From the stacked shelves, Jack gathered the cloths and tins he would need to get Apollo’s tack up to the captain’s standard. He carefully set them down on the rickety bench that divided the room in two along its length. Standing back, he looked at the racks of saddles, each with its bridle hanging on a hook beside it. He stepped forward, examining the handwritten luggage labels that dangled from a length of string at every rack. Each bore the name of the horse and its rider and he scowled at the no-nonsense printed hand that had written Edmund Marsh—Tsarina. Beside it, Jack saw a label written in an elegant copperplate that read Apollo Thorne.
Jack laid Apollo’s tack across the bench. He examined each piece. It was extremely good quality, but that hardly came as a surprise. Supple, well-cared for. Jack wondered if this was the work of the other grooms, or if the captain took it upon himself to take so much trouble over the tack.
A great weight of expectation lay heavy on Jack’s shoulders. He sponged and he lathered, he soaped and he polished, he waxed and he buffed. He took a tiny brush to every crease and seam in the leather. The smell of the saddle-soap didn’t remind him of the tack room at home now. He saw a pair of blazing dark eyes and a raised whip, an amused smile and a sketchbook.
As he worked on the girth, Jack noticed that Captain Thorne’s name had been stamped on it in gold lettering. Apollo Capt. R. B. Thorne.
Jack smiled to himself. Only knowing the man as Captain Thorne, it hadn’t occurred to him that his officer might actually have a first name. It was the same surprise he’d felt as a child when Mrs. Byatt had addressed his father as John.
But R.? What could it stand for?
Not that Jack would ever know, of course. He would never address the captain by his first name. And the captain would never address Jack by his. Even though he must know what Jack’s name was, as well as every other possible detail that the Army had deemed necessary to record—his date of birth, his place of enlistment, his height, eye color, complexion, his chest dimensions when expanded and relaxed.
Robert. Captain Robert B. Thorne.
Now that was a name with gravitas.
But what about Richard, or Ralph, or Randolph, or Roland, or Roderick, or Raymond? Given that the captain was rather posh, the R might even have once been a surname. Something grand. Something that sounded like the name of a large Georgian house, with a lake and fountains and a lime tree avenue. Something that Jack could never even guess at.
Yet his mind kept coming back to the first idea that had struck him—Captain Robert B. Thorne. And he repeated the name in his head, rolling it around his tongue as he worked.
He didn’t know how long passed as he worked at the tack but the day was drawing on when the latch of the tack room lifted. On the soft breeze from the opening door Jack heard the sounds of toil, of raised voices and scraping shovels. He caught the scent of manure and straw before a shadow fell over the room as Trooper Queenie Charles leaned on the doorjamb.
Gone was the playful look of yesterday, the consummate performer with the hint of rouge on his lips—this was a young man who was exhausted. His pale, delicate face was filthy, his uniform stained with sweat and muck, and he let out a long, soulful sigh and declared in a beaten whine, “I cannot go on another moment, Jacky.”
“Tiring work, then?”
And you bloody deserve it.
“Poor old you,” Jack added, attempting a supportive smile.
“Thorne’s a miserable old bastard. I hate him!” Queenie stepped swiftly into the tack room and closed the door. Then he set his lips in a pout and cocked his head to one side, wide eyes imploring. “Not for what he did to me, but for how he spoke to you, my newest friend.”
Newest friend? What sort of almighty buffoon does he take me for?
“Well, that’s officers for you.” Jack sighed, shrugging as he picked up a cloth. “They can’t talk without bellowing their heads off.”
“But he fancies himself as a sort, don’t you think? Pomaded and perfumed, strutting about!” Queenie’s lips curled back like a terrier showing sharp, white teeth. “He’s not the king of fucking England, how dare he?”
Then the look of sad exhaustion returned and he slid down the wall to slump on the floor, every inch the picture of a Dickensian heroine. “I shall have to speak to Captain Marsh about this. He knows my people, you know, and they won’t like this at all.”
