Megiddo's Shadow (9 page)

“I'm told you're an excellent horse breaker.”

“I'm a better soldier, Uncle,” I said with as much determination as I could muster.

He nodded and we ate silently for a time. I had to slow myself down; months of gobbling army food had ingrained the habit. In an effort to eat with some decorum, I sipped my wine between each bite, but soon suspected I was growing blotto.

Hilts emptied his goblet and set it down with a bang. “You obfuscated.”

“Pardon me?” I said, suddenly very sober.

“You lied to your recruiters. You were ten when I visited your father's ranch. That was in 1910. So you had to be underage when you enlisted.”

“Well, I'm not the only one!”

I'm sure the look on my face betrayed my guilt, because Uncle Nix laughed heartily and said, “Don't worry, your secret's safe with me. To be honest, I'm impressed by your eagerness. We need more men like you.”

“But why Remount?” The wine had loosened my tongue. “It's—it's not fair!”

Kulbir refilled both our goblets. “There's no fairness in war,” Uncle Nix said gently, “only calculations of cause and effect. And cost, always cost. I sent you to Remount because I wanted you under my watch, hoping you'd be as good as your father.”

“Dad?”

“He was an excellent cavalryman and a damn fine sergeant. He was close to getting his commission when he resigned from the dragoons.” Uncle Nix cut a large piece of pheasant. “He must be proud of you.”

“Actually … he didn't want me to sign up.”

“He'd already lost a son. Perfectly understandable.” He gestured toward the bird and I nodded and sliced a piece. “How was his health when you last saw him?”

“He won't get out of bed.”

Uncle Nix sipped his wine, studying me.

“So what was he like as a cavalryman?” I asked.

“The finest! He was brave, but he succumbed to mental strain. It can happen to the best.”

“Strain?”

Hilts held up his hand. “First, have you had enough to eat?”

“Yes. It was delicious, Uncle!” It felt good to call him that.

“It's so much better when you bag it yourself.” Hilts pushed his chair back from the table. Kulbir appeared with a pipe and a box of tobacco. Hilts lit his pipe, drew in smoke, and slowly let it out. “You know, sometimes surviving can be worse than dying.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your father and I were in the battle for Colenso. The Boers had hidden on the other side of a bridge, waiting to open fire on our infantry. Blustery Colonel Long galloped his guns right over the bridge and pointed them at the Boers. Didn't even wait for infantry support! The Boers let loose before Long's guns could be unlimbered, killing nearly every gunner and all the horses.”

Hilts looked out the window as if to avoid seeing the images in his mind. “Word of the loss came back to us. We were appalled. It's a dishonor to have one gun captured by the enemy, let alone a dozen! Your father immediately offered to retrieve them. Several of his men went with him. They galloped straight to the guns, under heavy fire. Wilfred's horse was hit but stayed on its feet. Men fell all around him. Even though he was wounded, they were able to bring back two guns. None of the other men who went with your father survived. And his horse died an hour after his return.

“Once he'd recovered, he reported to duty, but all he could think about were his dead men. Finally, he collapsed and returned to England.”

Hilts let out more smoke and watched it roll across the room.

“Such loss can be a difficult thing to survive. And then to have your mother and Hector die, too … Perhaps his sickness is understandable.”

I nodded. Ever since I was a child, I'd imagined Dad as a hero. And he was! He'd galloped into withering fire and brought back two guns. He deserved a Victoria Cross. But, sadly, he had lost his will. A sudden realization made me ask: “Are you worried that I'll break down, too?”

“You have the right stuff.” I couldn't help feeling a little proud. He sipped from his goblet. “Have you ever considered the yeomanry?”

“Oh, that'd be perfect! I have infantry training just like them, and I can ride.”

“The yeomanry will be needed when the breakthrough finally comes. You should keep applying for a transfer, but not back to your unit. There's been too much attrition in the infantry”

“I'll do that, Uncle Nix. Thank you!”

Hours later, when I was back at the barracks with my head on my pillow, I stared at the dark ceiling. I'd leave the breakers and become a yeomanry trooper, trained to fight on the ground as infantry or on a horse like cavalry. The dinner had been a test and I'd passed. He'd judged me fit for duty.

I thought of Dad's charge into almost certain death. Could I ever do that? But his breakdown had, unfortunately,
cast a shadow across his glory. Bravery wasn't just one act; it was something you had to repeat again and again.

