The Horse Keeper Read online

  Copyright © 2018 A. R. Forte

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

  9 Priory Business Park,

  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: (+44) 116 279 2299

  Fax: (+44) 116 279 2277

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  ISBN 978 1789012 637

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  CONTENTS

  Introduction.

  Rambling back. June 1868.

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Whispers of a delta breeze. May 1858.

  Riding on the wind.

  Chapter 4

  I don’t pree-fess to know.

  Chapter 5

  Sensual pleasures of a bodily kind.

  Chapter 6

  The man who stole a thief.

  Peach blossoms and pink confetti.

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  A boy, a torch and a barn.

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  The General and the telegrapher.

  Chapter 19

  A General and a long speech.

  Chapter 20

  The call of the hallowed wind.

  At the grand old age of seventy two,

  Blucher fought at Waterloo.

  Napoleon made war an art,

  But Wellington was very smart.

  William Wallace fought in tartan,

  And Leonidas was a Spartan.

  Marching off to fife and drum.

  The enemy is on the run.

  A soldier’s life is death or glory,

  But that’s not the only story.

  Beneath the cloak of glory gained,

  Hides the sword of shame and pain.

  Black flowers sprung from the bud,

  When Cromwell signed his name in blood.

  And who’s that knocking on deaths door.

  The dreaded ghost of CIVIL WAR…

  A.R. Forte.

  INTRODUCTION

  Rambling back. June 1868.

  Luke gently reigned in the train of young horses as he finally pulled his own horse to a halt when they reached the hilltop. He looked down into the valley and was pleased with what he saw. The deep, lush greenery around the dense, low slung meadow was perfect for grazing and also the canopy of trees provided an excellent place to camp for the night. He looked over his shoulder and said to the six fillies and three young males, “well, boys and gals, looks like we gotta damn good place to rest up an’ feed.” The horses responded to the tenderness in his voice by moving their beautiful heads in unison. They were indeed a fine bunch and Luke had paid the rancher cash for them, without even bothering to haggle and barter. After all, Luke knew exactly what he was looking for and he would certainly be doing business with Tex Bodell again. The only man that knew more about horses than Luke was about a day’s ride away and Luke was looking forward to handing these gems to his friend and mentor.

  Before descending into the valley he took a sweeping look around. Luke loved the land and he felt part of its invisible ambience. He loved every mountain, skyline, valley, glade, river and body of water. It flowed through his soul like an eternal stream of creativity and growth. So as he gently pulled and tugged at the long line to lead his obedient fold down into the valley, he could not have been prepared for what was about to happen. When they approached the meadow he received a stark warning. As he dismounted and led the troupe into the deep grass, his own horse became disturbed and immediately after, the rest of the horses began to fret and fidget. They were afraid of something and Luke felt the cold clasp of fear suddenly grab his spine.

  “Easy, easy boys and gals, there’s nothin’ round here to be afraid of,” he said.

  He tethered the train to a solitary tree further back from the glade and walked briskly under the canopy of trees with the grass lashing around his boots, determined to get to the root of the horses’ disturbance.

  He did not have to look far to find out what it was.

  As soon as he entered under the shadows of the trees and at exactly at the same instant, he felt his boot kick something and his eagle eye caught something to his left. The broken artillery piece was covered in ivy and deep undergrowth, but he knew a Napoleon when he saw one. Looking down he noticed with horror that his boot had caught a human skull. As his eyes adjusted to the shade, the scene told him what must have happened here, a few years before. The tangle of bones grew into a more concentrated conglomeration in the centre of the glade. The rotting, mildew ridden fabric, some blue some grey, told Luke that this had been the scene of a fierce engagement. Mother Nature had tried to weave her mysterious web over this dastardly deed, but she had not had enough time to cover them with her veil of green. The barrels of the broken Parrot cannons protruded from the bracken and tall weeds, pointing in all directions. Luke pictured the scene as much as the macabre evidence graphically informed him. Rebel soldiers descending from all sides, whooping and screaming the Rebel yell. Disciplined, but terrified Union boys cutting them down with musket fire and decapitating bodies with canister and shot from the artillery pieces, and finally the inevitable hand to hand fight, with bayonet and sword. Luke suddenly felt as though he was trespassing and intruding on a hallowed and sacred place. He turned around and walked back. Looking towards the sky with tears in his eyes he asked, “Why, why did you let this happen? Why did you not intervene and stop it, why?” He unhitched the horses that appeared to be quietly observing his distress and said, “Well, boys and gals, looks like we’re gonna’ have to find somewhere else tonight.”

  He finally found a suitable place to camp about an hour later, on the other side of the hill that rose from the back of the hidden and beautifully camouflaged cemetery. The horses had been quiet as they approached the next cluster of trees and dense shrubbery, and Luke took stock of their manner and countenance in quiet interest and relief.

