Soldier of the Horse

by Robert W. Mackay

  “You didn’t kiss her and hug her in the stockroom?”

  “Is this some kind of joke? Is someone out to get me, making up stories like that?” Harry ventured to put his arms around Ellen to give her a brief hug. “Come on. Let’s walk.”

  Ellen stalked beside him, hands still in her pockets. She wanted to believe him, and it was hard not to. He had looked her in the eye and was genuinely upset, she could see that. She knew some girls could make up stories about relationships. But yet . . . They went west along streets lined with elm trees, naked of leaves. Patches of snow clung to the dead grass on the river’s banks.

  As they came to a cul-de-sac with a small clearing that looked out on the river, Harry fumbled in his pocket, then grasped her left hand. “This may not be the best time for this. But the fact is, Ellen, no other girl means anything to me. I love you, and only you.”

  He turned her hand palm down, and produced a ring which he slipped over her third finger.

  Ellen was in shock. Her mouth flew open, and she covered it with her right hand.

  Harry still held her hand. “Marry me, Ellen. I know there was someone else—I know all about him. But you know we have so much in common. Together we could make a home, move anywhere we want. We can raise a family. I can afford it—I have a promotion coming . . .”

  She put her right hand up in the air, palm toward him. “Harry. This is too much. I need to think.” She took off the ring and held it out to him.

  Harry took her hand in his, folding her fingers over the ring. “Keep it. I am going to convince you. You are going to put it on one day soon, and I’ll be the happiest man in the world. Keep it.”

  Once again, Ellen found herself searching Harry’s open, assured face. The blue eyes, dark hair, elegant nose, and broad mouth. There was a lot to like.

  Harry walked her home and kissed her at the door. Ellen was glad her father was not at home. She knew he approved of Harry, but she was in no mood to listen to his advice. She ran up the stairs, put the ring in a drawer, and sat on the bed, her face in her hands.

  After a while she straightened and shook her head. When Ellen felt at a loss she always turned to the memory of her mother, wondering what she would have done in her place. This time, her mother had no answer for her.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  When the Strathconas arrived at the northwest corner of the roughly triangular Moreuil Wood, the Dragoons were already engaging the enemy on the west side, between the forest and the village of Moreuil, and had swung into the wood itself. Lieutenant Harrower ordered a halt and gathered the men and horses of his troop in a rough circle around him. He and Tom walked their horses from man to man, checking that none of them had been hit, that they were ready for action.

  Tom stopped his horse in front of Reg Simpson, who was pale and staring at the ground. “You okay, Simps?” he asked.

  Simpson didn’t answer. His eyes slid from side to side, not focussing on Tom.

  Tom pushed Toby ahead so he was right beside the private, reached out, and gave him a punch on the thigh.

  Simpson jumped and met Tom’s eye. He looked surprised.

  “Okay, Simpson?”

  Simpson swallowed. “Okay, Sergeant.”

  Tom and Toby trotted back to where Lieutenant Harrower waited at the head of the troop. As they got there, a messenger galloped over from the general’s headquarters a hundred yards away.

  “Lieutenant, you are to report to General Seely immediately for a scouting assignment. Sergeant, you are required as well.”

  Tom was surprised at the request if it meant that both he and Harrower were to be sent off on tasks away from the men of their troop, depriving them of experienced leaders. The brigade was stretched thin, with the Strathconas in reserve, expecting to be thrown into the battle at any moment. Even as he and Harrower trotted by, A and B Squadrons of Strathconas were receiving orders to join the battle in Moreuil Wood. Tom could hear rifle and machine gun fire from the south, where the trees of the wood approached the village of Moreuil. In the distance, aircraft buzzed and droned, circling the forest like buzzards around a sick animal.

  Tom and Harrower dismounted at the corner of the wood where General Seely’s temporary headquarters had been set up. The general’s signal troop and adjutant were in attendance, along with the commanding officers of the three regiments. Messengers were constantly pounding up while others were being dispatched. The general spoke to Harrower and sent him off; he was to take eight men and reconnoitre to the east, to try to gain intelligence of German movements.

