Reuben sighed inwardly. On top of everything, now this. He glanced back at Zeb. The mountain man shifted his gaze from Jacob where it had been fastened, and his deep-set green eyes locked on his. He could almost feel the mountain man’s thoughts, You’re in charge. Make a decision.
“To be safe, we’ll need to put all the sick in one wagon. It appears that these particular folks who are ill have no one to tend to them. If it’s cholera,” there was a gasp from the crowd, eyes widened and nervous glances were exchanged, “it’s very contagious. We can’t take a chance on more people getting sick. We will need a volunteer to drive that wagon.”
One man raised his hand. “I’ll drive it. My wife can handle ours.” A voice from between the supply wagons to his rear spoke up.
Reuben turned. It was Johannes on Bente, leaning on the saddle horn. “I’ll bring them supplies and water.”
Reuben could see Johannes’ facial muscles twitching as he looked out over the group. “Preacher, after the service tomorrow, I would like you to come down and say a few words over Inga. I…” Johannes cleared his throat, “I buried her on the rise next to creek. She grew up on the water, you know, and…and I figured she would be happy resting by it.”
Preacher Walling nodded. “It would be a privilege, Johannes.” Next to him, his wife took out a delicate white handkerchief, held it to her eyes and buried her forehead in her husband’s arm.
CHAPTER 39
MAY 15, 1855
THE PATROL
Reuben was concerned. He didn’t like wasting hours in the unseasonable midday heat to give the stock a break, but Mac’s advice had stayed with him. And, with many of the wagons now being pulled by less than full teams after the Indian attack, there really is no choice.
He ate in silence, aware of the numerous darting looks—part wondering, part worry—that Rebecca threw at him across the small, wavering cookfire, the light of its dying flames no match for the brightness of the sun outside the shade of the wagon.
“What’s wrong, Reuben?”
He sighed, set down the tin plate too forcefully, and watched his meal mingle with the dirt dug out for the fire pit.
“Nothing to do with you, Rebecca. It’s Johannes. He disappears for long periods of time. He volunteers for the most solitary, dangerous, and remote tasks. I have been told by others in the train that he insists on taking their place on night guard. He volunteers to ride the flank where terrain, elevation, or vegetation creates situations more likely for attack or ambush. He’s become quieter than Zeb.”
Rebecca moved to him, leaned over, and kissed his shoulder. “I know, Reuben. His smiles are infrequent and the laughter gone from his eyes. There is a deep sadness in them. He is far too eager to stand in for Zeb, who has been joining us—and Sarah—for dinner.” She smiled, then grew serious again. “He has eaten with us only twice since the Pawnee attack, and on both occasions he excused himself, took his food, and went off somewhere.”
Reuben’s glum mood deepened. “I followed him those two nights and found him sitting in the grass several hundred feet outside the circle of wagons—Sharps carbine either propped within easy reach or laying across his lap. He had that damn saber in his hands, slowly rotating the blade toward him and then away, fixated on the steel as if it held some answer, some truth, some relief. Tried to joke with him—Johannes you need to eat something. You’re turning into a scarecrow—sometimes he just nods or gestures, but he flatly refuses to engage in discussion or conversation.”
Reuben stretched out his legs toward the fire, drawing Rebecca to him with one arm. The warmth of the coals seeped faintly through the soles of his boots. “One time his elbows were just resting on the saber, its blade spanning the space between his knees, while he slowly turned that lock of Inga’s hair he cut before he buried her.”
Reuben leaned back into the shade of the wagon, positioning his back so the spokes ran up and down on either side of his spine, and took a sip of coffee. “For a tea drinking English lady, you are sure getting the hang of brewing good coffee.”
Rebecca smiled, pleased at the compliment.
Reuben shifted and peered out around the back of the wagon. “That sun will be off its peak soon. In an hour or so we will start moving again.”
“It’s amazing how the weather warmed up,” said Rebecca. “It seems like yesterday we were buried in the blizzard, and now I’m not sure I have clothes light enough so as not to perspire. That sun is brutally hot.”
