The Captain and the Cavalry Trooper

by Catherine Curzon

  “Woodvine, come with me. The rest of you, back to work—playtime is over!”

  Thorne strode away, leading Apollo along beside him.

  For a moment, Jack hesitated. His hands were shaking. He was, he realized with shame, frightened. But he couldn’t resist the pull of the captain. Even with the threat of punishment looming, Jack was in his thrall.

  “After a ride, any mount needs his water!” They were heading to the pump, Jack knew, and Thorne drew the whip that was ever-present in his boot. He gestured toward the muddy ground and told him, “Kneel.”

  Jack’s legs had locked. He couldn’t sink to his knees. He merely trembled, staring at the sodden earth.

  “It’s… It’s muddy, sir.”

  “Troo—” Thorne was silenced by the sudden rearing of Apollo, who gave a snort of utter terror, his rear hooves scraping back and sending his forelegs up with such a force that he nearly dragged the captain clear off his feet. The horse’s great head snapped this way and that in his efforts to escape, his strong figure towering over them, nostrils flaring and eyes rolling.

  Queenie stopped dead in his tracks where he had just rounded the corner of the building. He held up his hands and backed away out of sight, but Apollo wasn’t so easily calmed and still yanked at the reins, despite his master’s efforts to calm him.

  “Settle down!” Thorne’s arm was almost wrenched clean out of the socket as his mount fell forward then reared back again with such force that the horse came close to tottering over backward.

  Seeing Apollo in distress again, Jack’s sense of duty defeated whatever terror had risen up within him.

  “Shhhh, handsome fellow… Shhhh… Calm now.”

  Avoiding looking directly at Apollo, Jack took a sidestep and grabbed the reins. His cooing and clicking seemed to calm the horse, who plunged his feet back down, but at something—was Queenie still there behind the wall?—Apollo reared again, almost taking Jack with him.

  “It’s your friend Jack!”

  And at this, Apollo finally landed, blowing through his nostrils, a chuckle in his throat as he lifted his feet and put them down again. Jack rested his forehead against Apollo’s cheek, still whispering to the horse, stroking him until he was calm. Jack smiled, and when he turned away from Apollo he found Captain Thorne staring at him.

  “Sorry, sir. You asked me to kneel. I… My legs wouldn’t—” With his free hand Jack rubbed at his shoulder. Thorne was silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on Jack, lips slightly parted. Then he turned to stroke Apollo’s nose and tucked the whip back into his boot.

  “It was an ord—” Thorne blinked. He drew in a deep breath and looked to Jack once more, his brow furrowing with concern. “Are you hurt, Jack?”

  Trooper Woodvine blinked into Captain Thorne’s dark eyes. Jack?

  “It’s nothing, really. I passed the Army medical, so it can’t be a problem, sir. It’s just…I broke my shoulder. I was thrown from a horse, you see, and sometimes—but it’s nothing. Honest. Worse things happen at sea and all that.”

  “Why the devil didn’t you say? You can’t possibly work with a horse like Apollo if you’re struggling with injury. Get off up to your quarters and rest that shoulder. I’ll have to think about this, Trooper.”

  “But—it’s not… He came to me this morning, with my hands full of water, and he drank from them, soft as a foal. He… He…” Jack gave up trying to speak. He’d been given another order, to follow, not ignore. “Yes, sir. Sorry, Captain Thorne. I’ll go upstairs now.”

  “Dismissed, Trooper Woodvine. We shall discuss your position later.”

  I don’t want to leave.

  But farmer’s sons with gammy shoulders get found out in the end. Jack stared at the ground as he made his way across the stable yard, the other grooms keeping a wide berth. Up the rickety stairs he went to their quarters.

  Jack threw himself face down on the bed, the dusty smell of the old pillow tickling his nose. He couldn’t lie on his back or he’d see the photographs from home that he’d stuck on the wall. His mother with her frizzy fringe and leg-of-mutton sleeves, fashionable when she had posed for the photograph over twenty years ago. Woodvine Farm with Jack and his father stood before it, Jack in short trousers, beaming. Jack and his friend, at a photographer’s studio at the seaside, straw hats and striped boating blazers, grinning with the bucket and spade that were props for child sitters. That same friend leaning against a chair of gnarled wood in a studio alone, the name of his ship on his cap tally. Jack on horseback—the horse that had thrown him when a thunderstorm had rolled in.

