Soldier of the Horse

by Robert W. Mackay

  Paterson went on to recount what Tom already knew from Evans. He added, “I have just learned that a court clerk, who had been working late and chanced by, was shot by Kravenko after he descended from the top floor of the jail. The clerk identified Bloody Jack as the man who shot him. I also know that Inspector Boyle, the officer in charge, wants to see you all in Stony Mountain. You should know that Zink is a dangerous man—and a very capable one. In order to save his own skin he’s pointing the finger in all directions, but most specifically at you, Tom.”

  The mention of Stony Mountain sent a shiver up Tom’s spine. An overnight cell in the police lockup was one thing. Stony Mountain Penitentiary was quite another.

  Tom’s father leaned forward and spoke. “Judge Paterson has a proposition for you.”

  Tom looked at the judge.

  “Tom, your law career may be over. Inspector Boyle is convinced you were involved in the jailbreak and will hound you until he gets a conviction. Even if you avoid him and are not convicted of anything, I doubt that the Law Society would ever admit you. Dirt will stick to you as this fiasco unfolds, and the leaders of the Law Society are not known for their generosity in admitting men of doubtful character.”

  Tom felt blood rush to his face. He had been dragged into a courtroom and embarrassed, and that was bad enough. Now here was a judge of the highest court in the province implying he was a dupe or worse.

  Paterson’s gaze flicked across a framed photograph on the side table. “There is a way out. With honour, that will wipe the slate clean. The British Empire is in the utmost need of men in Europe. My own son . . .” He paused, and Tom looked more closely at the photograph—a young man in an officer’s uniform. He glanced back at the judge, whose face had slackened as if it were dissolving. With a visible effort Paterson regained control of his voice, and Tom knew for a certainty, even as the judge spoke again, that Paterson junior would not be coming home from the war. “You can volunteer for the army. A short stint overseas and all will be forgotten. You can pick up again—go into business. Who knows, perhaps you’ll get some satisfaction from serving your country and make a career of it.”

  Make a career of the army? Fat chance of that. But if he didn’t take this way out, he’d be back in jail with Zink. He knew Zink was a bulldog, a tenacious fighter who never gave up. Tom doubted that his protestations of innocence could overcome whatever tale Zink concocted, and Boyle, the policeman, would just as soon lock up the lot of them.

  Tom couldn’t face more handcuffs, another jail cell. And there was another consideration: his mother, who was not well in any event, simply could not cope with her eldest son ensconced as a permanent guest of His Majesty.

  A career in the law had been his ambition, and lawyers his heroes. His goal was slipping away, and his heroes had feet of clay. He felt as though he were drowning, and Judge Paterson was throwing him a life preserver. Tom looked the judge in the eye. The hell with the law and the hell with lawyers. Unlike the judge’s son, he’d be back. But first things first.

  “It’s a deal,” he said. “Just get me out of here.”

  THE RELUCTANT HORSEMAN

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Tom pulled at his starched white collar, and a trickle of sweat ran down his neck. He sat bolt upright on a wooden bench, his muscular frame in a blue serge suit, a stark contrast to the figures on either side of him. To his left was a lanky young man in denim and high-heeled riding boots, spurs, and a black Stetson. The one on his right wore low-heeled boots, riding breeches, and a buckskin coat. The hat was a giveaway—also a Stetson, but flat-brimmed.

  Tom had shaken hands with them—Bruce Johanson, cowboy, and Gordon Ferguson, ex-North West Mounted Policeman—and now the three of them fidgeted in the off-green orderly room of Fort Osborne Barracks, Winnipeg.

  A corporal, partially hidden behind a desk piled high with papers and buff-coloured files, stopped typing and ripped a form from the carriage. “Macrae,” he said. Tom stood and walked to the desk. “Read this. Check it’s accurate.”

  The form was on legal-size paper—did the army know how ironic that was?—and headed “Attestation Paper; Canadian Over-Seas Expeditionary Force.” Next of kin, address, marital status. It would bind Tom to serve for at least a year, more if required, during the “war now existing between Great Britain and Germany,” or “until legally discharged.” He had to swear to be faithful and bear true allegiance to King George the Fifth, and to obey “all the Generals and Officers set over me.”