I wouldn't be like Father. Uncle Nix had seen the same things, been in the same battles, and hadn't lost his will. I'd have to be equally resolute.

I closed my eyes, and for the first time in weeks I felt a little happiness. My prayers had been answered.

A
week later I lugged my kit to the door and stepped out into a bright day. I was done with Remount and I'd have to get used to marching now; the yeomanry practiced infantry along with horsemanship.

“Remove your regimental badges.” Corporal Grimes stood in the alley between the barracks and the supply shack, a hand-rolled cigarette squished between two fingers.

“I'd rather wear them, Corporal.”

“The troopers'll just look down their snooty noses at you.”

“Then I'll pop 'em one and say, ‘Here's a gift from Remount.’”

Grimes coughed out a hoarse chuckle. “You've got guts, Bathe. You're a little too uppity for my taste, but you did good work here.”

“I'm proud of it.”

“Good.” Grimes took a drag on his cigarette, then ground the butt into the earth with his foot. “Show em what real horsemanship is all about, Breaker.” And with that he walked away.

I carried on. Grimes wasn't such a bad fellow; perhaps we'd meet after the war and raise a drink to our Remount days. I liked that image of myself, older and wiser, the war just another job well done. By then I might have a stripe or three of my own.

The frost-covered hills stood between me and the yeomanry barracks, not much more than a few miles' walk. There'd be no breakers. No corporals. Just a new beginning.

I wasn't ever truly alone. I was part of a large and wondrous creation, with God leaning out of the heavens, shaping the day. What would he send me?

Since the dinner with Hilts I'd felt more alive. That night, I'd write father and tell him that I'd seen Uncle Nix, and that I was part of the local yeomanry.

I was about to pass the regimental aid post, halfway between Remount and the yeomanry barracks. If it was a perfect day, Emily would be standing on the veranda.
God
, I prayed,
please make her step outside
.

It was cheeky of me to ask him for a favor like that. He did bigger things, like flood the entire earth or part the Red Sea for Moses. He didn't make girls appear out of the blue.

Two men on crutches stood on the veranda, one with a bandage over his eye. He slowly lifted a hand and waved. I felt weak. My stomach lurched and my good mood
vanished. I'd assumed that by now Paul had gone to another hospital.

If I were a good pal, I would have stopped, walked over, and talked to him. I would have told him about Kulbir's wooden foot, something that might give him hope. When the aid post was out of sight, I shook off the sense of dread I had about Paul. I reminded myself I was heading into a great opportunity. That was the way I should think of it.

A sign at the gates of the yeomanry camp said LINCOLNSHIRE YEOMANRY: HORSES FIRST, MEN SECOND, OFFICERS LAST. The wooden barracks were surrounded by twenty or so tents. Troopers lead horses across the courtyard.

A sergeant in the HQ hut glanced at my papers, looked me over twice, then grinned and said, “I'm Sergeant Applewhite. I'm sure you'll be bellyachm' about rations, so you might as well know me name. Your new regimental number is 2265. Quote it every time you go to the toilet. Only one bowel movement per trooper, per day.”

“What?”

He laughed. “I'm just takm' the piss out of ya, mate.”

He selected a uniform and dropped it on the counter. “That'll fit you. Got yer own boots, I see. Good!” He placed two regimental badges on the pile. “Drop your gear in tent seven, get settled m, then come back for your rifle and tack.”

I found my tent and pushed aside the flap to discover two troopers inside, one looking in a mirror, combing his hair, the other on a cot reading a book. The bookworm was thin, pale as a ghost, his hair crow black. I guessed them to be nineteen or twenty.

“Hello,” I said, “how are you? I'm—”

“A colonial,” the bookworm interjected. “A Canuck, judging by your accent. How in hell did a Remount colonial get in our squadron?”

“They asked for me!”

“Who did?”

“Colonel Hilts.” The men recognized the colonel's name.

“You must be good.” The other man set down his comb, took a quick step, and shook my hand. He was an inch taller than me, with a craggy, handsome face, his hair streaked sandy blond. “I'm Will Cheevers. Welcome to the Lincolnshire Yeomanry. You five-bobbers aren't all that bad.”

“What's a five-bobber?”

“Dominion boys make five times our pay,” the other man said.

“I've been on the imperial payroll for months,” I said. “Guess I'm just another one-bobber.”

