Soldier of the Horse by Robert W. Mackay Page A

rebelled. He bent over the nearest toilet and vomited the dry crackers he had forced down at breakfast.
    Physical weakness and a previously unrevealed fear of the sea took hold of him. He staggered down the passageway and onto a ladder to the upper deck. He made it to the leeward rail and hung there, staring down at the grey, heaving seas and shivering in the biting, North Atlantic wind.
    A diminutive sergeant named Flowerdew approached along the passageway and stopped, hands clasped behind him. He swayed in time with the gyrations of the deck.
    â€œKeep your eyes on the horizon,” he advised. “I learned that trick on my first crossing. It helps.”
    Tom wiped his mouth on his sleeve, waited for his stomach to settle. “Seems to help that my belly is empty now, too.”
    Flowerdew nodded and strolled off. He was typical of many who had volunteered as soon as war broke out. British originally, he had homesteaded in Saskatchewan and grown fruit in the interior of British Columbia. When hostilities commenced he had been a junior officer in a reserve cavalry unit, but in order to get into the regular army and go overseas immediately with the cavalry, he resigned his commission and volunteered as a private. Flowerdew made no secret of his ambition to distinguish himself in battle. Tom had heard other sergeants call him “Flowers,” obviously not a reflection on his manhood.
    As the fresh, cold air cleared his head, Tom followed Flowerdew’s suggestion and concentrated on the horizon. They had been four days at sea, and for the first time he saw a sleek shape, low on the horizon. When a sailor passed behind him, he called out, “What’s that?”
    The sailor squinted. Tom envied him—he didn’t have to hold on to the rail.
    â€œDestroyer. They’ll shepherd us, kind of like sheepdogs. In case of submarines. Of course, they’d be no help against a battleship.” The sailor went on his way, oblivious to both the rolling of the ship and having planted the seed of something new for Tom to worry about.
    Tom distracted himself as best he could by focussing on the destroyer as it moved on a parallel course, much faster than the Cape Wrath , a faint blue haze trailing from her funnels. Maybe the sailor was kidding about the battleship.
    A pale Bruce Johanson joined Tom at the rail. “I couldn’t stand being down there one more minute. That damn Planck had me shovelling out horse manure. Lance-Corporal Hicks is still down there—he’s worried about horses going down in this weather and not getting back up. I told him I was sick. Sick of being on this tub, more like.”
    â€œCan’t be any worse than scrubbing the deck of a stinking head on your hands and knees.”
    â€œThey figure another ten days of this till we get to England.” Johanson’s young face perked up. “Maybe there’ll be some fillies who’ve never met any real cowboys. We can give them a good gallop.”
    Spray shot over them as the ship rolled heavily. Tom looked down to see the grey sea foam high against the black hull, and tightened his grip on the rail. “Maybe. Personally, I just want to get on dry land. Fighting the Germans can’t be any tougher than this.”
    Johanson went below again to help with the horses. Tom took a last look around but could no longer see the destroyer. He left for his cleaning station, where the drains still gurgled and his stomach still churned.
    Next day the weather was worse than ever. Rain and strong winds lashed the sea and huge swells bore down on the Cape Wrath ’s starboard bow, adding a sickening pitch to her wild rolls. Aft, where the reinforcements were quartered, the deck corkscrewed under Tom’s feet.
    He forced down some dry bread and coffee, then went back to the upper deck to clear his head. A group of miserable soldiers huddled at the base of the ship’s smokestack: the “funnel watch,”