  With Lieutenant Harrower away leading a scouting party, Tom, as troop sergeant, would take over as troop leader in his place. But it seemed he also was to be sent somewhere, so the next senior noncom, Corporal Dunnett, would assume command. Perhaps this meant the troop would be held in reserve until Tom and Harrower returned to refill the gap in leadership.

  Tom didn’t like leaving Dunnett in charge. He was a conscientious soldier but too inexperienced to be senior man in a troop of independent-minded men and horses, even if their numbers had been reduced to fewer than thirty by casualties suffered in previous days.

  General Seely was gesturing at a map and then at the wood to the south, while the brigade major and Lieutenant-Colonel Macdonald looked over his shoulder. Macdonald turned to Tom.

  “Look here, Sergeant,” he said, and pointed at the map. “That’s Moreuil Wood, and down to the right of it, at the bottom of the hill, is the village of Moreuil and the Avre River that we crossed to get here. The Dragoons are already engaging the enemy in the wood. We need intelligence, Sergeant. We’ve had no word back from the Dragoons. How bad is it? Can they drive Fritz out the far end? How many Germans are in there, and what artillery or other support do they have?” He gestured at the general, who was speaking to a private manning a radio. “We can’t get a clear picture from the flying corps—radio’s not working worth a damn. And they can’t see much from the air anyway, given the thick woods. You are to get into the woods and make contact with the men in there, preferably some of the Dragoon officers. Find out what you can, and get back here fast. The general needs to know whether to commit more troops or hold onto a reserve. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Off with you then, Sergeant.”

  Tom leapt into the saddle and urged Toby into a canter toward the main part of the forest, only a quarter mile away. The field around him was marked by the passage of horses and men, but he could see breaks in the trees where the Dragoons had pushed into the forest. He slowed Toby, and reined him along the nearest face of the wood until he came to an opening, a slot between the trees.

  They entered a world of dim light, beech trunks, fallen trees, and scattered undergrowth. Ahead of him he heard a furious battle, small-arms fire forming a wall of sound that rushed at him like a cyclone-driven hailstorm. Stray rounds spattered through the leaves overhead or thunked into branches and trunks.

  As he advanced he could hear the shouts and cries of his fellow cavalrymen engaging the enemy in the gloom ahead. A milling mass of horses appeared in front of him, their eyes rolling, great muscles trembling. Handlers struggled to hold them, their riders somewhere ahead in the battle.

  Tom seized his Lee Enfield from its bucket, dismounted, and tied Toby to a tree. He nodded to the handlers, and crept ahead. Almost immediately he came upon a corporal of the Dragoons lying against a tree trunk, pale faced, a private bandaging his arm. Blood seeped through the bandage.

  “Fucking Huns,” said the corporal, to no one in particular.

  “Where’s your troop? Up ahead?” asked Tom.

  The corporal’s eyes flickered, registered. “Yeah—just ahead. Lots of Germans. Watch out for the machine guns.”

  Tom crouched, rifle ready, and moved cautiously toward the sound of firing. He almost tripped over a lieutenant, whom he recognized as a Dragoon squadron leader. He was lying prone, aiming his Webley into a clearing. It was almost quiet as the firing simmered down to an occasio
nal rifle report.

  Tom threw himself to the ground beside the lieutenant. “The general needs intelligence, sir. How many Germans? How are they armed?”

  “There are one hell of a lot of them, I can say that for sure, and they have some automatic weapons. As you can see,” and he gestured left and right at his troops, lying along the edge of the clearing, “it’s heavy sledding. We had to dismount. It’s been hand-to-hand fighting at times. We need any help they can send.”

  “What about the other squadrons?”

  “They’ve got their hands full too. They’re off to the left. They sent a man over a few minutes ago to see if we could assist. I told him no can do.”

  Just then a machine gun opened up from the other side of the clearing, and Tom and the lieutenant buried themselves face down in last year’s leaves. The devastating German Maxim’s deafening chatter sounded like it was ten feet away. Slugs ripped trees and branches just over their heads, then the impacts traversed to their left. A fusillade of rifle fire crackled, and the woods on the other side of the clearing seemed alive, leaves shaking as the steel-jacketed bullets spewed toward the Canadians. A soldier screamed and scrambled back, blood streaming from the side of his head. He writhed in the undergrowth, moaning, both hands to his head, but still had sufficient sense to stay flat.

