Soldier of the Horse

by Robert W. Mackay

  But his mood shifted again. The bastards. Who the hell do they think they are? What does some quack know about what Tom Macrae would or would not be able to do?

  Smitty woke up on the outskirts of Southampton and guided them to their destination in the blacked-out city. When they got to the hospital, it turned out to be a segregated portion of a large freight terminal, with makeshift facilities and a harried team of nurses tending to the patients.

  The Canadians were assigned beds and examined by the staff. Two nurses, one with the ever-present clipboard and the other doing the work, told Tom that he and the others would be aboard ship by morning. They removed his bandages and examined his wounds. When they finished they left his legs exposed.

  “We’ll have Doctor check you out,” said the tall one, not smiling.

  Tom didn’t like the sound of that.

  A pale man in a white coat with a stethoscope around his neck came and looked at Tom. He tapped his chest and listened to his heart, and paid particular attention to his legs. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said. “Not with that infection.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Tom missed the scheduled sailing date by two weeks: two weeks of relative calm in Southampton Hospital, where civilian nurses and doctors cleaned his wounds, applied sulpha drugs, and kept him still, with only loose dressings to allow healing. He wrote letters to his family but any mail coming the other way didn’t catch up with him. The Canadian army seemed to have lost track of Sergeant Tom Macrae. His wounds healed slowly and were finally pronounced acceptable for travel by the pale young doctor, so once more he was sent off, this time to a passenger terminal. Peacetime posters on the wall touted Cunard liners, urging travellers to sail the blue Atlantic to the New World.

  The SS Berkley, a ten-thousand-ton general cargo freighter converted to carry troops, was no Cunarder. Her hull was black riveted steel, her decks rusty under peeling paint. On October 12, 1918, she slipped from her berth and proceeded from Southampton en route to Halifax, carrying a mixed complement of wounded soldiers, German prisoners of war, and military personnel on duty.

  The Berkley’s officers and crew were a fatalistic bunch. The constant threat of German U-boats and four years of non-stop trips back and forth across the Atlantic had worn them down. The bosun told Tom he had already survived one torpedoed ship and hated to go below decks in case he was trapped there by another attack.

  Tom spent his days trying to distract himself from his physical pain. Sympathetic medical staff on board were willing to help, which meant he could have morphine when he needed it, but he tried to avoid it. He stayed on the upper deck as much as possible, his wheelchair braced against the funnel, gazing out at the North Atlantic, its familiar grey tones giving the lie to the posters in Southampton. The weather alternated between windy and cold, and windy, wet, and cold. When it was bad he was forced below, carried down by medical attendants, where he was wedged into his bunk for hours at a stretch with too much time to think about how things had changed for him.

  One minute he had been a warrior, untouched physically by the war, in the prime of life, strong and healthy, albeit generally hungry. He knew his job and was rewarded for it by the respect of his subordinates and commanders alike. The regiment, with all its warts, was family. Now he was crippled, down to skin and bone. No prospects, his career long gone, no Ellen, no plan. He was determined he’d get back to health, but in darker moments he acknowledged to himself that he might never be whole again.

  He may have lost Ellen, but hell, if she wasn’t already married, there was still hope. And he hadn’t actually lost his legs; they were still there, weren’t they?

  Tom was on the upper deck when a lookout shouted, “Land ho!” At first he saw nothing but the grey fog that enveloped the ship. Then a dark, low band coalesced, dreamlike, as the Nova Scotia shoreline appeared and disappeared in the billowing mist. One minute it was there, the next it was gone: his first sight of home, although not the hoped-for welcoming vista.

  When they got alongside, Halifax was a drizzly, cold nightmare. Able-bodied passengers rushed ashore, but medical staff insisted all others be placed on stretchers, and they waited on the open deck for hours, fog condensing on their bedding. At last it was Tom’s turn to be carried, feet first and shivering in sodden blankets, down the steep gangplank. He held onto the sides of the stretcher, resisting gravity, afraid he’d be dropped into the murky water of the harbour.