“You could go naked,” Reuben teased, happy to have his mind pleasantly diverted. Rebecca feigned a shocked look and slapped him on the knee. “Reuben Frank…” Her words died in the press of his lips.
“That’s why we stop midday.” He grinned, picked up a small pebble and threw it lazily. It made a tiny track as it rolled through the sandy soil until its progress was halted by tuft of grass.
Rebecca cocked her head, “You don’t mind kissing scarred lips?”
A joking tone, but a serious question. Reuben pulled her to him and kissed her again, this time letting his tongue play gently over the raised skin of the rapidly healing injury to her upper lip.
“Thank you, Reuben,” she said softly. She laid her hand on top of his, “Johannes will be all right. His heart is broken. Imagine if…” her voice trailed off, she looked unseeing into the distance and a tear slid slowly down her cheek, leaving an uneven salty trail.
“I try and put myself in his position. But I can’t—maybe don’t want to—imagine,” he paused, picked up another pebble, threw it out in the sun and watched it roll, “something happening to you.”
Rebecca squeezed his hand, “Nothing is going to happen to me, Reuben, nor you. You’re doing a great job of leading the train. People comment to me all the time. They respect you a great deal,” she squeezed his hand again, “and they trust you—as do I.”
Reuben heard himself laugh, his voice tinged with bitterness. “Well, I can’t get Johannes out of his bad humor, and I can’t seem to do anything about poor Thelma and that poor lad, Tommy, and their cholera. By my reckoning, we are about two hundred and fifty miles northeast of Cherry Creek and at least a week behind schedule. I’ll know more exactly when we cross Beaver Creek in the next few days.”
“That’s not your fault, Reuben. We lost a number of days in the blizzard—the Osage was high and took extra time to cross.” She looked down to the ground and, with a slight catch in her breath, continued, “And it took several days to sort out from the attack and… and…and bury the dead…I so miss Inga.” She bit her lower lip, “I climb into the wagon at the end of the day and expect to see her smiling at me.”
“I know,” he sighed morosely.
There were several minutes of silence between the two.
“And, as to the rest,” he said, searching for another pebble to throw, “well, all true. But we should’ve been to Cherry Creek by now, and, as I see it, we are still at least two weeks out, give or take a few days. That assumes we have to take at least a day, maybe two, for wagon repairs. Based on what Mac told me, it’s late enough now that some of the rivers between here and there will be rising. He said the snowmelt usually started mid to late May.” He threw another pebble. “I miss that big, red-bearded cantankerous beef, too.”
“I do, also, Reuben. But, this land is timeless. We’re young. So are most in the other wagons. These events were outside of your control—if they cost us a week or two, it makes no difference. You can start your ranch as easily on June first as on May sixteenth.”
He watched as Rebecca moistened her lips, her tongue lingering at the forming scar. I love kissing her. “Have you thought anymore about what you’re going to do?” he asked, and took a deep breath, “are you going back to England?”
She looked at him, her eyes steady. There was a long silence, and Reuben knew she was thinking carefully about her response, but before she could answer him, they were interrupted by an excited shout. “Cavalry! Cavalry! There’s a cavalry patrol.”
Reuben
held her gaze for a few seconds longer and then, using the wagon wheel, lifted himself to his feet. “Soldiers. This will be a first. I was beginning to think the American Army didn’t exist except back in the barracks at Fort Kearney. Squinting in the bright sunlight, he looked out past the wagons and saw the telltale dusty sign of riders moving slow but steady. The deep blue of the distant uniforms, juxtaposed with the brown swirl of dust behind the riders, was unmistakable. He walked over to Lahn, already saddled and tied in the shade of the wagon, gathered the reins, and lifted one foot into the stirrup.
“Reuben, who is that riding out there?”
He turned, mid-mount, and craned over his shoulder at the rough, hilly contours to the south. A lone horseman cantered toward the approaching cavalry patrol. Johannes—a tall figure in the saddle, his blond hair growing long, no longer caring a great deal, it appeared, about his appearance.
Reuben swung into the saddle, looked down at Rebecca, and smiled. Sarah, who had been napping in the wagon, poked her head out of the front of the canvas. “Might want to put a new kettle of coffee on the fire,” he said. “Maybe they will want to ride in. Come on, Lahn, let’s go meet the Army.”
