Charles Remington: Hunter Reborn

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JamieWolfe7

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1865 Brownsville, Texas

Charles Remington is a Lieutenant in the Confederate Infantry, part of the Army of Trans-Mississippi. As a soldier he's distinctive with a small backpack made from a pelt of cougar hide, the memory of that fateful night in the woods never leaving him. When the recruiters came his father was ill and his wife Sarah with child caring for him. That was what he left behind when his father, himself a veteran of the war against Mexico, put his musket in his son's hands and told him to go do his duty.

Throughout the war he served mostly under General Sam Maxey, though he did some skirmishing work with Lt Colonel Watie's Indians. The end of the war was bittersweet news to young Charles. His family was dead, burned alive in their ranch home by Yankee bushwhackers. He'd had time to see a proper burial with Sam's help after word reached them about the end of hostilities via Lee's surrender in the faraway Appomattox Courthouse. Apparently some of the yanks hadn't gotten the same word, judging by their demeanor.

Charles and his platoon had been transferred then attached to an artillery unit at the tail end of the war, that was how he ended up there on the Texas-Mexico border just outside of a dustbowl named Brownsville encamped at a place called Palmito Ranch. They were waiting on orders when a company of cavalrymen came in after a skirmish with the yanks they'd been observing for some time. Charles had made friends with the camp second by this time, a former Texas Ranger named Colonel John 'Rip' Ford. John and Charles had spent a lot of time talking the past couple weeks when not taking pot shots at the yanks.

"This place is going to go right to hell after this war's done, you know that right?" says Rip to Charles as he cleans his Walker Colt.

"Yeah. And they've burnt all I had to go home to. Not sure what I'll do," Charles soberly replies.

Rip snaps his Colt shut , sliding the brush back into its cleaning kit where it vanishes into a pouch. He holsters the weapon and folds his arms growing thoughtful."I've heard rumors about some of the men, men in similar straits as yourself, turning to villainy. No good can come of that, friend. A man with skills like we've honed in this war does have options though."

Charles knits up his brows at that as he faces him rightly. He hasn't shaved in some time, consequently his appearance has grown scraggly with an unkempt beard and mustache. He strikes the image of a man who isn't sure what he's living for. After several beats, he asks the expected question,"What options are those? You've heard the same rumors I have, about the Texas Rangers being disbanded by the federals."

Colonel Rip snorts at that,"That won't happen. I've spent a fair amount of my earnings, but you? General Maxey didn't sit still, and general Watie lived off the land. I bet you've got plenty still and're young. Go to Africa and make a life for yourself with what you've got coming."

Charles chews on that for a moment, not sure where this came from but he knew the Colonel had made a name for himself mapping trails in the Texas frontier. Maybe this was some bygone dream of his that he was wishing on a youngster that he liked. Charles couldn't deny the appeal, with the failure of the fledgeling nation and the destruction of the countryside there wasn't anything for him here. He'd heard the rumors about officers and their subordinates tucking tail for South America and had thought about it himself already, but hadn't considered Africa until now.

The blast of the bugles breaks their conversation then, and Charles readies his musket to join his men as John sprints over to the cannons. The yanks were approaching, and Colonel John 'RIP' Ford meant to give them hell one last time. The Battle of Palmito Ranch would be the last hurrah of the Confederacy, and Charles Remington's last poignant memory as an American avenging his family.

***

1899 Kenya

Charles Remington recovered from his attacks with a speed that frightened the coolies at the Tsavo work camps. He had returned from the dead in their eyes, then in just under a month was back on his feet and wondering what to do next. He only had his flintlock and the clothes on his back until he could get to a town.

The bridge was built without further incident and his friend Lt Colonel Patterson had gone on his way, but there was still plenty of work to be done in the area. Out of recognition for his role in killing the lions, and no small amount of sympathy for his situation, he was given a decent stipend to send him comfortably on his way.

Charles purchased a ticket straightaway for Baifra. Baifra was a city further east, a gateway to the south and the Transvaal beyond Tanzania. Tsava had been intended to secure a line into the heart of Africa, and after much bloodshed was beginning to do just that with the construction of Patterson's bridge. In Baifra he'd be able to refit and put his ear to the ground for opportunities.

