Megiddo's Shadow (10 page)

I couldn't fight the war on a lazy horse!

Pitts led us to a pen where there stood a plump gray mare, her face burrowed in the trough. She didn't lift her head to look back at us, just moved her eyes. She was small compared to the black horse beside her.

“Back er out of there. Just beware the gelding. He's mad as a Stamford bull.”

I set down my saddle and rifle. The mare's ears did look long—maybe she
was
part donkey. I'd be the laughingstock of the yeomanry. I grabbed a handful of oats from a pail, and as I walked between the two horses, the black one stomped his feet.

“Don't go near that one!” Pitts said. “We're sending him to the packers. Just get the mare.”

I laughed and stepped up to the black charger. “Hey, how about some oats?”

“Are ya deaf! He's a biter!”

I reached out my hand. “He's a king. Right, fifty-eight? You're the king.”

He turned his head, showing off the familiar white star on his brow. He licked the oats out of my hand, his chom-pers brushing my palm.

“By Christ!” Pitts said.

I patted fifty-eight's neck and he pulled back as if to nip me. “Gentle. Gentle. None of that.” He'd grown in the last month. “This horse isn't meant for the packers.”

“You trained him?” Cheevers asked.

I nodded.

“No wonder they kicked you out of Remount.”

“When was he last ridden?” I asked.

“Him? Ha!” Cheevers slapped his leg. “I tried that bag o' bones a week ago and got dumped arse over ead. Still can't sit down properly!”

Fifty-eight accepted the bridle without much fuss. He shook when I threw the blanket across his back and tightened up the saddle. I led him out into the open corral.

“He's yours if you can ride him,” Pitts said.

“Should we write your mom when you peg out?” Cheev-ers added.

I pulled myself into the saddle. Fifty-eight fidgeted and stamped but didn't try to buck.

“Now I've seen it all!” Pitts said.

“Let's go!” We shot out the gate across the barracks yard, dashed around a few barrels, and charged to the far side of camp. He loved galloping; that'd be handy in battle. Several troopers raised their heads to watch. After a few minutes we trotted back.

“Looks like you've got yourself a horse,” Cheevers said.

“That's great!” I hopped off and patted fifty-eight's neck. “Hear that, buddy? We're a team! Has anyone named him?”

“Bone'ead had crossed me mind,” Pitts said.

“Or son of a bitch,” Cheevers added.

It came to me like a whisper in my ear. “Bucephalus.” I'd always loved the stories of Alexander the Great, who conquered empires riding Bucephalus, the horse he'd tamed as a child. He built a city in the place where his horse had fallen. Fifty-eight seemed like that kind of horse.

Cheevers scratched the back of his head. “That's a long name to be shouting in the field.”

“I'll shorten it to Buke. How do you like that?” I said quietly to the horse.

Buke whinnied softly.

C
loser,” Cheevers whispered. “Hist! Come closer, Bathe.” I jerked the rein and gave Buke a nudge, but he shot a full step forward so that we were out of line with the rest of the squadron.

“Trooper Bathe, fall out!” Sergeant Applewhite shouted, his jowls shaking. I cringed. “Over here on the double!”

I spurred Buke toward him, knowing I was about to get a good going-over.

“Send that man here, Sergeant!” Captain Trollope shouted from the knoll where he and Lieutenant Ranee were watching our maneuvers.

Oh, no, not the captain!
“Go see the captain, now!” Applewhite commanded, pointing toward the brass.

I galloped up to Trollope and yanked back on the reins, and Buke snorted snot all over the captain's horse. I turned red, then, remembering myself, snapped a quick salute.
Trollope narrowed his eyes. He looked youthful but had his share of crow's-feet. “Hold your position, relax your grip on your reins, and calm your horse, Trooper.” I watched with growing fear as he scribbled on a blank page in his tactical book. Lieutenant Ranee glared at me while the captain wrote. I looked down, feeling as if I would melt. I wondered if it was a written reprimand or even a royal rebuke. After all, Trollope was Lord of Kesteven, wherever that was.

He tore the paper from the book, tied it with brown string, and shoved it into my hand. “Take this message to Captain Dickinson of A Squadron. They're camped near Aylesby This is an urgent matter, so don't dawdle.”

“Yes, sir!” I saluted again and placed the letter in my saddlebag. I charged down the road at a hard gallop. No reprimand or punishment; this was more like a reward. Captain Trollope was a damn fine fellow!

The more I pushed Buke, the faster he went and the smoother his gait became. At top speed it felt as if we were gliding over water. He loved racing; it was holding his position in line that he couldn't stomach. I let him run for several minutes, my identity disks banging against my chest. Then, fearing he'd tire, I switched to a canter.

For all I knew, I was riding right by my family's old farm. I'd seen a photograph of the buildings, but our place could be hidden in any of these green gullies.

I found A Squadron in a valley and watched as they galloped in an attack formation, lances aimed at an imaginary enemy. Half of them stopped and dismounted, ordered their horses to lie down, then used them as cover while firing at targets. The remaining sections wheeled about, roared their
battle cries, and skewered the targets with lances. It was quite a sight.

When they were done I rode down and was soon led to Captain Dickinson, a thick-chested man with a drooping mustache and several scars on his face.

I saluted. “Urgent message for you, sir, from Captain Kesteven … I mean, Captain Trollope, sir, the Lord of Kesteven.”

“Oh, and what does his lordship want?” Dickinson opened the message, read it, then looked at me oddly. “Are you Trooper Bathe?” Yes, sir.