  He didn’t know how long he stayed there, his face buried against the blankets in that bed where a dead man had once wept and pissed away his last night before he was thrown into hell. He would soon be sent away too, he knew, because Captain Thorne didn’t want a man with an injured shoulder anywhere near his horse, because Jack Woodvine couldn’t follow orders or remember to salute or—

  “Trooper Woodvine?”

  “Captain.”

  Jack pushed himself up and turned to see Captain Thorne, incongruous in this grotty place. Jack’s hand returned to his shoulder for a moment.

  “I…I don’t mind, you know, if you think it’s best that I don’t… If you want me transferred.” The sentiment rang hollow. He did mind. He minded a lot.

  “I was young once myself. I’m not so old now, you know. Trooper Cole has been relieved of his punishment.” Thorne took off his cap and perched on the edge of Jack’s bed. “You’ll hear later there was a major push against us last night, we lost a lot of lads in the bombardment. Perhaps I was a little hard on you both. One shouldn’t be emotional about such things… Keep a clear head and all that.”

  Despite the import of the captain’s words, images played in Jack’s head at the proximity of the captain, at the very thought of this man being on his bed. Holding him, pleasuring— No, he mustn’t think of such things.

  Jack’s gaze flickered to his photograph collection. He would think about his friend Billy instead. Billy might be miles from a trench, but the sea wasn’t any safer.

  “Will…will we have to go to the front? To make up for the…the losses?”

  “For now we shall stay safe in our castle.” He set his cap down on the blanket and looked around the room. “Be honest with me about this shoulder, Trooper. Can you truly manage the work? If the answer’s no I can have you moved onto the officers’ household staff.”

  “I wouldn’t want to be any trouble, Captain. It’s… It twinges sometimes, that’s all. And as time passes it does it less and less. It just needs a rub, that’s all.”

  “I’d very much like to keep you, Trooper. Apollo has precious few friends.” Thorne began to peel off the leather gloves. “Let’s have a look at this shoulder then, Woodvine, don’t be shy.”

  The captain was so close to Jack that his elbow accidentally brushed Thorne’s thigh as he sat up.

  “Let me just…”

  Jack shrugged himself out of his jacket, not daring to look at the captain. He unbuttoned his shirt, willing his hands not to shake. As he skimmed it off, he caught Captain Thorne’s gaze. His eye had fallen to Jack’s hairless chest, taking in the slight muscles of his pectorals, his hardened nipples. The gaze went lower, to what could be seen of Jack’s stomach above his high-waisted trousers. It had a gentle curve—fat laid down by his convalescence. Jack well knew that his body was nothing like the captain’s, honed and muscular. He felt ashamed.

  “I’ll go on my front, sir?”

  Thorne swallowed and replied, “I think where you already are will suffice, Trooper. Show me where it’s painful?”

  Jack took Thorne’s hand and brought it up to his shoulder. It wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t strange at all, for Captain Thorne to take an interest in his groom’s injury. It might, however, look a little unusual for anyone who happened to walk in.

  And God willing, no one would.

  “Just—just there, sir. The doctor said that when the sh
oulder broke, it scarred the muscle that was attached to it—it knots up sometimes. He said, ‘You just have to knead it out, like bread.’ Can you… Can you feel…? It’s a little lump, just there—under your middle finger.”

  Thorne’s hand tensed as though Jack’s skin was ice, then his fingers straightened until they were hovering above the shoulder. The captain cleared his throat and pressed his finger down against the lump, his handsome face clouding with concern. “Should I— Forgive me, Trooper, you’re probably quite capable, but would you like me to help?”

  “It’s easier if someone else does it. You can do it harder than I can—perhaps.”

  “You’d better lie down, after all.”

  Jack rolled onto his front, this time his knee accidentally brushing the captain’s. He rested his head on his pillow, his face turned toward Captain Thorne. He regretted it and wondered if he should look away, but there was something in the officer’s expression that Jack could not tear his glance from. His concern—for his groom, for Jack.

