Reuben Cole - The Early Years

Chapter 2

He was dreaming. Back at the ranch, running through the fields, his mother close behind shouting with joy for him to slow down. If anything, this spurred him on, and he was sprinting; arms and legs pumping, head thrown back, eyes closed, luxuriating in the sheer pleasure of being alive. He didn’t see the fallen tree until he was upon it, and he tripped and fell headfirst into the ground. Rolling over and over, his mother’s concerned voice calling him as he tumbled, “Wake up, Cole! Wake up!”

Reuben Cole sprang awake and sat up, startled, but instantly alert. The big, cheery face of Sergeant Burnside filled his immediate line of vision. Sergeant Burnside, who had guided him during the enlistment process, helping him to find his way around the camp, smiled broadly. Cole had spent an uncomfortable night on a makeshift camp-bed inside a large tent. “Get your things together and I’ll take you over to your barrack room. That’s where you’ll be staying from now on.”

The two men marched across the parade ground, the sun nothing more than a smudge in a misty-grey dawn. Already, Cole found himself shivering in his thin, threadbare shirt. “Quartermaster will fit you out with extra clothing,” said Burnside, giving Cole the once-over. “It’ll be blazing hot in a few hours, but these early mornings are chilly, as is the night. You should forever be prepared, soldier.”

Stopping abruptly before a long line of nondescript wooden huts, Burnside pointed across to the entrance to one of them. “That’s yours. Come on, I’ll take you to meet your companions.”

“ ’Morning, gentlemen,” said Burnside, and introduced Cole to two rough-looking types lounging on the steps of the first hut. They were dressed in buckskin clothes and slouch hats, guns tied down at their hips.

“This here is Alvin Cairns and Augustus Renshaw,” said Burnside. “They are from Kansas and are the best-damned trackers we have. You stick close to them and learn what you can. You won’t go far wrong that way, Reuben. Believe you me.”

That was the last time Burnside ever called him Reuben. From now on, he was Private Cole, foraging scout for Company D of the 10th United States Infantry Regiment out of Pennsylvania.

Cole snapped to attention and gave a rigid, well-drilled salute. Burnside smiled, casually returned the salute, and strode off.

“He must like you,” drawled Cairns, cutting off a hunk of chewing tobacco from a pouch he kept at his waist. “Ain’t ever seen him look so cheerful. Ain’t that right, Augustus?”

“Sure is.”

“Get yourself some food young fella. Load your guns, and make sure you have plenty of water. Maybe a coat or something to keep you warm. We is going for a ride.”

“Wait a minute,” said Cole, quickly. “Going for a ride? Where to?”

“You’ll see soon enough.”

“But, I’ve only just got here. I need time to get to know everything and everyone. Besides, we can’t just ride out of here without telling anyone!”

“You think we is idiots, squirt?”

“Yeah,” piped up Renshaw, “is that it? You think us is idiots?”

“I never said that,” protested Cole, looking from one snarling face to another. “I’m just making sure, that’s all.”

“Making sure?” Cairns laughed, a grating, mocking sound. “Who do you think you are, squirt?”

“Yeah, who do you think you are?”

Cole was about to say something, bring up the obvious point that Augustus Renshaw, his big, lanky frame towering over him, was nothing but an echo of his associate Cairns, when he decided against such an action. These men looked and were dangerous. Each sported a brace of Navy Colts and bore a grizzled look. It seemed clear to Cole that these men were seasoned killers, quick to violence. Burnside had hinted that Cairns was a skilful tracker. Renshaw, however, remained something of a mystery. For one thing, he appeared clean, which was rare for any soldier, let alone a scout who spent most of his time out on the plains. Perhaps Cole should ask around the barracks, find out about their reputation, and discover if they were men not to be crossed. Until then, he decided to keep his mouth closed.

“Get your stuff from your bunk, squirt,” said Cairns. “And, in the future, you just do as you’re told. No more questioning my authority.”

Cole nodded once, avoiding Cairn’s icy glare. Before he stomped out, the tracker spat out a long line of tobacco juice, which barely missed Cole’s boot. Renshaw giggled.

“I didn’t mean nothing by it,” said Cole, quietly, thinking it best to offer up some sort of explanation.

Renshaw tilted his head. “Just get your stuff.”

“I wouldn’t want you to think I am – damn it, I’m sorry is what I’m trying to say.”

Renshaw’s hand moved in a blur, striking Cole resoundingly across the cheek. Cole reeled to the side, the blow so powerful it felt as if it almost tore his head off.

“Don’t cuss,” said Renshaw, and left, leaving Cole to clutch at his smarting face, eyes wet with the shock of the assault.

Stepping inside his barrack room, he avoided the questioning stares of his fellow soldiers, most of whom were young recruits like himself.

“What happened to you?” one young recruit asked, sitting on his bunk adjacent to Cole’s. He was busily polishing his boots, which looked as if they were about to fall apart.

Unconsciously, Cole brushed the back of his hand against his cheek. It felt hot to the touch. “Ah, nothin’.”

“Sergeant Burnside stored your equipment under your bed,” said the recruit. He struck out a hand. “Name’s Andrew Stamp.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Cole, relieved to find a friendly face.

Smiling, Cole reached under his bunk and pulled out his bedroll. Inside, wrapped in an oily cloth, was the handgun his father had presented to him on the morning he left the ranch. It was an eighteen-fifty-eight Remington-Beals Army revolver, his father’s pride and joy, and he insisted Reuben take it rather than the bulky Colt Dragoon he’d acquired. “I’ll take this old dependable as back-up,” he’d told his father.

Now, crouching down, weighing the Remington in his hands, he knew he needed to travel light. He left the Dragoon behind, gathered up his blanket and canteen, and tipped his hat towards Stamp. “I’ll be gone for a few days,” he said.

“Action? You going into action? Damn, that makes me jealous.”

“Wouldn’t be too anxious about getting into a scrape,” interjected another recruit, a powerfully built fellow who strolled over to them. “Heard from some other fellas that the army lost a lot of buddies last time they mixed it with the Rebs. Said the safest place to spend any time during a war is in the bunkhouse.”

“Not sure the colonel would agree,” said Stamp, returning to his polishing. “Where is it you’re going?”

Cole shrugged. “Don’t know. My immediate superior has all of that information. I’m just a ‘squirt’, or so he keeps telling me.”

“Is that Cairns, the tracker?” asked the big one.

“Yeah. You know him?”

“I know of him. Saw him take apart two regulars a couple of weeks ago. That man is mean, mean and as hard as nails. I have never seen anyone move and swing punches the way that man did. Laid ‘em both out cold, one of ‘em with a broken jaw. Best just keep your head down and do as he says.”

“I reckon you’re right,” said Cole. He gave them both a parting smile and went out into the sunlight to find the quartermaster’s office and choose himself a coat.