“You surely didn’t expect this to be easy, did you?” At the mention of Captain Marsh, the unwelcome stench of the man returned to Jack’s nostrils. “There’s a bloody war on, Queenie. Just down that road, there’s lads like us up to their eyeballs in mud, shitting with dysentery, their heads half blown off. And then there’s us. Living in a bloody chateau. And yes, the officers shout at us, but that’s what they’re meant to do. None of us get a free pass, you know. Until you shoot your toe off and get a Blighty One. But me, I’ll keep my nose clean, jump when Thorne yells jump, and…and…I’ll pray God gives me the strength to endure whatever is thrown at me. And maybe we might even be the lucky ones who get to go home.”
Queenie’s face hardened beneath the grime, his eyes narrowing just a touch, just enough to say, challenge accepted.
“I didn’t want to get into rank, Jacky, but I’m sort of important around here, you know?” He grinned, a cold shark’s smile. “You’re new, so I’m going to let that go, but perhaps I should explain. Around here, things don’t work quite as they do elsewhere. We have our own ways, as they say in your rustic back of beyond.” He rose to his feet and crossed to the bench, setting his palms flat against the surface. “Among all the ranks and medals and all of that nonsense, we have a structure. There are the lads—that’s people like you, Jacky. Then there are the captains—some are useful, some will still be pomading their hair when they’re tied to a stake in no man’s land. Then somewhere up in the clouds, you’ll find the generals. Just above them, and just below the king, is Trooper Quentin Charles. Do you understand now?”
“Oh, yes, Trooper Charles—the groom who stinks of horse shit.”
Yesterday Jack had pretended to himself that this fabulous creature had not been looking at him in mockery. That he could be Jack’s friend. But Queenie had shone with a luster that Jack had only imagined. He’d been here twenty-four hours, yet his understanding of how Chateau de Desgravier worked was fixing in his mind. Queenie let Marsh romp with him. Queenie whored himself to the most repulsive man in the regiment. And Queenie didn’t like it when he couldn’t get his own way.
“Have you done here, Trooper Charles? Only I must get on.”
“I do hope you find whatever’s catching dear old Apollo on that glorious snowy coat of his. Blood always spoils a look, don’t you think?” Queenie tossed his head as he stood, a sly smile on his face. “And it’d be a shame if one of those little, tiny, incidental wounds went bad.”
He gave a deliberately slovenly salute and turned for the door, whistling merrily. Bastard. The evil, skinny little bastard. It was him, it was Queenie, deliberately injuring Apollo.
Jack would have to tell Captain Thorne. Even though he knew that a dunking under the pump would be mild in comparison to what punishment the captain would unleash.
As if thinking aloud, Jack whispered, “A man could get his back broken if he’s horsewhipped.”
“And a new boy might get his skull smashed if he doesn’t fall in line.” Queenie—Quentin—lifted the latch once more. “You have one more chance, Jacky. I might still make you my lady-in-waiting.”
“I think you’ll find my name is Jack.”
“Not anymore.” With that he opened the door and wandered out into the sunlight with a cry of, “Who will help a poor Queenie shovel?”
Jack rolled down his sleeves. He was suddenly cold.
Chapter Five
“Care for a smoke?”
Wilfred had been sitting on a straw bale near the tack room, a tin mug of tea in his hand. He was about to light a roll-up. Another was lying in wait behind his ear.
&
nbsp; “Not for me, thanks, Wilfred, but I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea.”
Wilfred tipped his head toward an office a few doors along.
“There’s an urn. It’s kept brewing all day. Sometimes it’s even drinkable.”
Jack returned in a moment with a tin mug of tea that closely resembled the color of ditchwater. It didn’t taste much better, but it was better than nothing, and there were biscuits too. He leaned against the wall beside Wilfred and looked out across the yard.
“Busy day?” It seemed to Jack as if the hostility of the morning had blown away.
“Yeah…and you?”
“Could be worse.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” Wilfred chuckled. “Look, about this morning… Don’t mind old Queenie, will you? He’s a bit…theatrical.”
Jack studied the oily film on the surface of his tea.
“I’d noticed.”
“He’s a nice bloke, really.”
“Look, earlier he said something about Apollo’s injuries, and I—and it crossed my mind… Would Queenie…would he injure a horse on purpose, just for a lark? Even if he’s nice, as you say?”
