The Revenant

by Michael Punke

  Lieutenant Jacobs stood beaming in the bright light of his heroism, awaiting the certain accolades for his brave act. Major Constable barely looked at him before he said, “Dismissed.”

  “Dismissed, sir?”

  “Dismissed.”

  Lieutenant Jacobs continued to stand there, somewhat dumbfounded at this brusque reception. Constable put his command more bluntly: “Go away.” He held his hand in the air and whisked it, as if shooing a gnat. Turning to Glass, he asked, “Who are you?”

  “Hugh Glass.” His voice was as scarred as his face.

  “And how is it that you find yourself wandering down the Platte River?”

  “I’m a messenger for the Rocky Mountain Fur Company.”

  If the arrival of a badly scarred white man had not piqued the major’s jaded interest, mention of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company did. Fort Atkinson’s future, not to mention the major’s ability to salvage his own career, depended on the commercial viability of the fur trade. What other significance could be found in a wasteland of uninhabitable deserts and impassable peaks?

  “From Fort Union?”

  “Fort Union’s abandoned. Captain Henry moved to Lisa’s old post on the Big Horn.”

  The major leaned forward in his chair. All winter he had dutifully filed dispatches to St. Louis. None contained anything more compelling than bleak reports about dysentery among his men, or the dwindling number of cavalrymen in possession of a horse. Now he had something! Rescue of a Rocky Mountain man! The abandonment of Fort Union! A new fort on the Big Horn!

  “Tell the mess to send hot food for Mr. Glass.”

  For an hour, the major peppered Glass with questions about Fort Union, the new fort on the Big Horn, the commercial viability of their venture.

  Glass carefully avoided a discussion of his own motivation for returning from the frontier. Finally, though, Glass asked a question of his own. “Did a man with a fishhook scar pass through here—coming down the Missouri?” Glass used his finger to trace a fishhook beginning at the corner of his mouth.

  Major Constable searched Glass’s face. Finally he said, “Pass through, no …”

  Glass felt the sharp pang of disappointment.

  “He stayed on,” said Constable. “Chose enlistment over incarceration after a brawl in our local saloon.”

  He’s here! Glass fought to steady himself, to erase any emotion from his face.

  “I gather you know this man?”

  “I know him.”

  “Is he a deserter from the Rocky Mountain Fur Company?”

  “He’s a deserter from many things. He’s also a thief.”

  “Now, that’s a very serious allegation.” Constable felt the latent stirring of his judicial ambitions.

  “Allegation? I’m not here to register a complaint, Major. I’m here to settle my account with the man who robbed me.”

  Constable inhaled deeply, his chin rising slowly with the breath. He exhaled loudly, then spoke as if patiently lecturing a child. “This is not the wilderness, Mr. Glass, and I would advise you to keep your tone respectful. I am a major in the United States Army and the commanding officer of this fort. I take your charges seriously. I will ensure that they are properly investigated. And, of course, you’ll have an opportunity to present your evidence …”

  “My evidence! He’s got my rifle!”

  “Mr. Glass!” Constable’s irritation was growing. “If Private Fitzgerald has stolen your property, I will punish him in accordance with military law.”

  “This isn’t very complicated, Major.” Glass could not keep the derision from his tone.

  “Mr. Glass!” Constable spit out the words. His pointless career on a godforsaken outpost provided daily tests of his ability to rationalize. He would not tolerate disrespect for his authority. “This is the last time I’ll warn you. It’s my job to administer justice on this post!”

  Major Constable turned to an aide. “Do you know the whereabouts of Private Fitzgerald?”

  “He’s with Company E, sir. They’re out on wood detail, coming back tonight.”

  “Arrest him when he arrives at the fort. Search his quarters for the rifle. If he has it, seize it. Bring the private to the courtroom tomorrow morning at eight. Mr. Glass, I expect you to be present—and clean yourself up before you do so.”

  A jury-rigged mess hall served as Major Constable’s courtroom. Several soldiers carried Constable’s desk from his office, then set it up on a makeshift riser. The elevated seat allowed Constable to survey the proceedings from an appropriately judicious altitude. Lest there be any question about the official sanction of his courtroom, Constable flew two flags behind the desk.