  He woke early the next morning and after brewing up a strong pot of coffee and making sure that the horses had been watered by a nearby stream, he saddled up his own horse and made ready to leave. Luke was nowhere near as strong and as powerfully built as his mentor and benefactor, but he was tall, lean and athletic and had incredible stamina and endurance. Very few men could spend as much time in the saddle and cover such vast tracks of land as he could in a day. If he had not decided to take this overland route back to the ranch and had stayed on the dusty roads, he would not have stumbled upon the tragic reminder that a terrible war had scarred and tarnished this benign and fertile land. But this was no time for regrets and pondering over unfortunate incidents. This was the time Luke loved best about his forays and travels; rambling back. He was rambling back under his own steam. The deal had been done and he had bought merchandise wel
l above his expectations. But, above all of this he knew that his mentor would be pleased and that warmed his heart. He was looking forward to the twin boys running towards him across the yard, and carrying each one as they hung onto his legs. And, of course, he could sure use a hot meal and warm bed.

  It was a magnificent sunrise that greeted Luke as he negotiated the final boulders and rocks when he reached the top of the final hill that overlooked the ranch. The sun was glowing a bright orange and scarlet, and violet cloud formations stretched across the horizon like branches of atmospheric trees. He looked down onto the ranch far below and the rooster called as if it had been waiting for him to arrive. Smoke spiralled up from the chimney of the ranch house and he knew that Belinda was busy at work in the kitchen. The twins, Kyle and Virgil would still be sound asleep in their bunks. Luke doted on the twins and they saw him more like a big brother, rather than a surrogate uncle. The war had cheated Luke out of his own childhood, the very fibre of his youth and he knew that he owed everything to the fiery, tough and mysterious loner that had given him a lifeline. He was about as content as a young man could be, considering all of the horror, fear and gut wrenching injustice he had seen and lived through, in his desperate former life.

  He smiled, then looked over his shoulder and winked at the train of fine beasts. His heart swelled with pride as he loudly announced, “Well, boys and gals, it’s time to meet your new master and ma’ boss.”

  His gaze then turned down towards the labyrinth of stables, barns and pens. He knew that somewhere amongst that tangle of wood, delivering newly born foals, or feeding and attending to sickly fillies and caring for the animals that he had been born to love, protect and nurture, was the Horse Keeper.

  CHAPTER 1

  Wayne tied the laces of his heavy boots and stood up from the steps of the porch. The boots felt strange and the crisp grey uniform felt like dry cardboard. The Colonel had told him to report to the General in the morning and had assured him not to worry, as the General only wanted a casual chat. Wayne knew the General from many bloody battlefields, body and soul breaking marches, through dust, rain, blazing sun and freezing cold. But as he walked across the dusty square he wondered what the General could want with him. He knew the old man was pompous, theatrical and prone to long elaborate speeches, punctuated with well placed metaphors. But what was there to say that they did not already know, share and suffer. These thoughts were still swimming around inside his head as he knocked on the Generals office door.

  “Come in,” a gruff voice said loudly.

  As Wayne walked into the room, a huge imposing figure stood up from behind a desk. It took Wayne a while for his eyes to adjust to the relative darkness, compared to the blinding sunshine that splayed into the room through a dusty window.

  “Ah, private Rawlins I believe, well, well, please take a seat my brave boy.”

  Wayne sat down on a rickety old chair facing the General who sat down himself. “I suppose you’re wondering why I called for you,” said the General.

  “Yes sir, the Colonel told me you wanted to speak to me last night sir.”

  “Hope he told you it was informal and not over discipline or rules.”

  “He did sir,” said Wayne, barely hiding the curiosity in his voice.

  “Damn good soldier, Colonel Williams. Wish we had him in one of our brigades at Antietam, or Fredericksburg, or Chancellorsville for that matter,” said the General.

  “It’s a pleasure working under Colonel Williams sir, he’s a veteran of…”

  The old man interrupted sharply, and a wry smile came across his face, as he said, “just like us, my brave boy, just like us… War torn, shattered veterans.” Only now did the General look down on the papers on his desk, then look up at Wayne with a pain and anguish in his eyes that defied description.

  “I see that you’ve been with us from the beginning… Four years from the beginning that we all thought would end within months. How wrong we all were, how wrong.” He suddenly became aware of Wayne’s anxious gaze and said more cordially, “I bet you wonder how you’ve survived all of those infernal battles, when so many like yourself perished and died in such horrible bloodshed.”

  “I do sir, I do, every day and night, there’s no escape from it.”

  The General butted in again and Wayne got the impression that the old man needed somebody to talk to, and to vent a pent up anger, which he had been brooding over. “From Bull run to Fredericksburg, Antietam to Chancellorsville… From the Pickett, Pettigrew, Trimble charge at Gettysburg. To the terrible Wilderness battle… Where did you get wounded by the way?”

