Soldier of the Horse (9 page)

Ferguson nudged Tom in the ribs. “I don't think he likes ye much. What'd ye do t' him?”

“I knew his brother back when. It's a long story.”

“Cut the cackle on the firing line,” Planck interrupted. “Back you go, men. Prone position, stand by to reload.”

Johanson spoke up. “Hell, Sergeant, why don't we fire standing up? See who can really shoot?”

“Standing? Let's see you cowboys show me you can shoot prone first. I haven't seen much yet.”

An hour later, amid grumblings about tender shoulders, Planck decided they'd had enough. Tom's ears were still jangling from the gunfire, but his shooting was the best of the lot. Shooting had always seemed straightforward: line up the sights, deep breath, let half out, stay on the target, squeeze, and . . . fire.

Planck turned to Tom. “Where'd you learn how to shoot, Private?”

“When we were kids we had to get a rabbit with a .22 before we had any breakfast.”

Johanson had walked up. “Don't give us that! I know you Red River types—you'd have oatmeal, not rabbit. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

Planck interrupted. “Right—enough chatter. Fall in.”

The men shambled to attention and squared off.

“Right turn. Quick—march!”

Planck drove the men hard all the way to their barracks, at times halting them, turning them back, then marching them forward again. Whenever he was out of earshot, the privates kept up a running commentary about Limeys, sergeants, and other irritants.

Ferguson panted, “How come, for Christ's sake, we sign up to fight the Hun and we have t' fight the army first? And I thought the police force was hidebound!”

Tom laughed.

Planck stopped the section and stalked from one end of the line of men to the other, eyeing each of them. He stopped a foot from Tom. “So we're pretty tough, are we? Spoiling for a fight? Is that what you want?”

What Tom wanted was to get dismissed, now that they were back at barracks, and make use of a weekend pass. Mixing it up with a sergeant would not help with that. “No, Sergeant.”

“Easy to talk, isn't it?” Planck snarled, once again pacing in front of the men. “What makes you think you can fight the Hun if you don't even have the guts to take me on?”

A voice piped up from down the line, “I'll fight, Sergeant!”

“Who said that?”

“I did, Sergeant,” volunteered Martens, the nineteen-year-old.

“Well, good for you,” said Planck. “I like a man who'll own up.” He undid his jacket, folded it, and handed it, along with his cap, to Tom.

Here we go again, thought Tom. He watched as Planck snapped his suspenders and rolled up the sleeves of his undershirt. Martens threw off his jacket and cap, turning his back on Planck and winking broadly at his comrades.

The men in other sections were taking a break and sensed something was happening. A growing crowd of wisecracking Canadians gathered to watch as Planck prepared to take on yet another private.

Martens squared off with Planck, right hand close to his chin, left ready to jab, left foot forward. Planck moved cautiously, fists up. Tom could see what was going to happen. Martens was lined up to box, but he was keeping the weight off his back leg. He's heard about Ferguson kicking Planck, and he's going to do the same thing. Tom almost felt sorry for the sergeant.

The two men circled each other warily, Planck leading with his left, even more than he had done when fighting Ferguson. Martens held back, waiting for an opportunity to lash out.

Planck shot out a left jab, straight from his shoulder. Martens ducked it and turned to his left, giving Planck an opening. The sergeant swung his right foot hard, catching Martens in the crotch. He followed up with a sharp left hand to the jaw that put the kid down on the ground with an audible thump.

The silence that followed was broken only by groans from Martens.

Planck retrieved his cap and put it square on his head. Tom handed him his tunic. Planck draped it over his forearm.

“Carry on, men,” he said, “and report to stables at 1900 hours for that extra time you earned with your horses.”

♦  ♦  ♦

It was mid-November, and the ground was covered in early snow. Ellen was up before sunrise, dressed in woollen stockings and layers of warm clothing. With the part-time cook's assistance she packed a lunch of sandwiches and thermos bottles of hot soup.

Ellen knew Tom and her father had met on the day following her lunch with Tom, and John Evans had not been in a good mood afterward. A few days later, over breakfast, she had brought up the topic. “Is Tom finally clear of that jailbreak business?”