Wilfred raised his eyebrows.
“What, Queenie? Nah, mate, that’s cobblers. He’s all mouth is Trooper Charles. What you’ve got there with that Apollo is a half-wild creature—bet he bumps himself against the walls at the slightest thing. That’s what it is, you mark my words.”
“I hope that’s true, even if…” Even if was a horrible thought that a horse could be so nervy and afraid. But still, something nagged at Jack. Unfounded, he knew. He’d look ridiculous if he even mentioned it. “You’re good mates with Queenie, then?”
“Me and Queenie? Oh, yeah—he’s great! A right laugh. I’d never met no one like him before! See, I reckon he got picked on something rotten at school, so I just sit back and let him queen it over everyone. Make him feel better about himself. You understand, don’t you?”
Jack nodded.
“I keep an eye out for him, that’s all I’m saying. You get rough sorts coming through here sometimes and they take one look at Queenie and… Well, I’m sure you can imagine, eh? My dad’s an ostler in a pub, down by the docks. I can handle myself—down that way you only survive with your fists, or a smart mouth. And I’ve got my fists. Yeah?”
“An ostler? Were you following in his footsteps?”
“Oh, yeah! I love horses, I do. After all this is over, you know what I’m going to do? Get into horse racing. Bloody love all that.”
Wilfred smiled, hugging himself.
“What’ll you do after the war, Jack?”
“Go back to the farm. I don’t really know anything else, truth be told.”
“That sounds nice. A farm. Don’t get many of them in East London!” Wilfred laughed and Jack joined in.
“I don’t suppose you do, mate!”
“I’ll tell you what,” Wilfred dropped his voice to a cheeky whisper, “I’ll not be seeing any more bloody fighting once I’m back home. No army for me!”
“Have you done any fighting since you’ve been in?” Jack brushed biscuit crumbs off the front of his jacket. “Ever been to…to the front?”
Wilfred shook his head keenly. “Not fighting, but I went out on a supply run a couple of weeks back. I don’t ever want to go back and I wasn’t there a half-hour!”
Jack tried not to wince. “We’re lucky being here, aren’t we? Much nicer than my last place—even if the officers still bark just as loud.”
Even if my mattress stinks of piss.
“The noise up at the front—you can hear it from miles away.” Wilfred shuddered. “Let’s stick to our castle and our horses, even the loony ones!”
Jack clinked his mug against Wilfred’s and they sat together in companionable silence, watching the activity in the yard. A clatter of hooves brought in a groom riding an officer’s horse.
“I take it you ride?”
“I fall off more than I ride!” Wilfred laughed, nodding toward the groom. “And that one you’re looking after, he won’t let me anywhere near! Put me on a seaside donkey and I’ll drop on my head.”
“You should give it a go.” Jack put his empty mug on the windowsill behind him. “Not on a donkey, I mean, but on one of the horses here. Maybe I could teach you? I’ve done it with kids from the village before now.”
Wilfred looked at him. “You’d be taking on a bloody hopeless case, mate!”
“No, no, come on!” Jack stood and held his hand out to Wilfred. “Which is the sweetest, quietest horse here?”
“The sweetest happens to be one of the tallest.” He cringed. “Further to drop!”
“You can’t be nervous, Wilf. You’ve got to trust them. They’re easier to handle anyway then, even just to comb their mane.”
Jack put his hands in his pockets, looking out across the yard. One of the grooms larked about on a mounting block, jumping off the top step, arms and legs stretched out like a star.
“Tell you what, if it’s heights that bother you—just for starters, why don’t I give you a piggyback? It’s what I do with the kids.”
Wilfred frowned, clearly considering the unexpected offer. Then he said, “Is this a trick? You gonna drop me in the shit pile?”
“Why would I do that?” Willing to overlook what had passed between them earlier, Jack said, “You’ve been a mate to me since I arrived. I’d be a wally if I took to flinging you in the manure.”
“Go on then, the gaffer don’t mind!” He and Jack looked as one at the NCO who was laughing at the groom jesting on the mounting block. That gaffer didn’t seem to mind much, which was probably exactly why Queenie enjoyed such freedom among his fellows.