  If it lacked the splendor of a true courtroom, at least it was big. A hundred spectators could pack the room when the tables were removed. To ensure an appropriate audience, Major Constable usually canceled other duties for all but a few of the fort’s inhabitants. With little competition in the way of entertainment, the major’s official performances always played to a packed house. Interest in the current proceeding ran particularly high. Word of the scarred frontiersman and his wild accusations had spread quickly through the fort.

  From a bench near the major’s desk, Hugh Glass watched as the door of the mess hall burst open. “A-ten-SHUN!” The spectators rose to attention as Major Constable strode into the room. Constable was attended by a lieutenant named Neville K. Askitzen, dubbed “Lieutenant Ass-Kisser” by the enlisted men.

  Constable paused to survey his audience before strolling regally to the front, Askitzen skittering behind him. Once seated, the major nodded to Askitzen, who gave an order permitting the spectators to sit.

  “Bring forth the accused,” ordered Major Constable. The doors opened again and Fitzgerald appeared in the doorway, his hands in shackles and a guard at either arm. The audience squirmed for a glimpse as the guards led Fitzgerald to the front, where a sort of holding pen had been constructed perpendicular and to the right of the major’s desk. The pen placed him directly across from Glass, who sat to the major’s left.

  Glass’s eyes bored into Fitzgerald like an auger in soft wood. Fitzgerald had cut his hair and shaved his beard. Navy blue wool replaced his buckskins. Glass felt revulsion at the sight of Fitzgerald, shrouded in the respectability that a uniform implied.

  It seemed unreal, suddenly to be in his presence. He fought against the desire to rush at Fitzgerald, wrap his hands around the man’s throat, choke the life from him. I can’t do that. Not here. Their eyes met for a brief instant. Fitzgerald nodded—as if to politely acknowledge him!

  Major Constable cleared his throat and said, “This martial court is hereby convened. Private Fitzgerald, it is your right to be confronted by your accuser, and to hear formally the charges brought against you. Lieutenant, read the charges.”

  Lieutenant Askitzen unfolded a piece of paper and read to the chamber in a stately voice: “We hear today the complaint of Mr. Hugh Glass, of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company, against Private John Fitzgerald, United States Army, Sixth Regiment, Company E. Mr. Glass alleges that Private Fitzgerald, while himself in the employ of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company, did steal from Mr. Glass a rifle, a knife, and other personal effects. If found guilty, Mr. Fitzgerald faces court-martial and imprisonment of ten years.”

  A murmur rippled through the crowd. Major Constable banged a gavel against the desk and the room fell silent. “Will the complainant approach the bench.” Confused, Glass looked up at the major, who gave an exasperated look before motioning him toward the desk.

  Lieutenant Askitzen stood there with a Bible. “Raise your right hand,” he said to Glass. “Do you swear to tell the truth, so help you God?” Glass nodded and said yes in the weak timbre that he hated but could not change.

  “Mr. Glass—you heard the reading of the charges?” asked Constable.

  “Yes.”

  “And they are accurate?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you wish to make a statement?” />
  Glass hesitated. The formality of the proceeding had taken him completely by surprise. Certainly he had not expected a hundred spectators. He understood that Constable commanded the fort. But this was a matter between him and Fitzgerald—not a spectacle for the amusement of an arrogant officer and a hundred bored enlisted men.

  “Mr. Glass—do you wish to address the court?”

  “I told you yesterday what happened. Fitzgerald and a boy named Bridger were left to tend me after a grizzly attacked me on the Grand River. They abandoned me instead. I don’t fault them for that. But they robbed me before they ran off. Took my rifle, my knife, even my flint and steel. They took from me the things I needed to have a chance on my own.”

  “Is this the rifle you claim is yours?” The major produced the Anstadt from behind his desk.

  “That’s my rifle.”

  “Can you identify it by any distinguishing marks?”

  Glass felt his face grow flush at the challenge. Why am I the one being questioned? He took a deep breath. “The barrel is engraved with the name of the maker—J. Anstadt, Kutztown, Penn.”

  The major pulled a pair of spectacles from his pocket and examined the barrel. He read aloud, “J. Anstadt, Kutztown, Penn.” Another murmur filled the room.