Her father had been very deliberate in his response. He put down his coffee. “My dear, Mr. Macrae is a client. We met at my office. I gave him some advice. But yes,” he allowed, “I believe he will soon be clear of the Zink fiasco.”

“I do enjoy his company, Daddy. He won't be in Canada for much longer.”

Ellen's words, meant to allay her father's disapproval of Tom, were proving prophetic. The war news was grim. The Canadian Expeditionary Force was still in England but expected to see action soon. Everybody assumed more men would be on their way overseas within days.

Ellen knew that her father didn't like the attention Tom was paying her, but in spite of that, she had asked if she and Tom could take her high-spirited mare and cutter for a drive into the country. Evans was reluctant but eventually acceded, perhaps because he knew that Tom's days in Canada were numbered.

Now the day had come, and Ellen's thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of the front doorbell. She flew back up the stairs to finish dressing, and as she did so she heard her father greet Tom.

Their voices receded as she shut the door to her room and added a sweater to her layers of clothing. She pulled from a drawer a red-and-white scarf that had been her mother's and paused a moment to hold it to her face, breathing in the fading perfume. Oh, Mother, I wish you could be here now. Would you approve of my young man? She wrapped the scarf around her neck and glided sedately down the stairs and into the front parlour.

Tom stood as she entered the room. “You look like you're ready for the North Pole,” he said, with a grin.

He, too, was bundled up for the cold. His hair was still cut extra short, for the army, she supposed, and she wondered what it would feel like to rub her hand through it. His grey eyes met hers, and her heart fluttered in her chest. She could feel herself colouring.

“I've frozen nearly to death in the past, and I didn't like it,” she responded, smiling back at him. She pulled a heavy checked coat from the hall closet and Tom was immediately at her side, holding it as she slid her arms into the sleeves.

John Evans appeared in homburg and topcoat, and the three of them walked out to the front driveway where Ellen's mare stood, harnessed to a cutter. Ellen and Tom climbed into the sleigh and Ellen held the reins while Tom pulled a buffalo robe over their knees.

Evans stood by the mare's head until they were settled, then went back to the cutter, patting the horse's back and flank as he went. “Now, Ellen, I know you've driven Belle many times, but do be careful.”

“Of course, Daddy. I won't do anything you wouldn't.” Ellen's father raised his eyebrows. “I'll be careful,” she reassured him with a smile, and called “Giddy-up” to Belle. They headed out the driveway and down the snow-packed road.

A short distance from home, Ellen eased Belle back to a walk, and handed the reins to Tom. “What a glorious day,” she cried, and leaned back to take in the sweeping blue prairie sky and the white snowfields that stretched in all directions. The road, running straight west, met the horizon at the edge of the world. The bright winter sun was at its highest point, part way up the southern sky.

Tom put his free arm around Ellen and she snuggled against him, pulling the buffalo robe up to her chin as Belle's spirited walk kicked up a chilly breeze.

If only this ride could go on forever, Ellen thought. If only Tom didn't have to join the army. If only . . . but she was being silly. Tom was in the army and would soon be going overseas. What then? I'm getting ahead of myself—maybe he doesn't even care.

As if in response, Tom's free hand slid up around her shoulder. She turned toward him, closing her eyes as he kissed her, a lingering kiss that left her breathless. Ellen pulled away, and Tom turned forward, smiling, to cluck at Belle, who broke into a trot.

Tom wasn't the first young man to kiss her, but this was different. To Ellen it seemed like something had been decided, pinning down her future.

Tom turned to her and grinned. “All this fresh air,” he said. “Gives a guy ideas.”

“I hope one of them includes being hungry. We've got enough food here to feed your army.”

Two miles beyond the city limits, Tom turned Belle into a side road that ended on the north bank of the Assiniboine River. He tightened the reins to bring the cutter to a stop and climbed down to ease the bit from the horse's mouth so she could paw through the thin crust of snow and nibble at frozen grass. That was nice of him, Ellen thought; not everyone would do that. She unwrapped the sandwiches and poured hot soup into cups. “I'm so glad we could get away. Will you have more free time soon?”