  Tom wondered if the gunners were close enough to be taken out with a grenade. Suddenly the rifle fire stopped and fifty Germans came roaring out of the woods straight toward him, lobbing grenades, firing as they came, then abruptly falling flat.

  “Down, down,” shouted the lieutenant, and Tom hugged the earth even tighter, as grenades exploded all around him. There was an instant of silence, then the lieutenant was on his knees, waving his revolver. “Let’s go, boys!” and he jumped up.

  Tom was right with him, as all around them the Dragoons leapt to their feet and charged, yelling like banshees. The Germans, too, were up and running forward, trying to get their long Mauser rifles into play. The Canadians were on them, clubbing, shooting, stabbing. From the corner of his eye Tom saw a man to his left flung back as blood sprayed from his neck. In front a grey-uniformed, heavy-set German, not ten feet away, screamed and charged, bayonet aimed at Tom’s face. Tom fired, and the man’s legs gave out. He slid forward, face down, rifle still out in front of him.

  Tom worked the bolt on the Enfield, his rifle again ready to fire. Something hit him from behind and he went down, a Canadian soldier across his legs. Struggling out from under the man, he looked up to see a German sergeant directly in front of him, bringing a Luger to bear. With no time to do anything except violently swing his rifle, he caught the man across the head, felling him like a pole-axed steer. The lieutenant pointed his Webley and shot the German where he lay.

  As abruptly as it had started it was over, the surviving Germans melting into the undergrowth. The Dragoons moved into the woods at the south side of the clearing where the Germans had been two minutes before. Sweating corporals and sergeants detailed men to tend to the wounded and set up perimeter guards.

  “Bastards,” the lieutenant muttered. “But I have to hand it to them. They fight like cornered rats. Tell the general it’s hard going and we can use some help. It’s been like that the whole way. Fritz is not rolling over.”

  Tom scrambled back to where he had left Toby, who seemed unusually nervous, high-stepping and prancing as Tom untied him, then jammed his rifle into its bucket and climbed aboard. The horse-holders were still there. One of them was a man he recognized, an old hand who had been with the Straths before being transferred to the Dragoons.

  “Keep your head down, Sergeant. There’s still lots of Germans around. We pushed past a bunch of them as we came through.”

  “Obliged,” said Tom. “See you later.” He spurred away, wondering if he’d ever see the man again. Casualties were piling up and the Dragoons were paying a heavy price for the ground they won. But now it was vital that he get back to Seely to report on the ongoing fight in the wood.

  Tom pushed Toby to a fast walk, about all they could manage in the forest, blasted as it was by artillery shells and bombs. In places the forest floor was a maze of downed limbs and shattered trunks, with huge, jagged splinters protruding into the air. He let Toby pick his own way but kept him heading north toward Seely’s headquarters. Tom swept his gaze from side to side, keeping a lookout for a flash of German grey.

  A rider appeared ahead and to his right, only forty feet away through the undergrowth and coming toward him. Tom tensed, but recognized a British uniform. The man waved, and Tom pulled Toby to a stop to let him come closer. He was looking around to his rear, then up the left side, watching for Germans, when a heavy blow smashed him from his saddle and drove him to the ground.

  He hit hard, face first, his helmet jammed back, chin strap choking him. Dazed, he struggled to get his hands under him, pushed himself off the ground to his knees, and pulled his helmet off. A tall figure approached. A second blow stunned him again, and he collapsed onto his left side.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  As Tom shook his head to clear it pain shot through his skull to land somewhere behind his eyes. He groaned, realizing that his hands were tied behind his back and he was being dragged backward by the shoulders. Twisting his neck, he looked up into the distorted features of Cedric Inkmann.

  “Awake, are you? Good,” said the captain, red-faced with exertion. “Stand up, damn you,” and he propped Tom against Toby, who shied away. Tom’s knees buckled, and he fell to the ground.

  “Have it your way, then,” Inkmann said. “Stay there. Behave yourself. I have plans for you, Macrae.”