  He didn’t really pay much attention. He would sign it whatever it said. He picked up a straight pen off the desk and dipped it into the corporal’s inkpot.

  “Just a minute, Macrae. We need an officer to witness.” The corporal knocked on a door behind his desk.

  A moment later it opened and a bulky man in khaki walked out. It was Cedric Inkmann. He looked at the form and then at Tom. “Well, well. Tom Macrae.”

  Tom kept his mouth shut.

  “Read the oath aloud, Mr. Macrae.”

  He did so.

  “Sign it in three places, Mr. Macrae.”

  He signed. In three places, beside the Xs. In triplicate.

  Inkmann signed as witness, picked up the papers. “Welcome to the Canadian army, Private.”

  “Thank you,” said Tom, his voice neutral.

  Inkmann kept his eyes on Tom. “Corporal,” he said, “once you have cleaned up your paperwork and uniforms have been issued, kindly march Private Macrae to the parade square. Explain to him, while he doubles for ten minutes, that he must address officers as ‘sir.’”

  The corporal jumped to his feet. “Yes, sir!”

  Tom wondered if the penitentiary might have been a better option.

  Inkmann went back into his office and shut the door. The corporal sat and processed the next set of documents, the thick sandwich of paper and carbons grinding through his typewriter as he hammered on the keys. When Johanson and Ferguson were sworn in, they addressed Inkmann as “sir.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Uniforms were issued. The corporal sent Johanson and Ferguson off to barracks, and marched Tom to the parade square. It was at least as long as a football field, and those hundred yards witnessed his inauguration into all things military. He learned that “double” meant “run”, that new army boots were painful to run in, and that corporals did not like to do extra work in order to punish enlisted men. Corporal Baker took out his pique on Tom. When he was finally dismissed he had blisters on both feet, and he limped off to barracks.

  Next morning Tom was one of thirty men fallen in on the parade square where, standing at attention in three ranks, they were yelled at by Corporal Baker and an enthusiastic henchman with one chevron on his arms—a lance-corporal, Tom had learned. The mysteries of standing at attention, standing at ease, stepping off with the left foot, turning and wheeling were drummed into the recruits.

  After an hour of this they were dismissed and ordered to gather around a sergeant who stood at one end of the square, watching. He was a tall, angular man with a scarred face who looked as though he had been through the wars. The campaign ribbons on his tunic removed all doubt.

  “Has to be regular army,” Ferguson, the ex-Mountie, muttered in his Scottish burr.

  The sergeant’s glare quieted the men in a hurry. “My name is Quartermain. I will be in charge of you while you are here in Winnipeg Depot. You have all volunteered for the army, and the army will make use of you. You will go overseas within weeks. You have a lot to learn. From now on you will be known as the 1st Reinforcement. You will join my regiment, Lord Strathcona’s Horse, as fast as I can get you there. You can consider yourselves lucky to be posted to the army’s top cavalry unit. Any questions?”

  Hell, Tom thought. Now that he looked more closely, he saw that Quartermain wore spurs on his boots. On reflection, there had been a lot of horses and horsemen at the barracks, but it had never occurred to him he’d be in the cavalry.

  When Tom was a boy, his mother had a small g
elding called Charlie. She would have Tom’s father hitch Charlie to her buggy so she could do her errands and take the kids for rides to town. Charlie was spoiled and hard to handle.

  Once, when Tom was twelve, he was sent to the pasture to catch Charlie. Charlie didn’t want to be caught and kept turning away, presenting his fat rump so Tom couldn’t get a rope on him. Annoyed, Tom had grabbed Charlie’s tail and given him a smack with the coiled rope. The horse promptly kicked Tom in the face with both hind hoofs. He never went near another horse without thinking about his broken nose and loosened teeth.

  Sergeant Quartermain dismissed the men. Tom was still thinking about his broken nose and hurried off to talk to Corporal Baker in the orderly room.

  “What do you mean, you don’t want to ride horses? You’re in the bloody cavalry, soldier,” Baker bellowed at Tom, who stood at attention.

  “Well, Corporal, couldn’t I have some sort of different job, one where I don’t have to ride?”