The sneering man stood and offered his hand. It was cold and his grip was firm. “Victor Blackburn.” He wiped his hand on his trousers and sat back down.

“Ignore Vic,” Cheevers said. “He was born with an iron rod up his backside.” He flashed a grin that belonged in a film.

Blackburn shrugged. “As long as Billy Buffalo here can ride a horse and aim, he's fine and dandy with me. I do find it odd that they'd send a colonial here, though.”

“I was born in these parts. My father had a farm near Aylesby”

“Aylesby!” Cheevers said. “I grew up there. We could've been chums. I guess instead of chiding you about your colonial ways we should be saying welcome home, mate.”

Blackburn opened his book again, and Cheevers peppered me with chatter as I unpacked. “Does it really snow ten feet at a time in Canada?”

“We had twelve feet in the winter of '09. Tram couldn't get through. But 1906 was the worst—not much snow, but so cold half our herd froze to death inside the barn.”

“Impossible!” Cheevers said.

“God's truth. Of course, I don't remember it much. I was only six.”

“Six?” Blackburn set down his book. “In 1906? Then you're underage.”

Panic seized my heart. “Uh, I added wrong. I was born in 1899. I must've been seven then.”

“Guess they don't teach mathematics in Dominion schools.”

I ignored him, unfolded my new uniform and began to dress.

“Twelve feet of snow!” Cheevers said. “Twelve feet! You must be bucksome buggers! Did people drown in it?”

“We wore snowshoes.”

“Of course! Of course! Uh … ol' ducky, I hate to break it to you, but you're tying your puttees all arserds.”

“Arserds?”

“Arse backwards,” Blackburn said without looking up from his book, “just like his accent.”

Cheevers gave me a wink. “‘E's jealous o’ me good looks. Now, let's get you all prim and proper.”

I was halfway finished tying up my left leg. “But they're fine.”

“Yeomanry tie their puttees counterclockwise,” Cheevers explained. “I'm only trying to save you from looking darted. You'd take it in the neck if Colonel Wilson saw that. He likes things spit and polish.”

“Thanks.”

“Troopers look out for one another.”

I undid my puttees and wrapped them, awkwardly, in the opposite direction. That done, I put on my new collar badges: a white brass emblem of a king's crown over a shield with a cross, and the fleur-de-lys.

“Let's get you a gun and a horse.”

I followed Cheevers to the quartermaster's storage shed. “Back again, are you, Bathe?” Applewhite dug around in the piles of equipment, leaving items on the counter. “Here's your tack: one saddle, a bridle, a halter, two blankets, two saddlebags, a rifle bucket, a picket rope, and a spare bandolier. The best of a bad lot.”

He opened a large wooden box, removed a Lee Enfield rifle, and handed it to me. I held it as though it were a sword pulled from a stone.

I slipped the rifle into its bucket and slung it over my shoulder, then grabbed the saddle and blankets. Cheevers picked up the remaining tack.

Inside the stables were rows of horses, all combed perfectly. Several troopers were spreading straw through the stalls; others forked manure into the back of a wooden wagon. It was the neatest stable I'd ever seen.

“I'll introduce you to my Neddie,” said Cheevers as he
opened a stall, and a tan gelding, fifteen hands high, turned his head, hay hanging out of his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully, watching us. “Hey, buddy. Hey, boy.” Cheevers patted his side. “Look at the legs on him. When I say go, he's gone like the wind.” At “go” Neddie raised his ears. “Take it easy, Ned. Tomorrow we'll ride.”

“He's a fine horse!”

“Come hell or high water he'll get me through. That one there is Blackburn's nag.” He pointed to a beautiful brown gelding. “Calls him Cromwell. What kind of name is that for a horse? Anyway, we'd better find Pitts. He's the ferner. He'll have a horse for you.” At the
ting ting
of a hammer tapping on steel, Cheevers turned his head. “There he is now.”

Pitts was leaning over an anvil, hammering nails out of old horseshoes. He was built like a bull, and hair sprouted on his arms and neck; tufts peeked out where his uniform was unbuttoned. His head, however, was bald.

“Hey, Pitts, you have any gallant chargers for Trooper Bathe?”

“By! A couple went lame just yesterday, so I had to use our two good remounts. This last one, she's a clot-headed bumble-foot! Part donkey, if you ask me. You gotta give 'er the spurs.”