  “Do you have anything further to say, Mr. Glass?” Glass shook his head no.

  “You are dismissed.”

  Glass returned to his place across from Fitzgerald as the major continued. “Lieutenant Askitzen, swear in the defendant.” Askitzen walked to Fitzgerald’s pen. The shackles on Fitzgerald’s hands clanked as he placed his hand on the Bible. His strong voice filled the mess hall as he solemnly stated the oath.

  Major Constable rocked back in his chair. “Private Fitzgerald—you’ve heard the charges of Mr. Glass. How do you account for yourself?”

  “Thank you for the opportunity to defend myself, Your Hon—I mean Major Constable.” The major beamed at the slip as Fitzgerald continued. “You probably expect me to tell you that Hugh Glass is a liar—but I’m not going to do that, sir.” Constable leaned forward, curious. Glass’s eyes narrowed as he too wondered what Fitzgerald was up to.

  “In fact, I know Hugh Glass to be a good man, respected by his peers in the Rocky Mountain Fur Company.

  “I believe that Hugh Glass believes every word he said to be the God’s honest truth. The problem, sir, is that he believes a whole bunch of things that never happened.

  “Truth is, he’d been delirious for two days before we left him. Fever spiked up that last day, especially—death sweats, we thought. He moaned and cried out—we could tell he was hurting. I felt bad there wasn’t more we could do.”

  “What did you do for him?”

  “Well, I’m no doctor, sir, but I did my best. I made up a poultice for his throat and for his back. I made a broth to try and feed him. Course his throat was so bad he couldn’t swallow or talk.”

  This was too much for Glass. In the firmest voice he could muster, he said, “Lying comes easy to you, Fitzgerald.”

  “Mr. Glass!” roared Constable, his face twisted suddenly into a stiff knot of indignation. “This is my proceeding. I will cross-examine the witnesses. And you will keep your mouth shut or I’ll hold you in contempt!”

  Constable let the weight of his pronouncement sink in before turning back to Fitzgerald. “Go on, Private.”

  “I don’t blame him for not knowing, sir.” Fitzgerald tossed Glass a pitiful glance. “He was out—or feverish—most of the time we tended him.”

  “Well, that’s all well and good, but do you deny that you abandoned him? Robbed him?”

  “Let me tell you what happened that morning, sir. We’d been camped for four days by a spring creek off the Grand. I left Bridger with Hugh and went down on the main river to hunt—been gone most of the morning. About a mile from camp I all but stepped on an Arikara war party.” Another ripple of excitement passed through the spectators, most of them veterans of the dubious fight at the Arikara village.

  “The Rees didn’t see me at first, so I made my way back toward camp as quick as I could. They spotted me just about when I got to the creek. They came charging, while I went running up to our camp.

  “When I got there, I told Bridger that the Rees were right behind me—told him to help me get the camp ready to make a stand. That’s when Bridger told me that Glass was dead.”

  “You bastard!” Glass spat the words as he stood and moved toward Fitzgerald. Two soldiers with rifles and bayonets blocked his path.

  “Mr. Glass!” yelled Constable, beating a gavel on the table. “You will hold your seat and hold your tongue or I will have you jailed!”

  It took the major a moment to regain his composure. He paused to adjust the collar of his brass-buttoned jacket before returning to the interrogation of Fitzgerald. “Obviously Mr. Glass was not dead. Did you examine him?”

  “I understand why Hugh’s angry, sir. I shouldn’t have taken Bridger’s word. But when I looked at Glass that day he was pale as a ghost—not moving a twitch. We could hear the Rees coming up the creek. Bridger started yelling that we had to get out of there. I was sure Glass was dead—so we ran for cover.”

  “But not before taking his rifle.”

  “Bridger did that. He said it was stupid to leave a rifle and knife behind for the Rees. There wasn’t time to argue about it.”

  “But you’re the one with the rifle now.”

  “Yes, sir, I am. When we got back to Fort Union, Captain Henry didn’t have the cash to pay us for staying back with Glass. Henry asked me to take the rifle as payment. Of course, Major, I’m glad for the chance to give it back to Hugh.”

