The Gates of Rutherford by Elizabeth Cooke Page A

money. It had helped them equip the hospital better. Jack had watched as bullets were extracted from a grey mare, and helped to bed her down afterwards. “Search the straw,” the officer had told him. “We find nails and all sorts. Bits of caltrops, the spikes they put down in the roads. Bits of cooking utensils, fences. It all gets in the feed. So go through it with a fine-tooth comb.”
    He had done so, finding nothing, but standing with the dazed mare until she took some food.
    The officer had come back. “What the hell are you doing?”
    â€œSeeing to the mare, sir.”
    â€œGod in heaven, man! You can’t nurse them. Get on to the next one.” Seeing Jack’s face, he had lowered his voice. “Not like home, Armitage. It’s not like home, you understand?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œWe’ve had fifteen thousand horses and mules through here just this year, in just this station. So get a hurry on. Don’t dawdle with any one of them.”
    Jack had glanced back at the mare as he left, thinking of Wenceslas; the great Shire’s doelike eyes, the curve of the huge neck under a collar at harvest time. The way that the horse had trod patiently and slowly, in a dreamlike fashion, never to be hurried. He tried to imagine Wenceslas here; it was said that something that size would have been taken to pull artillery guns. He’d felt his stomach turn over, and that was before he’d even heard a gun firing himself. Notup close. Not in the thick of it, where fire rained down and the earth and sky changed places.
    He’d seen all sorts in those first few weeks. A good strong thoroughbred that kept lying down as they tried to get it off the transport. Every now and again, while down, it tried to gnaw at its flank. Colic. That twisted gut that was hard to heal, even in England. He’d seen saddle sores, neck wounds, broken bones, and eviscerated animals who docilely stood in line, turning their heads to Jack with weary and defeated expressions. They’d done their best, followed men wherever they went. Never understanding why. That was the thing that made Jack’s blood boil.
He
knew why. His officers knew why. Everybody knew why except the horses, poor obedient creatures.
    Bloody war, bloody war.
    He said that under his breath a hundred times a day.
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    T he officer lowered his field glasses. “Snow coming.”
    â€œLooks like it, sir.”
    The man sighed. “The Northamptonshire Yeomanry are waiting west of Arras,” he said. “They’re backing up infantry VI corps. Essex Yeomanry are ready, too.” He handed his glasses to Jack. “Have a look.”
    Surprised—he had never been given field glasses before—Jack took them gingerly.
    â€œArtillery positions in the village,” the captain said. “The sixth and eighth cavalry are conforming to the advance of the third dragoon guards.”
    Jack had been able to see very little. He handed the glasses back. “Cavalry and infantry,” he said.
    The captain held his gaze. “Cavalry and infantry, to take out the artillery. To take the village. You understand, Jack?”
    What was there to understand? What was there to say? He didn’t know why his officer would bother to share the information with him. It wasn’t his business. They were sending horses into shellfire. What does a man possibly say to that?
    The captain stamped the cold from his feet. His horse transferred its weight, and ducked its head. Its warm breath floated in clouds around them.
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    A t eight thirty a.m., the Essex Yeomanry and a squadron of the tenth Hussars passed within a few hundred yards of them, advancing down the slope. At the bottom, Captain Porter had said, was the Highland Light Infantry.
    Men from the North Country, men out of mountain country. Jack imagined them down there, in the lull