  “Sure, Macrae. The army exists just so guys like you get to do whatever you want. But don’t worry. If you can’t ride, the sergeant will see you get sent to the infantry. All you have to do is fall off your horse a lot.” He gave Tom a malevolent grin. “Think your feet are sore now? You’d enjoy the infantry. Now get out of my office and report to barracks along with the rest of the reinforcement.”

  Tom went. He would put up with the cavalry. He had only ever met one infantryman, and it still gave him the shakes to think about it.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  A couple of weeks after the Evans garden party, Tom had been working late one night doing research at the courthouse library. As had happened so often recently, he found himself picturing Ellen at the party, her ready smile and easy way of speaking distinguishing her from other girls he knew. Her tall and slender but generous figure flitted through his mind’s eye, her obvious charms not at all hidden by the voluminous fashions of the day. On the spur of the moment he decided to try to meet her at the General Hospital where she volunteered, assisting in the treatment of wounded veterans. He walked up Notre Dame, turned north on Sherbrook, and in minutes reached the hospital.

  The old building was gloomy at night, a frame structure with steps leading up from the sidewalk to double doors under a pillared porch. Inside, a woman behind a counter bent over some papers. Tom told her he had an urgent message for Ellen. She gave him a doubtful look but directed him to the top floor.

  Tom hesitated but carried on, feeling like an interloper, seeking Ellen out here at her work. He had contrived to see her briefly once or twice since the garden party, always in the company of others, and had found out she had an older brother who was in the British army, but no other close relatives except her father.

  He climbed the stairs and looked down a long, poorly lit hall that smelled of floor wax and disinfectant. At the far end a young woman in a white nurse’s uniform appeared briefly before going through a doorway. Tom approached the door where he saw a name tag pinned to the door frame. Sergeant D. Grey. He peered in.

  The nurse and Ellen were side by side, facing a bed, their backs to him. Ellen, wearing a white nurse’s outfit, straightened a pillow as Tom cleared his throat, and they both turned.

  “Tom!” Ellen exclaimed, her eyes widening. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was in the area anyway, thought I’d see what you were up to.”

  Ellen flushed. The nurse had paused, a spoon halfway to their patient, who sat upright, propped in place with pillows.

  “If you want dinner, you’ll have to get in line,” the man croaked. His eyes slowly turned toward Tom, then just as slowly slid back to the nurse.

  “He shouldn’t be up here,” the nurse muttered.

  “I’ll be finished in a few minutes,” Ellen said to Tom, sounding vaguely annoyed. “You can wait for me downstairs.”

  The nurse brought her spoon to the man’s mouth. He opened it and swallowed. A big man, Tom saw: barrel-chested, with a drawn face and lifeless eyes, gowned from the neck down. He couldn’t feed himself—he had no arms.

  The horror of Grey’s helplessness struck Tom like an unexpected blind-side tackle, and he got out of there fast. He thought he was going to vomit but made it to the street and sucked in some cool night air. In his mind he pictured the blood pounding in his arteries and veins, muscles working, air pumping in and out of his lungs. It made him feel a little better.

  Poor, damned Sergeant Grey. Pitiful sod probably thought he was serving King and Country, saving the Empire On Which the Sun Never Set. Well, he had paid a high price. God help me if I ended up like that, Tom thought. I’d go mad. He shivered, and sat on the top step.

  He wasn’t there long before he heard the door open behind him. He turned and saw Ellen, now in a dark brown suit with a bright blue scarf. He jumped to his feet.

  “Really, Tom, you shouldn’t barge in when I’m volunteering.” She wagged her finger at him, even as a bit of smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

  “I thought I’d see what you did with yourself besides attend garden parties.” Tom immediately felt as though he’d pulled his hand off a hot stew pot and jammed it into the coals. This wasn’t going well. He added in a conciliatory voice, “You did look pretty busy.”

  “I am pretty busy. And I can assure you it’s not all garden parties. Daddy wants me to continue with university, but I’m spending more and more time helping out at the hospital. People say there will be many more wounded before the war is over. Anyway, let’s not talk about that. You can walk me to my streetcar, as long as you’re here.” She took his arm.