  “What about his flint and steel?”

  “We didn’t take them, sir. I expect the Rees got that.”

  “Why wouldn’t they have killed Mr. Glass—lifted his scalp in the usual manner?”

  “I imagine they thought he was dead, same as we did. No offense to Hugh, but there wasn’t much scalp left to lift. The bear carved him up so bad the Rees probably figured there wasn’t no mutilating left to be done.”

  “You’ve been on this post for six weeks, Private. Why haven’t you unburdened yourself of this story before today?”

  Fitzgerald allowed a carefully calibrated pause, bit at his lip, and hung his head. Finally he raised his eyes and then his head. In a quiet voice he said, “Well, sir—I guess I was ashamed.”

  Glass stared in utter disbelief. Not so much at Fitzgerald, from whom no treachery arrived completely unexpected. But more so at the major, who had begun to nod along with Fitzgerald’s story like a rat to the piper’s tune. He believes him!

  Fitzgerald continued. “I didn’t know before yesterday that Hugh Glass was alive—but I did think that I’d abandoned a man without so much as a decent burial. Man deserves that, even on the front—”

  Glass could bear it no longer. He reached beneath his capote for the pistol concealed at his belt. He pulled out the gun and fired. The ball strayed just wide of its mark, burying itself in Fitzgerald’s shoulder. Glass heard Fitzgerald cry out and at the same time felt strong arms grabbing him from both sides. He struggled to break their grip. Pandemonium erupted in the courtroom. He heard Askitzen yell something, caught a flash of the major and his golden epaulettes. He felt a sharp pain at the back of his skull and all went black.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  April 28, 1824

  Glass awoke in musty darkness with a throbbing headache. He lay facedown on a rough-hewn floor. He rolled slowly to his side, bumping against a wall. Above his head he saw light, streaming through a narrow slot in a heavy door. Fort Atkinson’s guardhouse consisted of a large holding pen, for drunks and other common truants, and two wooden cells. From what Glass could hear, three or four men occupied the pen outside his cell.

  The space seemed to shrink as he lay there, closing in like the sides of a casket. It reminded him suddenly of the dank hold of a ship, of the stifling life at sea that he had come to hate. Beads
of sweat formed on his brow, and his breath came in short, sporadic spurts. He struggled to control himself, to replace the image of imprisonment with that of the open plain, a waving sea of grass, unbroken but for a mountain on a horizon far away.

  He measured the passage of days by the daily routine of the guardhouse: change of guard at dawn; delivery of bread and water around noon; change of guard at dusk; then night. Two weeks had passed when he heard the creak of the outside door opening and felt the suction of fresh air. “Stay back you stinking idiots or I’ll smash your skulls,” said a smoky voice that walked deliberately toward his cell. Glass heard the jangling of keys, then the play of a key in the lock. A bolt turned and his door swung open.

  He squinted at the light. A sergeant with yellow chevrons and gray muttonchops stood in the doorway. “Major Constable issued an order. You can go. Actually, you have to go. Off the post by noon tomorrow or you’ll be tried for stealing a pistol and for using it to poke a hole in Private Fitzgerald.”

  The light outside was blinding after two weeks in the dark cell. When someone said, “Bonjour, Monsieur Glass,” it took Glass a minute to focus on the fat, bespeckled face of Kiowa Brazeau.

  “What are you doing here, Kiowa?”

  “On my way back from St. Louis with a keelboat of supplies.”

  “You spring me loose?”

  “Yes. I’m on good terms with Major Constable. You, on the other hand, seem to have gotten yourself into a bit of trouble.”

  “Only trouble is that my pistol didn’t shoot straight.”

  “As I understand it, it wasn’t your pistol. This, though, I think belongs to you.” Kiowa handed Glass a rifle as Glass finally focused enough to see.

  The Anstadt. He gripped the gun at the wrist and the barrel, remembering the sturdy weight. He examined the trigger works, which were in need of fresh grease. Several new abrasions marred the dark stock, and Glass noticed a small bit of carving near the buttplate—“JF.”

  Anger flooded over him. “What happened to Fitzgerald?”

  “Major Constable is returning him to his duties.”