean-Paul, after his 1986 discovery of the remains of a Canadian trooper killed in the Battle of Moreuil Wood, became a passionate and inspiring amateur historian of the activities of the Canadian Cavalry Brigade. His enthusiasm and support are most appreciated. Picardy author and local historian Marc Pilot was most helpful with translation and our tour of the area.

Finally, I must thank Ruth Linka at TouchWood Editions for her generous support and encouragement, and my accomplished and professional editor, Marlyn Horsdal, for her perseverance and dedication to the process of turning the manuscript into a book.

Robert W. Mackay's interest in military history is deep in his roots. His father was in the Canadian Cavalry in the First World War, and his brother was a career naval officer. Robert served with the Royal Canadian Navy and the British Navy until 1969. He attended the University of British Columbia and practiced law until his retirement in 2008. He lives with his wife in Surrey,
BC
.
Soldier of the Horse
is his first novel. Visit
robertwmackay.com
or follow Robert on Twitter at
@RobertWMackay
.

Copyright © 2011 Robert W. Mackay

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written consent of the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (access Copyright). For a copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Mackay, Robert W. (Robert William), 1942–
Soldier of the horse / Robert W. Mackay.
Print format: ISBN 978-1-926741-24-6
Electronic monograph in PDF format: ISBN 978-1-926741-34-5
Electronic monograph in HTML forma: ISBN 978-1-926741-35-2
1. World War, 1914-1918—Fiction. I. Title.
PS8625.K397S65 2011 C813'.6 C2010-906349-X

Editor: Marlyn Horsdal
Proofreader: Sarah Weber
Cover image: Alfred Munnings A Canadian Trooper and his Horse (Detail) CWM 19710261-0460 Beaverbrook Collection of War Art © Canadian War Museum
Author photo: Patricia Sandberg