“Tom will collect Belle and see she is properly looked after,” said her father in a decided voice. “And I will look after you.”
Tom did collect Belle, who had been taken in hand by the helpful neighbour who had driven them to the hospital. Once Belle was led home, stabled, fed, and watered, John Evans invited him into the house.
“I will be taking Ellen to stay at my sister’s, at Bird’s Hill, in the morning,” he told Tom as Ellen sat, wrapped in a comforter, on a couch. “Anne will be happy to look after her for a few days.”
Tom and Ellen had a few minutes alone in the parlour. She was pale and tired-looking, her arm, with its heavy cast, in a sling. They were both conscious of her father, who hovered in the next room.
“How is Belle?” she asked.
“She’s doing very well, none the worse for wear. But what about you?”
“I think I need sleep. When will I see you?”
“Just as soon as possible.”
Ellen reached toward Tom and he took her hand, which warmed with his touch. “I’ll be away for a few days,” she said. “And then . . .”
“And then, we’ll be together again. You look after yourself, and get better. Don’t worry—I’ll be here when you get back.”
“You’d better be,” she said, giving a toss of her head and doing her best to smile.
♦ ♦ ♦
The long-awaited figurative trumpet call sounded at Fort Osborne Barracks the next day at 0800 hours, when the commanding officer addressed the men of the 1st Reinforcement. “You have until 1600 hours to pack, at which time you will be granted leave until midnight tonight. Final kit inspection and parade take place at 0700 hours tomorrow, after which you will march to the CPR station for entrainment to Halifax and a ship to England to join your regiment. Good luck.”
The rest of the day went by in a blur of packing and double-checking uniforms and equipment. Tom squeezed in a last ride on Rusty, who would be left behind to train the next recruit assigned to him, then rode the streetcar to his family home in East Kildonan.
He tried to reach Ellen on the telephone, but the operator could not connect with anyone named Evans in Bird’s Hill, and there was no answer at the Evans residence. Thoughts of Ellen were uppermost in his mind, making it extra hard to say goodbye to his brothers, sister, and especially his mother, who was not doing well. He worried that he’d never see her again.
His father drove him back to the barracks gate where they stood a moment. Bill put out his hand for Tom to shake, then clasped him in a strong embrace. “Good luck, son. I know you’ll make us proud.”
A sudden upwelling of emotions hit Tom at the thought of not seeing his family or Ellen again, perhaps for years. If ever. But that was too hard a notion and he banished it from his mind. Bill, who had never been a man to show his feelings, held Tom a moment longer, and when they stepped apart he brushed his sleeve quickly across his eyes.
A lump in his throat meant Tom could only mumble, “I will, Dad.” He reached out and touched his father on the shoulder for a moment, then turned and walked into the barracks, a sense of leaving part of himself behind crowding out fear of the unknown.
LIFE AT SEA
♦ ♦ ♦
It seemed to Tom as if one minute he was in Winnipeg and suddenly, the next, he was marching from the Halifax terminal to a dock where the men of the 1st Reinforcement boarded ship. Now that their vessel had butted its way into the teeth of an Atlantic gale, he couldn’t believe there were men who actually enjoyed life at sea. He was on his hands and knees, scrubbing the deck in the officers’ head. As the Royal Mail Ship Cape Wrath rolled, he clung to a water pipe so he wouldn’t carom across the space and crash into a bulkhead. Water in the drains gurgled and growled with the ship’s movements. He felt queasy and didn’t know how long he could handle it—one instant he would be pressed into the deck and seconds later almost weightless, grabbing at whatever was handy to avoid flying through the air. Without warning his stomach rebelled. He bent over the nearest toilet and vomited the dry crackers he had forced down at breakfast.
Physical weakness and a previously unrevealed fear of the sea took hold of him. He staggered down the passageway and onto a ladder to the upper deck. He made it to the leeward rail and hung there, staring down at the grey, heaving seas and shivering in the biting, North Atlantic wind.
A diminutive sergeant named Flowerdew approached along the passageway and stopped, hands clasped behind him. He swayed in time with the gyrations of the deck.
“Keep your eyes on the horizon,” he advised. “I learned that trick on my first crossing. It helps.”
Tom wiped his mouth on his sleeve, waited for his stomach to settle. “Seems to help that my belly is empty now, too.”
Flowerdew nodded and strolled off. He was typical of many who had volunteered as soon as war broke out. British originally, he had homesteaded in Saskatchewan and grown fruit in the interior of British Columbia. When hostilities commenced he had been a junior officer in a reserve cavalry unit, but in order to get into the regular army and go overseas immediately with the cavalry, he resigned his commission and volunteered as a private. Flowerdew made no secret of his ambition to distinguish himself in battle. Tom had heard other sergeants call him “Flowers,” obviously not a reflection on his manhood.
