Soldier of the Horse by Robert W. Mackay Page B

sailors called it, where seasick men gathered at the ship’s most stable location.
    A corporal joined them and took charge, allocating the men to various housekeeping tasks: cleaning washplaces and heads, helping the cooks with meal preparations, tending to the horses below. Tom got lucky—the corporal ordered him to report to the cook, to “peel spuds.” At least the galley would be warm and dry. He could wedge himself into a corner with a paring knife and a sack of potatoes.
    â€œOne moment, Corporal.” Lieutenant Inkmann had appeared, looking freshly shaved.
    â€œSir?”
    â€œThe officers’ mounts need extra attention in this weather. Macrae needs the experience.” Inkmann turned and walked away, swaying with the roll of the deck.
    The corporal had a quizzical expression on his face as he turned toward Tom. “You heard the lieutenant.”
    â€œBloody hell. Since when does an officer say who does what?” Tom spluttered. It was unusual for an officer to interfere with a noncom’s work, and he didn’t trust Inkmann.
    â€œSince right now. I don’t know what he’s got against you, but get at it. Hicks is already down there. Go give him a hand.”
    Tom took a deep breath of the clean air. The cold, wet, upper deck he left behind looked good as he climbed down the series of ladders to the lower hold where the officers’ horses were stabled. On each deck the smell was worse than on the one above it, reeking of hot engine oil and dank air. As he reached the bottom, he felt as though he had descended into a seaborne hell.
    He looked around for Eddie Hicks, a gangly young man from Dauphin, Manitoba. He had been an early recruit who just missed the departure of the regiment for Europe, a keen but inexperienced soldier. Down here, the smell of urine and horse manure mingled with the fetid odour of the bilges. Tom steadied himself, clinging to the ladder with one foot on the deck.
    The horses were haltered and tied in narrow stalls that had been thrown together in Halifax. One horse lay jammed down on the deck, its head jutting out into the passageway that ran the length of the compartment, its eyes rolling in terror.
    Lance-Corporal Hicks yelled, “Get over here, Macrae. Hold his head so I can check him out.”
    Tom lurched along the passage, grabbing at posts as he went so the violent heaving of the ship wouldn’t catapult him into the far bulkhead. He hunkered down on his knees by the pitiful animal’s head, one forearm across the long nose, his other hand tightly around the horse’s ear.
    â€œHold him steady,” said Hicks. “I’ll have a look.” He peered into the dark stall. “Can’t see a thing.” He clambered past Tom to get in closer. The horse twisted its hindquarters off the deck and lashed out with a hoof, catching Hicks on the leg. He dropped with a curse.
    Tom hung on until the animal quieted, then shifted to put his knees on either side of its head. He took hold of a groaning Hicks by the shirt with both hands and pulled him out of the stall.
    â€œFeels like my fucking leg is broke,” said Hicks through gritted teeth.
    Tom looked around, hoping someone else would appear to lend assistance. “Listen, I’ve got to get help. You’ll have to control this horse.”
    â€œHow?” Hicks moaned. “The son of a bitch has already kicked me.”
    Tom pointed. “Bite his ear.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œBite his ear. He won’t move.”
    Tom eased part way off the horse’s head and Hicks, with a doubtful glance at Tom, bent to clamp his teeth over its ear, lips drawn back in a fierce grimace. The horse froze in position, no longer struggling.
    Tom backed away, steadied himself against a nasty roll of the deck, and scuttled to the ladder. Within minutes he returned with Bruce Johanson and two other privates. Hicks was only too happy to let go of the ear. He spat