Soldier of the Horse (7 page)

♦  ♦  ♦

Ellen had flushed as she put her teacup down in the exact centre of her saucer. “Really, Daddy. What are you thinking?”

Her father had questioned her about her relationship with Tom, much to her surprise. She had thought of him as hopelessly Victorian, not given to prying into intimate matters.

“I am thinking of you, my dear, as always. You have asked me to help young Macrae. I suspect you may have some feelings for him,” he ventured, and glanced at his daughter. He pushed on. “I am prepared to assist him, on one condition. That you have nothing further to do with him.”

“Father, you're being . . . ridiculous,” Ellen blurted, and wondered at herself. She had never before used such a term in conversation with any man, let alone her father.

Evans frowned. “Perhaps I know you better than you know yourself,” he huffed. “I mean what I say. I will do what I can for Mr. Macrae—for no charge, may I add—but only on the condition that you have nothing more to do with him. I don't like this mess he has gotten himself into, and I don't much care for his prospects.”

Ellen caught herself slumping forward so she deliberately straightened her spine to her full height. Her hands were in her lap, hidden from her father's sight under the dining room table. She crossed her fingers the way she and her mother used to do when they played their game. If their fingers were crossed, they could tell a story with a fib in it, to see if the other player could figure out what was true and what was not. Even without her mother, Ellen still played the game in her mind. Her father had never been in on it. She uncrossed her fingers, flexed them, and picked up her teacup.

Ellen stalled for time while she considered her quandary. There was something solid and reassuring about Tom, above and beyond his rather exciting physical presence, his strong-looking but sensitive hands, his steady grey eyes. And, of course, he had been well on his way to a good career, until the Bloody Jack imbroglio. She didn't want to contradict her father, but after all, it was her life, not his. However, Tom needed her father's help.

“Very well,” she said, meeting her father's worried gaze. “I won't encourage him.”

He had given her a sharp look but said nothing.

♦  ♦  ♦

After lunch the young couple promenaded down Main Street toward the centre of town. Leaves crunched underfoot as they crossed the park in front of City Hall, past the statue of Queen Victoria. Tom took Ellen's hand as they navigated a bit of rough ground, and she didn't take it back.

“Do you think you'll be sent to England?” she asked.

“It's just a matter of time. We're training hard. If you can believe the rumours, they need reinforcements even at this stage, to bring the regiment up to full complement.”

“There's a trickle of wounded men coming in already.”

“There'll be a lot more,” Tom said. The Canadian army was not yet on the continent, so any wounded soldiers Ellen was helping would have served in British units. The Battle of the Marne and then a bloodbath at Ypres in Belgium had left the professional British army in tatters.

“Some of the men I volunteer with are so pathetic, I don't see how they and their families can face their futures.” Ellen stopped walking and clasped both his hands. “You won't get killed, will you? Or crippled?”

“Never thought of it. I've got some time to put in, that's all, and then I'll be back. In one piece.” Tom believed what he said, hoping he wasn't tempting fate.

“You'd better,” she said, and kissed him.

Her lips were sweet, her kiss almost chaste but with the promise of more to come. They walked on, chatting, smiling, nodding at passersby. It was a glorious fall day, the sky blue, the air clear and crisp. Tom felt on top of the world as they walked, hand in hand.

She asked about his family, and he told her about the early days of the Red River Settlement, long before Manitoba was a province. Family stories went back to the days when only the charity of the Indians and Metis had saved the settlers from starvation. His grandmother had been one of the first children born to the Highlanders in their new, often unforgiving land.

“So now you know all about me. Where did your people come from?”

“My mother and father grew up in Ontario and moved to Winnipeg when I was a little girl. I stayed with cousins in Toronto when I went to school there.”

Too soon the sun dropped toward the western horizon. Ellen was due to meet her father at his office for the drive home, and Tom was apprehensive. The last time he had seen John Evans, the older man had shepherded him out the back door of the courthouse after the meeting with Judge Paterson. He didn't know how it had been managed, but the charges against him were dropped. “I'm not sure what your father thinks of me.”

“Your name did come up. But don't worry. I'll have a chat with Daddy. He usually goes along with my . . . foibles, he calls them.”

So that's what he was. A foible. A weakness, a fault. A black mood descended like a curtain in the night. “I wouldn't be a very good catch.”

Ellen pulled him to a stop. She frowned at him and waited until he met her gaze. “You may be the least of my foibles,” she said. “Don't be so sensitive, Tom. It was just a manner of speaking.”

Then he felt silly. He was still off balance and edgy when they reached the McIntyre Block on Main Street and met Ellen's father as he came out of the lobby. In the short time Tom had known him, John Evans had aged. He looked careworn, the lines in his face more pronounced.

“Hello, sir,” Tom said, as Ellen let go of his hand and stood beside her father.

“Good evening, Mr. Macrae.” Evans and Tom shook hands.

Evans cocked his head and looked at Tom like a tailor sizing a customer. “A pleasant afternoon, I trust, Ellen?”

“Yes, Daddy. Mr. Macrae was telling me tall tales about Winnipeg before it became such a metropolis.”

Evans raised his eyebrows. He didn't look amused. Tom doubted that a client had ever had lunch with his daughter, and obviously it bothered him. Or maybe it was just Tom who bothered him.

“It's fortunate that we meet now, Mr. Macrae,” said Evans. “It is imperative that we speak as soon as possible. Can you come to my office at eight o'clock tomorrow morning?”

“Of course. I'll be there.”

Evans nodded and turned to his daughter. “Come along, Ellen. Mrs. Connelly will have dinner waiting for us.”

“Thank you for a delightful lunch,” Ellen said, reaching to brush Tom's arm with her hand, lingering an instant when their fingers touched.

Surprised and pleased at the display of affection, Tom's hand tingled, or at least he imagined it did, as he watched Ellen and her father walk around the corner. His spirits took wing on his own walk to his streetcar, already thinking about when he could next see Ellen.

♦  ♦  ♦

Next morning, a Sunday, Tom was due to report to barracks at noon, so after spending Saturday night with his family, he was in uniform when he arrived at Evans's office, ten minutes early. The outer door was locked, but when he knocked it was opened by John Evans himself. They shook hands, then the lawyer ushered Tom through a well-appointed reception area, down a hall lined with law tomes, and into a corner office. Tom couldn't help noting the contrast between the posh, dark oak panelling and Henry Zink's chaotic premises.

Evans waved Tom into a clients' chair and sat behind his broad desk. It was clear of paper and clutter but for a neat stack of files off to one side. Tom had a moment's regret at the thought that, but for the Kravenko jailbreak fiasco, he might now be practising law in an office with organized files and affluent clients. He placed his peaked cap on the desk in front of him and waited.

Evans spoke without preamble. “Bloody Jack has been apprehended. Your erstwhile principal, Henry Zink, has been formally charged with assisting his escape, as has his employee, Bernard Inkmann, and one of the jailers, who was apparently in on the conspiracy. The jailer has given the police a statement implicating them all. All four are in cells.”

“I'm surprised Bloody Jack didn't make it out of the jurisdiction, even though the police were buzzing around like a bunch of angry hornets.”

“I have been told he was badly injured in his fall from the police station. No doubt it will all be in the papers tomorrow.” Evans gave Tom a sharp glance. “Which brings us back to you and me. We've both been tarred to some extent with the muck of the whole affair, and I wanted this opportunity to drive home to you how lucky you are to be well out of it. But Inkmann and Zink may yet try to paint you into the plot while attempting to exonerate themselves. And there's Inspector Boyle, who was embarrassed by Kravenko's escape and is looking for blood.”

“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.”