  Tom was thankful he had weathered that little storm, but he couldn’t get the image of the armless man out of his mind. “I have to admit, you won’t find me tending to the likes of Sergeant Grey.”

  “Then it’s a good thing I’m here to do it, isn’t it?”

  They walked most of a block before Tom asked, “What happened to him, anyway?”

  “The story I heard was that a grenade landed beside him and his men. Sometimes they have time to throw them back before they explode, but this one went off as he was reaching for it. He had awful wounds, and they had to amputate. Nobody knows what will become of him.”

  “Heaven help me if I’m ever fool enough to enlist. If I do, you have my permission to take me out and shoot me.”

  “That’s a stupid thing to say, when good men are dying every day. Some things are worth fighting for. Underneath it all you’re probably as patriotic as the rest of us.”

  Sure. But not to the point of getting myself blown up. Tom kept the thought to himself.

  Ellen spoke. “Did you know my brother was injured in Belgium?”

  “No! Is he going to be all right?”

  “He has a broken back.” She bit her lip. “They say he won’t walk again.”

  Tom gaped at her. “When did this happen?”

  “Just a month ago. He was in the militia here in Canada, but he was in England on business when the war broke out and he accepted a commission in the British regular force. He was injured in the first weeks of the war. They’ll be shipping him home soon. I feel badly for his wife, and to make matters worse, she’s pregnant, with the baby due any day. It should be a happy time for her, but I’ve never seen anyone so sad.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “I’m sure I will be able to help. It’s important that we be cheerful around him, the same as I am with Sergeant Grey. But I don’t have to spend my life with Sergeant Grey. A few hours a day is one thing—a lifetime is another.” Ellen was quiet for a few steps, then seemed to shake herself out of her mood. “Now what about you? You’ll become a lawyer when you finish your articles?”

  “Absolutely. One more year to go.”

  “I don’t know how you can defend someone you know is guilty.”

  “Well, the theory is, everyone deserves counsel, guilty or not. If you start acting only for the people you believe innocent, you’re no longer a lawyer—you’re doing the jury�
��s job. Anyway, I’m not interested in defending criminals. They aren’t usually nice people.”

  “Daddy mainly works for businessmen—banks and clients like that. But I worry about him. My mother died two years ago, and now that I’m back home to stay, I can see he’s changed a lot. He misses her, I know, and he works too hard.”

  “Don’t worry,” Tom said. “When I get called to the bar, I’ll set up an office and he can come work with me. He can do all the easy cases.”

  “Very generous,” Ellen laughed.

  As they strolled along Notre Dame, Ellen’s streetcar rumbled up and squealed to a stop. She gave Tom a kiss on the cheek and ran up the steps.

  Tom smiled and waved at her as the streetcar jerked and started away. He watched it fade from the illuminated circle of the streetlight and dwindle into the distance and, as the image of the streetcar faded, a vague feeling welled up within him. He wanted Ellen. Wanted to have her, wanted to be with her, no matter what it took. There was a spring in his step as he set off for home.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “TRRROT—march,” bellowed Sergeant Quartermain. Tom clucked his tongue and tickled Rusty with his spurs to pick up the pace. He was third in a line of thirty mounted recruits, sweating under the unseasonably hot prairie sun that beat down on the parade ground of Fort Osborne Barracks. Saddles and bridles gleamed. The troop of reinforcements had spent a week marching, cleaning and saddle-soaping tack, polishing leather and brass, and mucking out stables before they had been granted the privilege of mounting their horses.

  Quartermain’s peaked cap was pulled down so the brim was a finger’s-breadth above his nose. He sat his charger, ramrod straight, double reins in his fists as the mounted recruits trotted by.

  “Walk.”

  Just in time. Despite having ridden a lot as a child, Tom had not been on the back of a horse for a year; already his thighs and buttocks ached.

  The sergeant spurred his horse into a canter, swinging in front of the troop and raising his hand. “Halt.” Turning, he rode slowly back along the line of mounted privates. “Call that riding? You look like a bunch of backwoods clodhoppers. You,” he bellowed, pointing his crop at Bruce Johanson, who was right in front of Tom. “Sit up in the saddle like you know what you’re doing. Chin in. Back straight.”