  He walked to his own horse, reached into a saddlebag, pulled out a rope, and threw one end over a tree branch. The knotted end landed a few feet from Tom. He stared, and his guts roiled, seeing the hangman’s noose. The man was mad.

  Tom glanced down. His Webley was gone from its holster; Inkmann must have taken it. I need a weapon, he thought frantically. I need a weapon.

  Inkmann came and stood over him. “Thought you’d get away with it, did you, you lying swine?”

  “I’m not trying to get away with anything, you idiot. I’ve got to get back to the general,” Tom screamed.

  Inkmann did not react in any way, his blank eyes on Tom. “Mother has been writing to me, you see. I know what went on. You and that bastard Zink thought you could frame my little brother, didn’t you? But Bernie . . . Bernie . . .”

  To Tom’s amazement, a single tear coursed down Inkmann’s cheek. Then the man’s face changed again, hardening and twisting into a furious mask. “You lied to the police, you lied to everybody, but you can’t lie to me. My little brother died in prison at the end of a rope, you bastard,” he spat, “and you will too.” He bent, grabbed the noose, loosened it, and dropped it over Tom’s head. Pulling hard on the knot, he slipped it down to rest under Tom’s left ear.

  Christ, Tom gasped, this madman is going to hang me if I let him. He struggled, looking around desperately. There had to be something—then he remembered he still had his bayonet by his right hip. But what good was it? His hands, already going numb, were tied firmly behind his back.

  Inkmann turned, froze in an alert posture, then clamped a sweaty hand over Tom’s mouth, his right hand in the air as if to command silence. Tom became aware of slow hoofbeats approaching from the northwest. Inkmann slithered away, and Tom fell on his side. He pushed his hands down and away, trying to get them past his buttocks and around his feet so they’d be in front of him. He felt his bayonet handle against his forearm, and tried to think. Getting his fingers on the bayonet, he was able to slide it up and out of its scabbard so that it dropped to the ground.

  Inkmann had disappeared.

  Forcing his hands as far apart as he could and jamming his right one lower, Tom dropped his shoulder enough that he was able to get his hand down past his buttock. His chest was constricted; he couldn’t breathe. The noose around his neck was choking him and he reared back to ease the t
ension on the rope.

  Fighting hard to expel yet more air, he scrunched his body even tighter to allow more play to his arms. His bindings were cutting his wrists; his hands felt as though they were going to fall off. Another hard exhale—and then his hands were down to the backs of his knees. He lay still, cramped in the fetal position. Where was Inkmann?

  He could still hear hoofbeats plodding slowly, branches snapping as an unknown rider moved through the wood. Then they stopped. He pictured someone out there, maybe scratching his head, trying to figure out what was going on, when he heard a roar from Inkmann, a yell, and pounding as a horse was spurred into action. The shouting continued as Tom struggled to his knees in time to see a mounted René Carbonnier, sword extended straight at Inkmann, who rose from behind a log and aimed his revolver. René’s horse plunged ahead as Inkmann fired. René was flung backward off his saddle, his sword flying up, raking Inkmann’s face.

  Inkmann screamed and clasped his left hand to his face, blood flowing between his fingers. René’s horse galloped away. Tom could no longer see René anywhere. He struggled to get his right foot through the bindings on his wrists; they caught on his spur. Squeezing the last breath out of his lungs, he freed his right foot. The left one was easy. Now his hands were in front of him. He heard Inkmann stumbling back toward him.

  “Redskin bastard. Red-bastard-red-bastard-red-bastard. You’re all the same. But I got him, and now I’ve got you, you son of a bitch,” he sobbed.

  Tom lay still on his right side, hunched over. He hoped the berserk Inkmann wouldn’t notice that his hands were now bound in front of him and not behind. Inkmann threw his revolver to the ground, reaching for Tom with both hands. Blood poured from the wound that split his face as he started to drag Tom toward the tree. Gathering his feet under him, Tom surged upright, catching Inkmann in the chest and knocking him to the ground. Tom landed on top of him, pounding as hard as he could with his clasped hands. He gasped for breath. Inkmann was down but not out, both hands up, protecting himself. Tom swung again and blood spattered from Inkmann’s lacerated face. Inkmann’s right hand snaked out and snatched up his revolver.