Johannes moved at a steady canter toward the incoming troops. He straightened his shoulders and looked down to make sure his saber was in proper position. I wish I had cut my damn hair. The riders behind the commanding officer bore two flags—the 2nd Cavalry’s and the American flag—its red, white, and blue colors smart and bright against the screen of dust raised by the plodding Army horses.
He counted twenty-four in the little troop. Not much more than a heavy squad. And they must have been on the trail for a while. They look tired.
As he neared the patrol, the commander, riding a muscular sorrel, held up his hand. “Hoooah.”
“Troop halt!” his sergeant yelled in a thick Irish accent.
The two-by-two columns stopped and twenty-four pairs of curious eyes followed him as he reined in Bente.
Johannes and Bente faced the commander and his horse diagonally. The sergeant rode up and nodded to him, the black bill of his blue campaign cap bobbing in an authoritative manner. The epaulettes of the officer sported the double bars of a captain’s insignia. He threw Johannes a lazy salute. That would never do in my command.
“I would be Master Sergeant O’Malley. This is Captain Henderson. We are C Squad, F Troop, United States Army 2nd Dragoons, excuse me, Cavalry.” The master sergeant rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, then blew one nostril out over the side of his horse, pressing the other closed tight. “Can’t get used to this name change between Dragoons and Cavalry—the Army is always changing its…”
“That will be enough, Sergeant,” interjected the captain. His eyes shifted to Johannes, “And you are…?”
An image flashed into Johannes’ mind, cutting through the pain in his heart. Another déjà vu. A cold, misty day on the border of the Alsace, the one hundred and sixty men in his company behind him in columns of fours. Two young and one older man stopped in the winding dirt road as they approached. The snap of the King of Denmark’s flag, and the colors of his command gave texture to the silent mist that hung in the air. Sergeant Helgerjen, who had ridden up beside his captain, announced them. “We are First Company, Fourth Battalion, His Majesty, the King of Denmark, Heavy Dragoons.”
Johannes remembered his own voice, authoritative, but not unfriendly, as it had mingled with the fog that day. And you would be…?
The captain’s horse snorted and shifted his feet, and Johannes was again in the present. He hesitated, What the hell. “I am Captain Johannes Svenson, former commander of First Company, Heavy Dragoons, in the service of His Majesty, the King of Denmark.” Johannes could feel a lifting in his spirits as he said the words, and sensed his chin jut slightly forward and his shoulders square. He snapped a stiff, brisk, perfectly executed salute, and Captain Henderson’s eyes widened in surprise.
Captain Henderson straightened in his saddle, squared his shoulders, and returned the salute, this time as one professional to another. “You are a mighty long way from home, Captain Svenson.”
Johannes looked the officer in the eye, “This is my home now. America. And an honor for it to be so.”
“We’re on patrol from Fort Laramie. I heard one of the wagon groups headed this way had some troubles with the Pawnee. When we didn’t meet you headed west on the main track, we figured you cut south. Given the Platte Barge battle in ’53 and the Grattan Massacre last August, we’re particularly keen on finding out all we can about any hostile activity. Might be that we can’t prevent it, but at least we can avenge it. The only thing those red devils understand is force.”
Johannes kept his face impassive, recalling the Sioux who had ridden to their assistance. A rather narrow view. His eyes drifted down the line of troopers who had become attentive when they learned that Johannes was military. “Seems like a small patrol to be so far from Fort Laramie.”
The captain laughed, “Yes, it is not often you see a captain leading a squad. We’re short of men. Some have been pulled back to Fort Kearney to teach the Indians a lesson after the Grattan Massacre, and we have other patrols out west of the fort escorting some Mormon wagons down to the Great Basin.”
Johannes smiled. “Would that Mormon group happen to have three families and twenty-two wagons?”