  “When Apollo was a youngster, he had the most dreadful health problems.” Captain Thorne’s hand returned to Jack’s shoulder and began to knead the spot he had indicated, the soft palm moving with a firm assurance. “I had to massage his shoulder every morning and every evening or the poor chap couldn’t move. He was set for the knacker’s yard, but I was a determined sort of fellow. Our veterinarian believed I must have magic hands.”

  And the captain’s face went suddenly very red indeed, his gaze dropping to watch his own hands work.

  Jack’s eyelids half-closed. He could feel the blood begin to flow again as the muscle unknotted.

  “You did well with Apollo, Captain Thorne.” He smiled, beginning to move slightly with the captain’s touch. “I think…you must…have magic hands…sir.”

  The last word came out on a sigh.

  “This is a fairytale castle, there must be some magic here somewhere.”

  “Well, I don’t have a beanstalk, so it must be in your hands!”

  Jack grinned at the captain. Was it possible that the stern man’s eyes were dancing? That the man was actually smiling? Jack decided that he could afford to be cheeky.

  “Did you really mean, sir, to drench me? Or just make me think that you would—to teach me a lesson? If I’d knelt, Captain Thorne, what would you have done?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t have consented to be your bride, Trooper!” Thorne actually laughed then, a bright, loud laugh that lit his entire face.

  It took Jack by surprise, and after a moment’s pause he laughed as well, trying not to shake too much in his hilarity and disturb the movement of the captain’s touch on his body.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever make much of a husband, sir.”

  “What age are you, Trooper? Too young to be thinking such sensible thoughts, surely?” Then, even as he continued to speak, Thorne’s other hand came to rest on Jack’s opposite shoulder, rubbing that too.

  “Two-and-twenty. A month ago.”

  The captain’s strong hands were eliciting bliss and Jack completely forgot that he was still facing him. His lips fell open as he gasped with pleasure.

  “Twenty-two.” Thorne’s voice was lower, quieter. “If I had my way, I’d send every one of you young lads home. You haven’t lived your lives yet.”

  “And have you lived?” Jack watched the captain through lowered lashes. “You cannot be so old—I doubt you’re much beyond thirty.”

  “I stand on the cusp of thirty-one years on earth, Jack, and if I ever see England again, I intend to try to get to thirty-two one day.”

  “Then you’re a young man still.” Jack, so intensely happy, reached toward Thorne and patted him on the knee. “We’ll see England again, I know it.”

  “If we do, I shall make you a promise, Woodvine.” Thorne smiled, his gaze gentle when it settled on Jack’s. “I’ll take you along to the Oval and show you what real cricket looks like. And we’ll toast every bloody one of those lads who lost their lives last night.”

  Jack bit his lip. How selfish he felt, reveling in the captain’s touch, his sweet words, forgetting that even now they would still be burying the boys in makeshift graves. He didn’t want to acknowledge the tide of tears that was blurring his vision, or the faces of the boys from his class at school, who would never see Shropshire again.

  “We will, Captain Thorne. We bloody well will. We’ll toast them all twice over, sir.”

  “I shall hold you to that, soldier!” Thorne nodded and sat back, lifting his hands from Jack’s shoulders. “I’ve put Apollo in his stable but if you’re up to it, he’d appreciate a rubdown. And I’ll put in a request for a new mattress. This one appears to have known better days.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He patted the young man’s shoulder and stood, peering up at Jack’s photos before, perhaps suspecting this was an intrusion of sorts, he turned his attention to the less personal matter of books. With a murmur of approval Thorne scooped up a volume of poetry and opened it, sending a photograph fluttering down to rest atop the bed.

  Jack had been buttoning his shirt. He grabbed for the photograph, but not fast enough.

  It was the sort of photograph that could be bought cheaply from the sort of shops that traded from the sort of dark alleyways that were used as latrines. A young man of about Jack’s age was kneeling on a vaguely tatty chaise longue, his trousers and underpants dragged down, his bottom exposed for all to see. In the foreground was a figure, a silhouette really, their face turned from the camera—woman or man, it was impossible to tell. They held up their arm, a whip in their hand. The image had been colorized, the blush on the young man’s face matching the red stripe across his insubordinate buttocks.