  The wounded were deposited in a dockside shed, where another long wait ensued. No one paid any attention to the by-now thirsty and hungry men. Tom undid the straps that secured him to the stretcher, pushed back his blankets, and laboriously swung his feet down to the rough plank floor. Shivering, he was still cold but immediately felt better, just to be sitting up. He dug out and lit a cigarette, sharing his pack with the men around him.

  At last the patients were transported to yet another hospital. There was no time to settle into a routine or get proper attention—the Halifax hospitals were jammed. Tom spent three days sleeping on his stretcher in a hall, feeling as though his legs were seizing up on him through lack of use. Harried officials would appear from time to time, checking off names on clipboards, avoiding questions from the grumpy veterans.

  Finally the big day arrived, and Tom and two hundred other military personnel were trundled in ambulances and trucks to the main rail station. The chaotic scene was like something out of hell, locomotives belching steam onto passenger platforms jammed with people, mostly men in uniform. Attendants transferred Tom from his stretcher to a wheelchair and then to a lower berth, inadvertently forgetting to remove the wheelchair in the pandemonium of dealing with so many wounded men. Tom commandeered two ambulatory privates to help him out of the berth and into the wheelchair while they converted the bunk back to seating configuration. He had no intention of arriving in Winnipeg as a bedridden cripple; better the wheeled vehicle. After a maddening wait the carriage lurched slowly into motion, gliding out of the terminal and into the fading light of a frustrating day.

  The next morning Tom was surprised when a familiar face came into view in the train corridor and shouted a greeting. His old friend Bill Reagan from the Fort Garry Horse pounded him on the back. Bill was missing his left forearm—he had been wounded on the same day as Tom. He had been on foot in Moreuil Wood when an artillery shell exploded a few yards away and had survived only because his horse was between him and the blast.

  “I’ll never forget that horse,” he told Tom. “He was a walleyed son of a bitch, kept trying to kick me every time I saddled him up. Had to watch him all the time. Hell, he even tried to bite our adjutant one time during an inspection. Guess he wasn’t all bad.” He laughed between draughts on a bottle of rum he had smuggled on board, sharing it with Tom.

  “Funny, though. I swear that horse calmed down all of a sudden and for five minutes before he bought it he followed me around like a dog. Now what would make a horse do that, all of a sudden? I tied him to a tree because he was getting in the way and I didn’t want him shot. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

  Tom thought about Toby, his last mount. Maybe his last ever. They had been together only a matter of days, but in those days they had done a lifetime of fighting, and more. Toby had carried him faithfully in numerous skirmishes and up the draw to the last battle either of them would see. They had pressed home their attack, and Toby had paid the ultimate price. Then, even in death, he had protected Tom.

  “Hey, I guess you were there when Flowerdew earned his Victoria Cross?” Reagan asked.

  “I was there.”

  “Did he know he was leading you into the teeth of the Germans? Or was it a surprise?”

  “Damned if I know. For sure, I didn’t see them until we galloped around the corner of the wood.” Tom thought a minute. “He always did want to die a hero, if it came to dying.” That reminded him of another ferocious VC warrior. “Last time I saw Lieutenant Harvey, he was on foot, going into the wood to take on the Germans in there
. What have you heard of him?”

  “Going strong. Still with the Straths.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  On the last night, Tom lay wide awake in his bunk. When he was younger, the train would put him to sleep, with its hypnotic rhythms. Now, he was aware of every lurch, every switch they clicked over. For three days he had gazed as if in a dream at the unfolding countryside. The woods and rivers of the Maritimes had given way to the cities of Quebec and Ontario, and now to the dark green forests and granite-fringed lakes of the Canadian Shield.