“Do you know what this message says?”

“No, sir. It was private, sir.” Was he accusing me of reading it?

“I'll share it with you, then: ‘Good day, Captain Dickinson. Hope you've had time for tea. Trooper Bathe is keen as mustard, but he's green and needs a good workout. Tell him to ride back to his squadron on the double.’”

“That's what it says, sir?”

“Yes.” He chuckled. “Trollope never misses a chance to play a joke. Now, ride hard back to your squadron. That's an order!”

“Yes, sir!” I saluted, smiling.

I kicked and Buke galloped across the hills. It had all been a joke! Captain Trollope was telling me that I belonged; I just had to work harder. I took a different route back, hoping it would be shorter.

We sped over a hill, kicking up mud. My smile grew even wider because the aid post was right below us. What a piece
of luck! I charged up to the back of it and yanked on Buke's reins. A nurse sitting on a wicker chair stared with wide eyes. “What can I do for you, duck?”

“Will you kindly inform Emily Waters that Trooper Bathe is here to see her,” I said, trying not to puff. “I mean, if she has time to chat, of course.”

“I will.”

I removed my helmet and hung it on my saddle, then ran my fingers through my hair and wiped the sweat from my forehead. I loosened my greatcoat to reveal more of my uniform. I was on top of Buke and we were on top of the world.

Emily stepped out and did a double take. “Edward? Is that you?”

“Of course!”

“You're in the yeomanry?”

“I transferred three days ago. It's been great fun!”

“Fun? You boys have odd ideas of fun.” She held out her hand and let Buke have a couple sniffs before she stroked his forehead and said, “He's a marvelous horse!”

“He's Bucephalus, after Alexander the Great's horse. I call him Buke, though.”

“Do you fancy yourself another Alexander?”

“Ha! He's just a good horse, that's all.”

She ran her hand over his neck. How I wished those perfect hands were touching me instead. “You've been riding hard.”

“He loves it. He's faster than the wind.”

“I bet.” She gave his shoulder a good pat. “When Vera announced your arrival I assumed you'd hurt yourself again. Why else would you be here?”

“Uh …” I was on top of my horse, in uniform; I felt unstoppable. “I wanted to ask you to a film or a show. Would you go with me?”

“How could a poor little waif refuse a knight in shining armor?”

My heart started beating rabbit fast. “You're not a waif.”

“Well, I'm glad you think that. How about meet me here Saturday at six sharp? That'll give us time for dinner and a show.”

“Saturday? Good! Good! I'll be here.”

“You'd better be!” she said with a chuckle, and the cutest dimples dotted her ivory cheeks. “So how is yeomanry life?”

“Well, for one thing, there's a lot more action.”

“Being bucked off a horse wasn't enough for you?”

“I'm trained for more than that.”

The pop of rifles echoed across the hills and Emily crossed her arms. “You hear that target practice going on all day. They want you to get used to the sound so you forget how deadly bullets are.”

“We have to know how to shoot.”

“And to die, I guess. A trooper from A Squadron died last night. He fell off his horse and hit his head.”

“That's terrible.”

“Ordinary, that's what it was. No medals for him.” She motioned toward France. “Every day men are dying in the trenches. It's all rather ordinary now.”

“It'll be over soon,” I said, trying to sound as if I believed my own words. I'd hoped to make her feel better.

“By Christmas, right? But which Christmas? It does feel
so pointless at times. Still, I've applied to go to Etaples. They need more nurses near the front.”

“Just seeing you would make a guy heal faster,” I gushed, my voice pitched a little too high.

She allowed a smile. “That's kind of you.”

I struggled for something clever to say. I wanted to tell her she looked beautiful, even though she had black bags under her eyes. How come other men could banter so easily with girls?

“I was going to look you up,” she said.

“You were? Why?”

“To thank you for helping us when we had all those wounded. You arrived at exactly the right time.”

“It just seemed like the right thing to do.”

“Your friend is still here. He asked after you.”

My stomach churned. “Yes, he … I meant to visit him earlier. I've been busy with the transfer and the training. How is he?”

“He's healing. They'll send him to Lincoln any day now. Why not say hello? His cot is right inside the door.”

I pulled on the reins and Buke took a step back. “Ahh, I can't. I have to get back to the barracks. I was supposed to ride directly there.”

Emily frowned. “He's taking his wounds rather hard; he needs cheering up. Don't wait too long.”

“I won't. I won't. It—it was good to talk to you.”

“Yes, it was, wasn't it?” She grinned. “I kept hoping you'd hurt your arm again just so we could visit. Not proper thoughts for a nurse.”

“If I stub my toe, I'll run blubbering to you. Otherwise, I'll be here Saturday at six sharp!”

“I'll be waiting for you, Mr. Knight in Khaki Armor,” she said, laughing. I could have listened to that sound forever.

I strapped on my helmet and trotted away. Then, hoping she was still watching, I gave Buke a good kick and galloped toward the barracks.

E
very night, bone weary from drills, I'd collapse on my cot, too tired to move. My mind would still be on the drill field, wheeling into different formations, waiting for the signal to charge. Every moment on Buke made me think of Dad's time in the dragoons; he might have trained on these very hills.

Partway through the week, I placed the ink jar on our small table and wrote:

I sealed the envelope just as Cheevers arrived with a pink gift-wrapped box.

“Spoils of war from one of my birds!” He fired several sugar biscuits my way. I softened one in my tea and let it dissolve in my mouth. “Oh, and there was mail for you, Bathe.” He tossed a letter to me.