As the fresh, cold air cleared his head, Tom followed Flowerdew’s suggestion and concentrated on the horizon. They had been four days at sea, and for the first time he saw a sleek shape, low on the horizon. When a sailor passed behind him, he called out, “What’s that?”
The sailor squinted. Tom envied him—he didn’t have to hold on to the rail.
“Destroyer. They’ll shepherd us, kind of like sheepdogs. In case of submarines. Of course, they’d be no help against a battleship.” The sailor went on his way, oblivious to both the rolling of the ship and having planted the seed of something new for Tom to worry about.
Tom distracted himself as best he could by focussing on the destroyer as it moved on a parallel course, much faster than the Cape Wrath, a faint blue haze trailing from her funnels. Maybe the sailor was kidding about the battleship.
A pale Bruce Johanson joined Tom at the rail. “I couldn’t stand being down there one more minute. That damn Planck had me shovelling out horse manure. Lance-Corporal Hicks is still down there—he’s worried about horses going down in this weather and not getting back up. I told him I was sick. Sick of being on this tub, more like.”
“Can’t be any worse than scrubbing the deck of a stinking head on your hands and knees.”
“They figure another ten days of this till we get to England.” Johanson’s young face perked up. “Maybe there’ll be some fillies who’ve never met any real cowboys. We can give them a good gallop.”
Spray shot over them as the ship rolled heavily. Tom looked down to see the grey sea foam high against the black hull, and tightened his grip on the rail. “Maybe. Personally, I just want to get on dry land. Fighting the Germans can’t be any tougher than this.”
Johanson went below again to help with the horses. Tom took a last look around but could no longer see the destroyer. He left for his cleaning station, where the drains still gurgled and his stomach still churned.
Next day the weather was worse than ever. Rain and strong winds lashed the sea and huge swells bore down on the Cape Wrath’s starboard bow, adding a sickening pitch to her wild rolls. Aft, where the reinforcements were quartered, the deck corkscrewed under Tom’s feet.
He forced down some dry bread and coffee, then went back to the upper deck to clear his head. A group of miserable soldiers huddled at the base of the ship’s smokestack: the “funnel watch,” sailors called it, where seasick men gathered at the ship’s most stable location.
A corporal joined them and took charge, allocating the men to various housekeeping tasks: cleaning washplaces and heads, helping the cooks with meal preparations, tending to the horses below. Tom got lucky—the corporal ordered him to report to
the cook, to “peel spuds.” At least the galley would be warm and dry. He could wedge himself into a corner with a paring knife and a sack of potatoes.
“One moment, Corporal.” Lieutenant Inkmann had appeared, looking freshly shaved.
“Sir?”
“The officers’ mounts need extra attention in this weather. Macrae needs the experience.” Inkmann turned and walked away, swaying with the roll of the deck.
The corporal had a quizzical expression on his face as he turned toward Tom. “You heard the lieutenant.”
“Bloody hell. Since when does an officer say who does what?” Tom spluttered. It was unusual for an officer to interfere with a noncom’s work, and he didn’t trust Inkmann.
“Since right now. I don’t know what he’s got against you, but get at it. Hicks is already down there. Go give him a hand.”
Tom took a deep breath of the clean air. The cold, wet, upper deck he left behind looked good as he climbed down the series of ladders to the lower hold where the officers’ horses were stabled. On each deck the smell was worse than on the one above it, reeking of hot engine oil and dank air. As he reached the bottom, he felt as though he had descended into a seaborne hell.
He looked around for Eddie Hicks, a gangly young man from Dauphin, Manitoba. He had been an early recruit who just missed the departure of the regiment for Europe, a keen but inexperienced soldier. Down here, the smell of urine and horse manure mingled with the fetid odour of the bilges. Tom steadied himself, clinging to the ladder with one foot on the deck.
The horses were haltered and tied in narrow stalls that had been thrown together in Halifax. One horse lay jammed down on the deck, its head jutting out into the passageway that ran the length of the compartment, its eyes rolling in terror.
Lance-Corporal Hicks yelled, “Get over here, Macrae. Hold his head so I can check him out.”
Tom lurched along the passage, grabbing at posts as he went so the violent heaving of the ship wouldn’t catapult him into the far bulkhead. He hunkered down on his knees by the pitiful animal’s head, one forearm across the long nose, his other hand tightly around the horse’s ear.
“Hold him steady,” said Hicks. “I’ll have a look.” He peered into the dark stall. “Can’t see a thing.” He clambered past Tom to get in closer. The horse twisted its hindquarters off the deck and lashed out with a hoof, catching Hicks on the leg. He dropped with a curse.
Tom hung on until the animal quieted, then shifted to put his knees on either side of its head. He took hold of a groaning Hicks by the shirt with both hands and pulled him out of the stall.
“Feels like my fucking leg is broke,” said Hicks through gritted teeth.
Tom looked around, hoping someone else would appear to lend assistance. “Listen, I’ve got to get help. You’ll have to control this horse.”
“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 Met
is 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.
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