“I certainly hope so. There are rumours, though.”

“Rumours?”

“We may be shipping out soon.”

Ellen flinched; she didn't want to face the fact that Tom's days in Winnipeg were numbered. She must have shown her distress, because Tom took her hand.

“I will tell you as soon as I know.”

Ellen nibbled at her food, feeling distracted. Tom was attractive: tall and strongly built, with a square jaw and level grey eyes. Her father didn't approve, but she was prepared to deal with that if she had to. And what if he left sooner rather than later? The threat of his pending departure heightened a feeling of urgency. In the meantime, between the soup and the buffalo robe, and the pressure of Tom's thigh against hers, she was feeling unaccountably warm, and her hand undid the top buttons of her coat, seeming to have a mind of its own. She hardly realized she had done so when Tom turned toward her, pulling her into a close embrace. They kissed, awkwardly at first, then hungrily, Ellen feeling the heat spreading through her body. She had never felt such a strong physical need before, and her body responded to Tom's with a fierceness that at other times would have stopped her from sheer self-consciousness. She gave herself fully to him, matching every demand, abandoning all restraint.

Afterward, Ellen lay in Tom's arms, her mind's eye looking down from above, seeing them with only their heads visible above the robe, Belle stamping her hoofs and snorting into the icy air. Beyond them was the frozen river and unending snowy fields. She saw her breath and Tom's, mingling, rising straight up in the still air. This was a turning point, she knew. From here on, her life would not be the same.

The shadows were lengthening, and Ellen sat turned toward Tom as he guided Belle back toward town. She put her arms around his waist and he bent his head to rest his cheek on hers; the slight rasp of the stubble on his face struck her as very human, and she clung to him more tightly. “I want this trip to go on forever,” she said. “Just as it is, so it's just the two of us. You know?”

“Me too. Be nice if it was possible.”

“Well, I'm going to pretend it is, just for now.” She gave a determined shake of her head. “I love you, Tom.”

“I love you, too.” He transferred the reins to his left hand and hugged her, hard, in his right arm, bending to exchange a kiss. “But I don't know where we go from here. Maybe I'll be back soon, and it'll all work out. Your father thinks . . .”

Ellen didn't want to hear what her father thought. She put her gloved hand over Tom's lips. “Shush. You'll be back, and you can leave my father to me.”

He looked at her then, his face serious. “I'll be back.”

The sky had clouded over and a gentle snowfall showered them, light flakes drifting downward, laying a fresh patina on the old snow. Belle smelled home, trotting with her head high, the bells on her harness jingling a counterpoint to her hoofbeats.

As they reached the city streets and passed a hedge, a jackrabbit darted across their path. Belle snorted and shied, rearing high into the air, only to thump down onto all four legs and bolt. The cutter skidded to one side, crashing into a utility pole and shattering its left shaft. Belle's hoofs thrashed frantically and she slipped and fell, the broken shaft jabbing her in the ribs. The frightened horse gave a piercing whinny and lurched upright as Tom tried to keep her under control with the reins. Ellen recoiled from the front of the cutter, terrified of Belle's hoofs flashing just inches from her face. The cutter rolled left, throwing Ellen onto Tom, then just as suddenly jerked the other way. Ellen flew through the air and slammed to a stop, face down in the snow. Everything went black.

Her first conscious thought was of sharp pain in her left wrist and arm.

“Are you all right?” A stranger's voice came from somewhere.

“I don't know yet.” Tom's voice, from farther away. “Are you hurt, Ellen? Are you hurt?”

She heard him clambering toward her on the frozen ground and snow. He helped her roll to her side and then onto her back, taking off his coat to put it under her head.

“My arm. It hurts.” She cradled her left hand and forearm in her right. Somehow her gloves had flown off and her hands felt numb with the cold.

Tom bent over her. She could see that his face was scraped and he was bleeding over one eye. He turned to a man who was close behind him. “Can you get help? We need a doctor.”

“I have a car,” the man said, and ran off. He was back in minutes, which seemed much longer, and he and Tom helped Ellen into the backseat.