  The dream was coming to an end; the train was only a half day short of Winnipeg, where his family would be waiting. He pictured his mother as he had last seen her, tired from the cares of a large family, worn down by the death of his brother earlier. He hoped she’d feel better once he was home. His father would be puffing on a pipe, while his younger brothers and sister would be in their best clothes to welcome him home. Maybe they’d come on board to help him off. Not that he had much to carry: duffle bag, his wheelchair, his crutches. And himself. That might be the toughest part.

  And what about Ellen? He’d have to get mobile so he could go see her, reassure her. He’d win her back again, if she hadn’t done anything final and was not married already.

  A mournful howl from the steam whistle up front told him they were crossing yet another country road, rattling through sparse, one-horse towns on the mainline north of Lake Superior. He stared at the bottom of the berth above him, where Bill Reagan’s snores waxed and waned as he tossed around. Overheated air, redolent with men’s breath, cigarette smoke, and alcohol fumes drifted across his face.

  After leaving the Lakehead at Fort William the train picked up speed, and with it the atmosphere cleared. Many of the veterans were due to leave the train in Winnipeg, and for those going on there would be a short layover.

  Bill paced up and down the passageway, stooping often to peer out the windows and identify landmarks. Most of the returning soldiers were disabled, some of them, like Bill, missing hands or feet. When the train left Halifax they had been excited; now, as many of them neared home, they were quiet, almost fearful, it seemed.

  Tom too was nervous. He didn’t know what he was going to do with his life. He was still in the army but presumably not for long.

  Suddenly Reagan, at an open window, let out a yell. “St. Boniface! I can see the edge of town.”

  Tom sat as tall as he could, peering between the shoulders of the men on their feet who crowded the windows. He had an impression of buildings, then open space as the train crossed the Red River and eased the last quarter mile into the station.

  Men leaned out of the train, waving and shouting, as the railcar gave a last jerk amid the dying squeal of brakes and the distant hiss of steam. Doors at both ends of the carriage banged open and the excited men charged off. Tom watched as the compartment cleared out. Reagan was the last to leave, and then there was silence.

  He was trying to figure out how to get to his wheelchair, now stowed at the forward end of the car, when there was a scuffling sound at the doorway, and Bill reappeared, a grin splitting his face. His cap was gone and there was lipstick on his cheek.

  “Tom! Tom! Get up!”

  “What?”

  “She’s here, you fool. Come on. They’re all here.” He waved. He had Tom’s chair and pushed it to him. Tom lunged up, grabbed a seatback, and pulled himself upright on his shaking legs. The hell with the wheelchair.

  “My crutches, Bill. They’re under the seat.”

  Bill pulled out the crutches. “Never mind those,” he yelled. “Come on! I’ll help you out.”

  Tom reached for the crutches. “Stand back, old pal.” He planted himself with his left hand on the back of a seat, clutched his crutches in his right and leaned on them as he struggled toward the front of the compartment. Then, with one hand on the handrail, crutches in the other, Bill hovering behind, he levered himself down the steps. Once he was on the platform he pulled himself erect, a crutch under each arm. He swayed but caught his balance, pain shooting through both legs and a trickle of sweat running down his back. He looked up, across the crowded platform, and saw his family, just as he had pictured them.

  And there was Ellen, off to one side, only feet behind them, hands clasped in front of her. She was taller than he remembered, and her eyes were bluer. She wore a black suit with a white blouse, a red scarf at her throat. An uncertain smile lit up her face. She was the prettiest thing he had ever seen.

  Tom’s family exploded around him, laughing and talking. His mother was crying, and he thought his chest would burst open with the joy that welled up. He was home. He was alive. There were tears in his eyes, tears of relief, of happiness. And through them, as the hubbub died down, he saw Ellen, still standing alone.

  He got his crutches under his armpits, his hands on the grips, and started toward her. She ran to him, and the next instant his crutches fell and she was in his arms. Somehow, they stayed on their feet.

  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 sprinkli
ng 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.