“Right, come on then!” Jack was beaming. He could lark with the fellows as well as anyone, no matter what his father might have said. “Hop up onto the bale.”
“Can’t go unprepared!” Wilfred stood and bounded off into the tack room, leaving Jack to wonder what exactly he was doing. It was almost a relief that he didn’t emerge carrying a saddle and bridle, though he had donned a tin helmet that was an inch or so too big and wobbled atop his skull, while a crop was tucked beneath his arm.
“Oh, you’re a card, Wilf!”
Laughing, Jack positioned himself in front of the bale and leaned slightly forward with his bottom sticking out.
“Jump on!”
At the command, Wilf gingerly climbed onto Jack’s back, clearly still not convinced he wasn’t about to be dropped bottom-first onto the ground. He put his arms around Jack’s neck and his legs around his waist. “Giddy up, horse!”
Jack held Wilf’s legs tight. He was surprisingly heavy for a small lad, but Jack gamely walked into the yard with his burden.
“Ready?” And Jack went off at a jog.
Wilfred guffawed and Jack treated him to his repertoire of horse impressions, neighing and snorting like he did with the children at home.
“Faster, Wilf?” Jack was breathless but his exhilaration drove him on.
“Yeah, go on, let’s have a gallop!” Wilfred tapped the crop to Jack’s bottom lightly, his laughter growing louder.
Jack jolted at the touch, an image in his mind not of Wilfred, but Captain Thorne. The crop left a warm sting across Jack’s flesh, but he pushed away all thought of the handsome officer. It wouldn’t do to think of him now.
Jack tossed his head from side to side, so his hair shone like a glossy mane in the late afternoon sunlight. He neighed and careered at speed across the yard, galloping around the other grooms, who had stopped to laugh and cheer.
Wilfred clutched Jack’s hair and clung on tighter.
“Into battle!” Wilfred waved the whip above his head. “Look out, Hun, we’re coming for you!”
Jack made a trumpeting noise, trying to force his mind not to dwell on the captain at each switch of the crop in Wilfred’s hand. He had to keep his feelings at bay. He would hide them behind his high-spirited gallivanting, happy as a child.
As
they charged around the laughter died away, the claps slowed to nothing, but Jack barely noticed. Wilfred continued to howl and hoot and wave the crop, his arm tight around Jack’s shoulder until he turned for one last lap of the yard.
There, one gloved hand gripping Apollo’s bridle and the other bunched in a fist resting on his hip, was Captain Thorne. His face was pale with fury, as white as Apollo’s coat, and his mouth was a tight, straight line.
“Don’t stop on my account.” His dark eyes moved over the yard, taking in each and every face there. Yet his voice was light, worryingly so. “Did I miss the announcement, chaps?”
Jack let Wilfred slip carefully to the ground. He went to rub his shoulder, but saluted instead.
“Captain Thorne, sir.”
He was the man’s groom, he should approach and take the horse. But it was as if his boots were filled with lead.
‘The grooms here are a shower of layabouts, rascals and hooligans. Don’t let them draw you into their ways.’
Jack remembered Thorne’s warning. And he’d not listened. And now the captain’s silent rage was aimed at Trooper Woodvine.
A dozen other hands darted up in salute but Thorne was addressing Jack, his man.
“I assume, since you’re all no longer working, that the war is over. I’ll ask again—” He didn’t blink, his eyes boring into Jack. “Did I miss the announcement?”
Jack’s mouth was almost too dry to speak.
“No…no, sir.”
“Well, then, we find ourselves once again in an unfortunate situation.” Thorne turned his attention to Wilfred, who had been doing his best to hide behind Jack. “Trooper Cole. You forgot to saddle your steed, bad form for a groom. Before you fall into your filthy blankets tonight, I want every saddle in the tack room polished and gleaming, and I mean everything. Get to it, and you might be done by midnight. Dismissed, Cole!”
Jack watched Wilfred shamble away, almost tripping over his own feet. The captain was staring at Jack. He could feel it on his skin, like a scald from a jet of steam. With trepidation, he looked up at him.
The Captain and the Cavalry Trooper Page 6