  “I was finally felled at the Bloody angle massacre in front of Spotsylvania Court house. I was dug out from a pile of Yankees who were so mutilated that their blood soaked my uniform red through… I cannot believe I am here in front of you sir, I cannot believe I’m still alive… I was near General Pettigrew when he was shot sir, as we pulled away from the field at Gettysburg. He could have saved himself, but he made sure we all got across a deep ford and took a Yankee bullet trying to cross behind us.”

  “Damn fine General, Pettigrew, an intellectual. I knew him personally, can’t believe how he was taken after surviving that charge… I almost forgot the main reason I wanted to see you… Why were you the only western boy from your town drafted into an eastern army? The Colonel mentioned something about handling horses.”

  Suddenly Wayne became self conscious and slightly nervous about this question and had to think carefully before he answered it, as the General listened with interest.

  “Well sir, I’ve always loved horses from a young age and was given an ability, or gift to train and break most wild horses, given time… Er, my reputation for this got around over some time and we kept horses on my father’s ranch anyway… So I was lucky enough to do a job that I liked… When all of the boys in Rogersville were volunteering and being drafted into the Western armies, I got a job taking several big batches of horses up to Virginia and training and breaking horses that had been herded in from everywhere. Horses were being killed and worked to death hauling artillery and wagons at a far worse rate than in the West, and were needed badly.”

  “What do you put this talent down to?” asked the General.

  “It’s quite simple sir. Every horse has its own personality, its own character, I believe… You have to get to know each one individually, then befriend it. And then it’s a matter of earning its trust. Even the wildest and most ferocious ones can be trained, if they are handled properly… Some folks that think they know horses know nothing. A horse is no dumb beast sir, it has feelings, just like us.”

  Just then somebody knocked on the door.

  “Enter,” said the General.

  Colonel Williams entered the room and said proudly, “Sir, you ordered me to inform you as soon as the next batch of horses were brought in. Well, they’re here sir, and there’s some real beauties among ‘em.”

  “Thank you Colonel. Well my last horse was blown from underneath me by a cannon ball. Private Rawlins, I want you to choose one for me, and do your work on it. Then call for me when you think I can handle it.”

  Training and dealing with the horses that were brought in had been Wayne’s prime job around Headquarters after he was brought down from the field hospital. The wound in his leg had healed quite well, but he now had a slight limp and the muscle that the musket ball had pierced could sometimes give him sudden spasms of pain in the night. Headquarters was nothing more than an old deserted outpost, with a few dilapidated wooden buildings, barns and stables huddled together, surrounding a dusty square.

  The other boys that worked around Headquarters were all crammed into a ramshackle bunkhouse, with broken and missing slates. Wayne had been fortunate enough to be put into a small but dry room at the back of the stables, where he was in close proximity and smell of his beautiful beasts.

  The General had turned out to be a superb administrator. Everybody, including the dispossessed slaves who worked as w
asherwomen and seamstresses were fed on fresh potatoes, corn bread and a quite palatable stew that the General himself ate in copious amounts. The General’s staff had managed to check most of the graft and thievery that was infamous around army supply points. In short, if anybody were caught they would be shot, was the maxim. Would be surreptitious business was soon quelled by this ethic.

  There were about two hundred and sixty of them manning the camp, and Wayne knew most of them. Some of them had even been in the same amount of battles as him. And all of them had a great deal of respect for the western boy, who had been drafted over to take care of horses, but had fought side by side with them, suffering the same dangers and conditions. Wayne would stand by the stables every day and watch with pity as old men, teenage boys and poor simpletons in grey cotton uniforms pass through the depot. Going to shore up broken and battered armies, that was dying a slow and painful death. Wayne knew that most of them would never return.

  CHAPTER 2

  The new batch of horses were indeed a magnificent collection. Twenty-four well fed and watered wild beasts. They had been hidden in a corner of a vast plantation down in Georgia in lieu of being sold for an extortionate price after the war. General Hardee’s men had discovered them by accident as they were negotiating a surprise attack on a probing Federal cavalry patrol. For Wayne it was love at first sight, and they were all his to train tame and ultimately make obedient servants to their master.

  He soon picked out a powerful and athletic brown stallion for the General. The beast was young and wild and had the character of a cock-sure youth that could face any challenge. The day after they had been brought in Wayne was leaning against the fence of the big pen behind the stables observing them and their ways. He became vaguely aware of somebody watching him. He turned to see a wiry youth standing sheepishly looking at him from under the brim of a big brown hat.

  “Whatchu want boy,” said Wayne sharply.

  “Mr. Rawlins… I, I, I’ve been sent by Colonel Williams to w, w, work for yah.”