The captain laughed again. “Yep, indeed it does—sounds like you met up with them. They were escorted as far as Laramie by a light platoon from Kearney, and then we dispatched a heavy squad,” he nodded behind him, “like this one, to bring ’em the rest of the way. The fort only has one company each of the Second Cavalry, the Fourth Artillery, Sixth Infantry, Fourth and Second Infantries.” He chuckled. “But we found out that infantry escorting wagons on round trips of four hundred miles didn’t work out all too well.
“I see you folks have cut south. Headed to Cherry Creek?”
“Yes, Cherry Creek.”
“Well, you missed the traffic when you cut off on the South Platte trail. Not many trains go this way, but I think that is about to change. Up to now it’s been Mormons on their Exodus, or whatever they call it, and a bunch of pilgrims…” He lowered his voice and leaned forward, “although I would only say this to another officer, they should have never left whatever city they came from back East. Fools are heading off to California absolutely convinced that they are going to strike the next twenty-ton vein of gold.” He laughed. “From what I hear, few, if any, do.”
“About how many do you expect to pass through the fort this year?” asked Johannes.
“More than a thousand folks will be headed down this east flank of the Rockies like your outfit. The main trail is another story. Between the Mormons and the folks hell-bent for California—if it’s anything like last year—around thirty thousand men, maybe a thousand children, and about that many women. Maybe nine thousand wagons,” he laughed, “and a whole bunch of mules.”
Johannes chuckled, “Sounds like a lot, but given the size of this country, I’ll bet you never know they went through here other than their wagon tracks and the scarcity of game.”
“That’s about right, Captain. They pass through, spend a few hours, maybe a day, and keep going. It’s rare for us to ever see them again.”
The sergeant gestured to the west. “Aye, this land just seems to swallow ’em up.”
All heads turned at the sound of a horse approaching at a slow lope. Johannes quickly recognized Reuben, sitting comfortable in the saddle, riding with that easy half-Indian, half-cavalry grace.
Reining Lahn in thirty or forty feet away, Reuben came up at a walk to Johannes, the captain, and the sergeant. “Hello,” he said, leaning across the saddle, shaking the captain’s hand and then the sergeant’s. “I’m Reuben Frank. I’m the assistant… I’m the wagon master. I see you met Mr. Svenson.”
“We’ve met Captain Svenson and we were just sharing tales.”
Reuben shot Johannes a quick glance when the sergean
t called him captain, but the younger man played poker through it, turning back to O’Malley, “You are the first Army we have seen other than Fort Kearney. I dare say, it was nice see those blue coats coming in from the west. Fort Laramie?”
Captain Henderson was studying Reuben closely. His eyes dropped several times to the Prussian’s Colt. What was on his mind was soon evident.
“Mr. Frank…”
“Call me Reuben, please.”
“All right, Reuben. You’re mighty young to be leading a wagon train. How’d that come to pass?” Reuben’s eyes moved to Johannes and then back to Captain Henderson.
Johannes knew that Reuben was very carefully selecting his words so as not to upset him. As he opened his mouth to speak, Johannes cut him off. “Our wagon master, Mac, was wounded in a Pawnee attack. He died shortly after from a second Pawnee arrow. We buried him…” Johannes heard the catch in his own voice. He swallowed hard. “Along with the others.”
The captain looked from Johannes to Reuben, his shock evident. “Mac? Mac’s dead?” He recovered quickly, a slight suspicion in his eyes. “Anybody else die after the battle?”
“We lost one very sick man a week ago, Dr. Leonard, God rest his soul. But he was ill since the inception of this journey. We have three down with cholera right now, separated into one wagon. Tragically, one of the three is the deceased doctor’s wife and another a fifteen-year-old orphan.”
“Lucky it’s only three. We’ve had trains come into the fort that we’ve had to quarantine. More than half of the poor devils sick and most of ’em dying. An entire field of wagons was burned to make sure that sickness didn’t spread. Nasty thing, that fever. Who tends to the sick?”
Reuben’s eyes flickered to Johannes. “Captain Svenson does.”
Both Captain Henderson and Sergeant O’Malley leaned back in their saddles imperceptibly, and Johannes was sure they would’ve backed up their horses if they hadn’t thought it too obvious and rude. “Are you a doctor, Captain?”
Maps of Fate Page 38