  Thorne said nothing but his mouth moved very slightly, teeth just worrying at his lower lip for a moment. He kept his eyes on the photo, then Jack saw his Adam’s apple rise and fall with the effort of a dry-mouthed swallow as he held out his hand to return the picture to its owner.

  Jack examined the captain’s face, waiting for the words to come. Unnatural desires. But they didn’t. Instead, Captain Thorne looked up from the photograph and gazed at Jack, his mouth fallen slightly open. And as they stared at each other—into each other—Jack felt as if his world had stopped. Jack saw something in Captain Thorne’s eyes—a question, a reply and a promise.

  “I swim at dusk each night, Trooper Woodvine.” With that, Thorne replaced his cap on his head and picked up his gloves. “Once you’ve brushed Apollo, settle him in his stable. We’re expecting a storm, I don’t want him out in the paddock tonight.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jack lowered his gaze, but found himself confronted with a sight he hadn’t expected, though he should have. Thorne tried to hide it as he pulled on the hem of his tunic, but the shape of his desire was all too obvious in the tight cut of his breeches.

  “At ease—” Thorne laughed and flushed again. “You already are. Well, good afternoon, soldier.”

  With a brief nod he strode from the room and Jack heard him at the top of the stairs, already back in character with a bark at some unfortunate—“Get that bloody saddle out of the mud before I have you dunked in it, lad!”

  ‘I swim at dusk each night.’

  And so, Jack thought as he remembered Thorne’s words, shall I.

  Chapter Six

  Queenie held court over dinner. Jack, sitting between Wilf and Bryn, wasn’t intimidated. Whatever gossip Queenie thought he might have on Jack, it was nothing compared to what Captain Thorne had on Captain Marsh.

  But thank goodness no one had come up to the grooms’ quarters. Imagine…a topless trooper, being massaged by a captain.

  A flush went over Jack’s face as he thought of it, but he salted it away. Never think about that—any of that—among the boys, never let it show.

  Heavy losses at the front, Captain Thorne had said. And though he’d put a gloss on it, it was obvious their own call to the front might not be too far away. The
other boys told tales of officers who had been in the trenches and come back. Captain Thorne’s name was often mentioned among them, but they made it sound like a miracle, not a possibility.

  For some time after his accident, Jack had been tormented by the memory of his fall from the horse. Not the pain that came after, but the second that played out in his mind as hours as he fell and the grip on his heart told him that he might die. Soon, he might receive his marching orders, and soon—

  What if I never took the chance to go down to the stream?

  And so he would go to the captain. He had to.

  After dinner, Jack retrieved his pajamas from the tack room. He made a final check on Apollo then crossed the stable yard on his way to the paddock. He could already feel the cool water on his skin, could already see the naked captain in the clear water, could already feel… His heart was racing. He had to be calm. It wouldn’t do…no, it wouldn’t do at all for anyone to know, to look at his face and know.

  “I’ll get you smoking one day, Jack!”

  Someone jumped down behind him from a wagon. It was Wilfred.

  “Where are you off to, squire, this time of the evening?”

  “Hello, Wilf. Just out for some fresh air. It’s stuffy in our quarters.”

  Wilfred lit one of his ever-present roll-ups, ensuring that fresh air was but a memory for them both.

  “Nice time of day for a walk, isn’t it?”

  Jack couldn’t go a step farther.

  “Look, Wilf, I’m so sorry about earlier. I…I had no idea…”

  “No harm done, mate.” He took a deep drag on the cigarette. “I’m just making a start on the first bleedin’ saddle and in he struts, nice as you like and says no hard feelings! I tell you, these posh lads aren’t all there.”

  Wilfred looked up at the sky, a deep orange glow on the horizon almost a fire in the distance. “There’s a storm rolling in. Horses’ll be making a right bloody racket tonight!”

  Jack scuffed the toe of his boot on a loose stone. He rubbed absentmindedly at his shoulder.

  “They’ve all been brought in, haven’t they?” He stared along the path to the paddock, picturing Captain Thorne at his bath. “We…we don’t need to go back to the paddock?”