Soldier of the Horse (25 page)

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 occasional 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 tension 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.

Tom dived for Inkmann's gun hand, but only got his wrist. Inkmann slowly won the battle, as the barrel of the revolver, which looked like a 15-pounder to Tom, angled closer, closer—suddenly exploding with a thunderous report.

Tom's left arm lost all strength. He fell back, stunned, a numbing pain in his arm. Inkmann knelt upright, mumbling to himself, oblivious to the gore that streamed from his face and covered the upper half of his body. As he got to his feet he clutched Tom's tunic, again dragging him closer to the tree. Suddenly Tom caught sight of his bayonet where it had fallen to the ground, grasped it with both hands and twisted hard to the left. Inkmann was caught off guard, reaching for the rope still around Tom's neck and pulling on it.

Off balance, Tom swung the bayonet wildly with a scything motion, slicing into Inkmann's tunic. Inkmann looked down, blank-faced, at the cut in his uniform where blood was already seeping. With a bellow he threw himself at Tom, who was struggling to get to his feet. Tom thrust blindly, sinking the fifteen inches of steel bayonet to the hilt in Inkmann's throat. Inkmann lurched backward, clawing wildly at the bayonet as arterial blood spurted. Finally he lay still, his upper body covered in blood.

Tom struggled with the hangman's noose, slackened it enough that he could get it off over his head, then lay back, gasping for air. After a moment he yelled, “René, René,” but heard no response. He clambered to his feet, aware again of the wound in his upper left arm, and floundered in the direction he had last seen René: René, who had saved his life. He found him, flat on his back, eyes open, staring up through the trees at the cloudy sky. Tom knelt and bent over him.

“Where did you come from?” Tom asked, his voice husky.

René looked at him. “That bastard came over to our troop and asked where you were. He was damn near foaming at the mouth. Looked like a dog with rabies.” René laboured, his breathing shallow. “Soon as he heard you'd been sent into the woods he chased after you.”

A fleck of blood appeared at the corner of René's mouth. He spat. “Too many officers around—I couldn't get away 'til just now.” His tunic was soaked in blood. He coughed, and blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth.