By JULIA MERRIT
Reposted with permission from the author
Over. Under. Through. Summer 1938
The chalkdust starting line of the Night Ride was barely visible in the rain. Adam and Tin Man were standing behind it, Tin Man checked by the leverage of the curb rein. When the flag dropped, Adam relaxed the curb, and Tin Man trotted forward, the two-time footfalls swishing briskly through the wet grass. Sixty miles were to be covered before dawn to demonstrate his competence as a cavalryman. This was it, he thought. The way the army was going, there wouldn’t be another opportunity for him to prove himself. He had to get it right.
Tin Man was a good horse. The best Adam had ridden so far. He’d been named when he was a young horse, his coat a dark smoky colour and his limbs gangly and angular, as though he were machine-cut and riveted together. At eight, he’d grown into his limbs, and the smoke had disappeared, leaving behind a snowy grey. He resembled neither metal nor artificial creature, but since it was bad luck to change a horse’s name, it stayed.
It had been a hot August day, and the rain was cooling at first. Adam was thankful for the drop in temperature, and in the first few miles, he didn’t even mind getting wet as they travelled. The novelty of the test made the rain only a minor inconvenience—with a fresh, fit horse and a sharp mind, all was possible.
Early in the ride, Adam decided to angle north to avoid a forested area. He was having trouble reading the map under its waxy cover. He couldn’t miss his marker and overshoot his line. He’d initially planned to go across the countryside in direct lines, and when the rain arrived, he’d changed his mind and decided to use as many roads as possible. The longer route on the roads would make up for the rain making the fields greasy and obscuring the footing in the intensified dark. The short path would be pointless if the horse became injured.
A tractor lane appeared around the corner from the bush, and Adam pressed Tin Man into a canter. The ground had been dry for weeks, and the top layer of soil was just wet enough to be slick. Adam kept the horse slow, steering him to the raised hump of grass between the tire tracks.
The lane ended and once more became a series of fields, alternating hay, wheat, potatoes, and corn. The corn was unpleasant, its leaves ripping at human clothes and horse coat. After the first hour passed and twelve miles with it, Adam paused to get his bearings and adjust their course to the east. Satisfied with the pace, he dismounted and walked, long enough for Tin Man to catch his breath, but not so long that his muscles became cold. Tin Man snatched a few mouthfuls of tall grasses as they went, showering more drops of water onto Adam’s uniform.
In the second hour, they were forced to travel on the borders of a large bog. Adam allowed Tin Man to pick the firmest ground. At the end of the bog lay a dirt road, and Tin Man jumped nimbly up the bank. This time the rain had worked in their favour, softening the hard-packed surface, and they cantered to make up some time. They fell into their travelling rhythm, mindful and mindless, the important thing being to keep going.
Twenty miles were gone, and the rain was stopping. Twenty miles was about how far the troops would ordinarily travel in a day, and both he and Tin Man were still full of energy. Adam allowed himself to think they would make it. He pulled a little chocolate out of his pocket and stuffed it in his cheek, savouring the jolt of sugar.
From the road, they cut across a woodlot — a slight detour to find a stream that Adam wanted to use for watering the horse. Although the wood had appeared well-maintained from a distance, there was a lot of undergrowth between the trees, and they were limited to walking. The scrub crackled underneath Tin Man’s feet as he snapped live and dead twigs alike, making a frightful noise in the quiet of the night. His legs also stirred up the insects, which were no longer tamped down by the rain. There were too many to brush away, and the horse jigged uncomfortably underneath Adam while he swatted and steered the upset horse away from jagged sticks and holes. A few persistent deerflies managed to land, making sharp nicks in their flesh before a tail or hand could smack them. Tin Man threw his head up when one landed on his neck, and Adam killed it for him. The horse didn’t seem to mind the hard slaps as the aggressive bugs fell away. They reached the stream, and Tin Man drank deeply and quickly. Then they headed out, back to the road. The shorter route through the trees wasn’t worth being driven mad.
After the extra effort of the bush and its flies, the return to the road was soothing. Too soothing. It was well past midnight now, and Adam had been up and working since before dawn. Drowsiness descended as they trotted onwards, and he had to focus all his mental energy to keep his body balanced in the saddle. By mile twenty-five, the saddle leather and wet uniform started to rub the insides of his legs raw. The discomfort acted as a stimulant, simultaneously keeping his mind operating at high speed and making his body feel every mile as though it were two. For a while, he stood in his stirrups, though eventually, he began to wobble and had to sit. For a few seconds, his legs were comfortable and then began to burn again. He dismounted once to let the fabric of his breeches unstick from his legs, pride compelling him back into the tack and the chafing making a misery out of their headway.