The next train out would be on the morrow from his ticket purchase. He was given private housing in the parsonage of the camp chaplain, further and likely final appreciation and sympathy for his role in dealing with the Tsavo killings and there he took full advantage of the services available to him. The place had a modest bath and he meant to be clean on the train.

That evening he lit a chunk of charcoal with a piece of resin he'd bought from a hedge sorcerer who was travelling through with one of the teams of coolies. The man said that the Britons called it 'dragon's blood', and Charles fancied the smell of it. His old friend Quatermain had cured him of his skepticism about such people and their queer notions long ago, but he personally never did adopt any of them. He kept them at a respectful distance, choosing not to slander or ridicule but neither would he endorse or partake. Novelties like burning incense to relax or ward off evil thoughts or spirits were as close as he generally got to them. Apparently this dragon's blood was supposed to heighten all sorts of things and be burned alongside other incenses or resins, but he just wanted to enjoy the novel scent by itself.

After lighting his flame and charcoal he had a bath drawn to relax for his last evening in this grief stricken patch of land. Laying back in it with a pipe stuffed with moderate quality tobacco he'd bought off the doctor, he relaxes and distracts himself from the worries he's put behind. His mind wanders back to when he first came to the dark continent, though at thaat moment he isn't sure why.

***

1867 Mekele, Ethiopia

The Kingdom of Ethiopia was in those days a place of wonder. One of the oldest kingdoms known, older by far than England for a certainty. For all this, stepping into this city was like stepping back in time and into a wildly different world than the young veteran Lieutenant Charles Remington had ever known. All he had to his name was a pocket full of silver dollars and coppers, he'd exchanged all of his currency first chance he'd gotten in London for more universally recognized moneys. Aside from that he had the clothes on his back, his trusty musket with a pouch of minie balls, bowie knife, and scant provisions in the cougar pelt backpack.

Everything was strange colors that reminded him of what he'd heard about the nicer parts of old Mexico and the people were tall and slender with baby smooth features as dark as ebony clad in cheerfully colored fabrics or blacks and whites in strange patterns with tassels. Contrasting this was the architecture consisting of an odd blend of medieval and middle eastern that escaped his comprehension. He only knew about this place from what he'd learned from preachers and ministers growing up: that these were Queen Sheba's people and this kingdom had existed even then.

Walking through the market he found himself assaulted by the interplay of hoodoo, Christianity, Islam, and assorted local heathenry all coalescing and coexisting in this one strange city. This was the first time he saw a turban as he watched in bafflement as a man of curious features with a beard neatly groomed and oiled down to his waist led a trail of a half dozen of what he thought were women but for the cylinder of fabric obscuring their features from head to ankle. He eventually gleaned from a shopkeeper who spoke passing English that he was a travelling Persian noble and those were his wives.

Strange swords and knives were worn by many there, mostly of a curved and broad bladed nature that he felt certain could carry off his arm or head. A few matchlock and flintlock weapons were visible there as well, but he was a comfortable minority with his musket that he kept a firm grip on amidst so much otherworldly strangeness.

After touring the market place with its exotic goods ranging from large woven carpets to animals he'd never seen before, he went and found the closest thing he could to a saloon. Men were piled in around boxes intricately carved with crescent moons and symbols he'd never seen. These boxes had tubes around them and issued forth pleasant smelling smoke of assorted fragrance, none of them familiar, and men were puffing from them like he occasionally did his pipe. Many of them conversed in strange tongues with eyes glazed over in ways that told him that not all of these boxes had merely tobacco.

A young girl scantily clad in colorful fabrics with a strangely pierced and tattooed face patted rhythms on a set of drums off in a corner, and another with an accompanying man twice his size with more brawny features than the common locals approached him. In impeccable english she asked for his gun as the big man next to her stared imposingly, promising to relieve him of it or otherwise remove him physically if need be.

"What manner of place is this?" Asks Charles in uncertain tones, having never seen a saloon where people enjoyed smoke rather than drink.

"Dis is the hookah house of Mistress Alemnesh. We offer every exotic flavor to tease the senses, as well as other delights and distractions...now if you please, there is no need here of that...this is a house of recreation, not destruction." Replies the girl. He hands over the long gun at that.