Whether it was the fatigue or the pain or the dark, at the thirty-fifth mile, Adam miscalculated their position and took them three miles west of their intended course. The tedium was broken by a hamlet, a tiny collection of houses lining the road like eerie misshapen boulders bursting out of a moor. That hadn’t been on his list of landmarks. They stopped between the houses in the middle of the street. Anyone awake in the middle of the night would have seen the ghostly horse standing patiently, waiting for his slumping rider to decide how best to fix things. Adam wiped his wrist over his brows and cursed his stupidity. There wasn’t a good solution other than to turn and go back the way they’d come, adding a full six miles to their journey. Adam was confident in his horse’s conditioning, and he redirected the horse, sending him back into a canter and keeping him there. Tin Man was no longer pulling.
The rain resumed during the fortieth mile. Tin Man was starting to show signs of tiring, so Adam alternated the faster gaits with walk breaks. If the horse were unsound at the finish, Adam would fail the exercise — the cavalry didn’t accept careless treatment of its equipment. His breath shortened, and desperation took hold. He needed to finish this. He ran over the numbers in his head. Distance travelled versus their speed — how much was left to go? They still had time, though that didn’t stop him from counting out the horse’s strides and marking off every quarter mile.
Tin Man gamely carried on, his walk still big and reaching. Adam got off and walked beside him, revealing new rubs as the blood flowed into Adam’s legs. There was no way to avoid the rough fabric against his skin, the flesh sticking and releasing on his uniform as he moved. He slid his hand under the saddle to check Tin Man’s back. His coat was wet and smooth, still intact, with no signs of any saddle sores. But his muscles were getting tight, and Adam knew the test was starting to cost the horse, too. Together they marched, with Adam trying to keep up the pace.
By mile fifty, Adam knew it was time to get back on. He mounted, his bones stiff and his muscles rubbery. Tin Man was refreshed by the break and trotted off well. Adam posted to make it easier for the horse. At this point, even though it should have been his legs that were working, Adam had to steel his guts and throw his torso to rise out of the saddle, digging deep for grit. He would not allow his tiredness to ruin this.
It worked for a little while but with five miles remaining, Adam felt Tin Man fading.
“C’mon Tin Man,” Adam urged, clutching with his calves. Tin Man responded with a surge of energy, which he held for a minute or so, and then devolved to an amble. Adam let him be for a bit and then pressed anew. Tin Man responded, although a slight rasp accompanied the deep, fast inhales and exhales.
Adam felt a pang in his chest, grateful for the horse trying so hard to please. This time he rubbed the horse’s withers while they walked, allowing him to stretch his head and neck. He quickly checked the map. They couldn’t afford any more rest after the time they’d wasted from the error. Adam shuddered and yawned. He needed food.
For the final mile, Adam nudged and nursed Tin Man along at the trot. He wrapped his legs around Tin Man’s ribcage as far as they would go, squeezing once every stride with his wilting muscles, mentally propelling the horse to the finish.
The dark was still absolute, and the trees cast no shadows under the clouded sky. Adam dug his knuckles into the horse’s mane in front of the saddle and scanned the blackness for the lamps that marked the finish line that he knew was off to the side in an empty field. The moments dragged on, each footstep moving them fractionally towards the end.
The sight of the lights filled Adam with relief and exhilaration. Tin Man’s hooves scuffed across the chalk line, blurring the white paste into the grass as his body melted into a walk. Adam dismounted, standing by for the pronouncement from the officer recording his time. The officer nodded, and Adam smiled. Hands reached out to clap him on the back as he led Tin Man toward the picket lines, and he allowed the smile to broaden into a grin.
William helped him get the horse settled and passed him a flask. Adam took a swig, thankful for the burning that offset his chilled uniform. He was woozy from being awake so long. The dizziness pulled at him, muting his triumph.
He handed the flask back. “Did you ever think we’d be here?” he asked.
William snorted. “As in this particular field of clover?” He giggled, tipsy or delirious. “I don’t think many of us chumps fancied being owned by the military. It’s as good a place as any, I suppose. Gotta work.” He stared out into the dark.
William offered the whiskey again. Adam took another drink and shivered.
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