"So, do you offer distractions of a liquid variety?" He inquires with raised brows, doffing his grey kephi.

"Of course. Our selection is regrettably modest, but we do endeavor to cater to all needs. Enjoy." She gestures to a a bar at the far end where sits another man of caucasian descent like himself. His hair is neatly trimmed and close cut on the sides with an impeccable but grey beard and mustache. He was glancing their way, his attention drawn by the Texan accented English no doubt.

Charles makes his way over to the bar, grateful for something familiar. As he sets his hat down before him to get comfortable, the man speaks up in british tones,"Careful what you order, the local brews have spices and herbs that can mess with your head if you aren't aquainted."

Charles replies in jovial tones, grateful to've found someone here he can relate to,"Mighty grateful for the warning, and what exactly is it that you're sippin' on?"

The older man quirks a brow, raising his glass revealing a yellow substance with bits of herbs floating around in it,"Chartreus. It's a tragedy that the real thing seemingly can't be found outside of Europe, it's supposed to be a light green. But this version, while weaker and not quite as pleasant, suffices."

Charles raises his hand to the bartender as he declares,"I'll have what he's having."

The old man sips from his raised drink, then observes,"I note by your dress and the armament you handed over that you must be fresh off the boat. I confess to never having seen a hat quite like that either."

Charles nods as his glass is slid to him, tossing back a sizeable gulp that has him gagging,"Lord Jesus, what sort of limey shit is this?!"

The briton laughs heartily at him, then sternly chides,"It's French, not limey. And I haven't been home in over twenty years. Since moving here I've buried a wife and raised a son that I also buried, so I think I've earned the bloody right to be called African thank you very much. As much as I loved the country from which I hail, I've no desire to return there. Now, if you don't want to embarrass yourself again, try sipping it."

The younger American takes his advise, and while the taste is wholly unfamiliar it isn't as awful as his first try. He nods mildly in approval, then offers,"Not bad at all, and my apologies. Where can a man find gainful employment here?"

The rustic gentleman clears his throat and begins,"First, why are you here? What brings you to a frontier halfway around the world?"

The younger man replies,"I have nothing where I came from. I fought on the losing side of a war, and it cost me everything. I was told this is a place where I can look for a fresh start."

The older man nods sympathetically at that answer,"I see. Fighting on the wrong side of any engagement can be costly."

That earns a bit of ire from the youth,"I said losing side, not wrong. Fighting for your home is never wrong, it's your duty."

The older man raises a hand as he apologizes,"My mistake. Where is this home you lost?"

Charles replies more calmly after taking another sip,"Texas. My family were shepherds near the Louisiana border."

He nods quietly before answering,"You've come a long way then. Shame about losing, you southrons were always good trading partners with the Crown. I faintly recall that your neighbors hardly supported the Revolution, said it was bad for business, though that was in my father's time. Would've been good to see if that old relationship could be restored in earnest, but that's neither here nor there. I confess to being woefully out of touch with world affairs, was Texas a country or a state when this all happened?"

Charles replies, his brow quirking at the ancient history from his own grandfather's time,"A state, the southern half of the United States was tryin' to be it's own country so the northern half invaded. They had more bodies than we had hell t'give. That's the long and short of it."

The old man listens earnestly, then asks quietly,"And your home?"

Charles scowls as he answers,"Burned to the blessed ground."

He nods quietly at that, then counsels,"Drink up. This one's on me, and the next if you wish it. Call it a welcome gift."

As he takes his next sip, he notices the drink seems thicker and warmer somehow. Looking down, the glass is opaque and nearly black with what he knows to be blood. His eyes saucer as he looks around at the faces leering at him with mouths full of fangs, the old man smiles with a trace of blood running down the corner of his mouth and his eyes decidedly feline,"Welcome home, Charles."

Charles opens his mouth to scream, the horror of this nightmare bearing down on him. Everything is wrong, that's not what happened when he first met the man who taught him the skills of the frontiersman and neither can anything that happens next be real. Instead of a scream, his world becomes awash with blood and fury as he utters a roar of rage.

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