Revenant : A Novel of Revenge (9781250066633)

by Punke, Michael

  * * *

  Glass followed the Yellowstone from Fort Union. He could only guess at Henry’s path, but he doubted that the captain would risk a repeat of his failure on the Upper Missouri. That left the Yellowstone.

  He had followed the Yellowstone for five days when he crested a high bench above the river. He stopped, awestruck.

  Fusing heaven to earth, the Big Horn Mountains stood before him. A few clouds swirled around the highest peaks, furthering the illusion of a wall reaching forever upward. His eyes watered from the glare of the sun against snow, but he could not look away. Nothing in Glass’s twenty years on the plains had prepared him for such mountains.

  Captain Henry had spoken often of the enormity of the Rockies, but Glass assumed his stories were infused with the standard dose of campfire embellishment. In actuality, Glass thought, Henry’s portrait had been woefully inadequate. Henry was a straightforward man, and his descriptions focused on the mountains as obstacles, barriers to be surmounted in the drive to connect a stream of commerce between east and west. Missing entirely from Henry’s description had been any hint of the devout strength that flowed into Glass at the sight of the massive peaks.

  Of course he understood Henry’s more practical reaction. The terrain of the river valleys was difficult enough. Glass could scarcely imagine the effort required to portage furs over mountains such as those before him now.

  His awe of the mountains grew in the days that followed, as the Yellowstone River led him nearer and nearer. Their great mass was a marker, a benchmark fixed against time itself. Others might feel disquiet at the notion of something so much larger than themselves. But for Glass, there was a sense of sacrament that flowed from the mountains like a font, an immortality that made his quotidian pains seem inconsequential.

  And so he walked, day after day, toward the mountains at the end of the plain.

  * * *

  Fitzgerald stood outside the crude stockade, enduring the interrogation of the runty, coughing man on the rampart above the gate.

  Fitzgerald had practiced the lie during his long days in the canoe. “I’m carrying a message to St. Louis for Captain Henry of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company.”

  “Rocky Mountain Fur Company?” The runty man snorted. “We just saw another of yours headed the other direction—bad-mannered fellow riding double with a redskin. In fact, if you’re from his company, you can make good on his draft.”

  Fitzgerald felt his stomach contract and his breath drew suddenly short. The white man on the river! He struggled to keep his voice calm, nonchalant. “I must have missed him on the river. What was his name?”

  “Don’t even recall his name. We gave him a couple of things and he left.”

  “What’d he look like?”

  “Well, I do remember that. Scars all over his face, like he’d been chewed on by a wild animal.”

  Glass! Alive! Goddamn him!

  Fitzgerald traded two plews for jerky, eager to get back on the water.

  No longer content to drift with the current, he paddled to propel the dugout forward. Forward and away. Glass might be headed in the opposite direction, thought Fitzgerald, but he harbored no doubt about the old bastard’s intent.

  TWENTY-ONE

  DECEMBER 31, 1823

  SNOW BEGAN FALLING about halfway through the day. The storm clouds approached casually, obscuring the sun so gradually that Henry and his men took little notice.

  They had no reason to be concerned. Their refurbished fort stood complete, ready to withstand whatever challenges the elements might present. Besides, Captain Henry had declared the day a celebration. Then he had broken out a surprise that resulted in delirious excitement among his men—alcohol.

  Henry was a failure at many things, but he understood the power of incentives. Henry’s brew was made from yeast and serviceberries, buried for a month in a barrel to allow fermentation. The resulting concoction tasted like acid. None of the men could drink it without wincing in pain, and none of them passed up the opportunity. The liquid resulted in a profound and almost immediate state of drunkenness.

  Henry had a second bonus for his men. He was a decent fiddle player, and for the first time in months, his mood lifted sufficiently to pick up his battered instrument. The shrieking fiddle combined with drunken laughter to create a foundation of jovial chaos in the crowded bunkhouse.

  A good part of the merriment centered around Pig, whose obese carcass lay sprawled in front of the fireplace. Pig’s capacity for alcohol, it turned out, did not match his girth.

  “Looks like he’s dead,” said Black Harris, kicking him squarely in the belly. Harris’s foot disappeared momentarily in the squishy fat around Pig’s midsection, but otherwise the kick evoked no response.

  “Well if he’s dead…” said Patrick Robinson, a quiet man who most of the trappers had never heard speak before the application of Henry’s moonshine, “we owe him a decent burial.”

  “Too cold,” said another trapper. “But we could make him a proper shroud!” This idea evoked great enthusiasm among the men. Two blankets were produced, along with a needle and heavy thread. Robinson, an able tailor, began the task of tightly sewing the shroud around Pig’s great mass. Black Harris delivered a moving sermon, and one by one the men took turns with eulogies.

  “He was a good man and a God-fearing man,” said one speaker. “We return him to you, oh Lord, in his virgin state … never once having been touched by soap.”

  “If you can manage the lift,” said another, “we beseech you to hoist him up to the Great Beyond.”

  A loud argument diverted attention from Pig’s funeral. Allistair Murphy and Stubby Bill had a difference of opinion over who between them was the finer shot with a pistol. Murphy challenged Stubby Bill to a duel, a notion that Captain Henry quickly quashed. However, he did authorize a shooting match.

  At first Stubby Bill suggested that they each shoot a tin cup from the other’s head. Even in his drunken state, however, it occurred to him that such a contest might create a dangerous mixture of motivations. As a compromise, they ultimately decided to shoot a tin cup from Pig’s head. Both Murphy and Stubby Bill considered Pig a friend, so both would have the appropriate incentive for marksmanship. They propped Pig’s shroud-encased body in a sitting position against the wall, then placed a cup on his head.

  The men cleared a path down the center of the long bunkhouse, with the shooters at one end and Pig at the other. Captain Henry hid a musket ball in one hand; Murphy picked correctly and elected to shoot second. Stubby Bill removed the pistol from his belt, carefully checking the powder in the pan. He adjusted his weight from foot to foot, ultimately situating himself sideways to his target. He bent his shooting arm to form a perfect right angle with the pistol pointing to the roof. His thumb reached up and cocked the pistol with a dramatic snap, the only sound in the tense cabin. After several pendulous moments in this position, he lowered the pistol to its firing position in a slow, graceful arc.

  Then he hesitated. The impact of an errant shot became suddenly palpable at the vision—through his pistol sights—of Pig’s lumpy mass. Stubby Bill liked Pig. Quite a lot, actually. This is a bad idea. He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his short spine. His peripheral vision made him newly aware of the men crowded on either side of him. His breathing became labored, causing his shooting arm to heave up and down. The pistol seemed suddenly heavy. He held his breath to stop the swaying, but then the lack of air made him light-headed and dizzy. Don’t miss now.

  Finally he hoped for the best and squeezed the trigger, closing his eyes with the flash of the powder. The ball crashed into the log wall behind Pig, a full twelve inches above the cup on the fat man’s shrouded head. The spectators erupted in laughter. “Nice shot, Stubby!”

  Murphy stepped forward. “You think too much.” In a single, liquid motion, he drew, aimed, and fired. The shot exploded and the bullet ripped into the base of the tin cup on Pig’s head. The cup slammed against the wall before clamoring
to the floor next to Pig.

  If neither shot killed Pig, the second at least succeeded in rousing him.

  The lumpy shroud began a series of wild contortions. The men cheered the shot, then doubled over in unbridled glee at the sight of the writhing shroud. The long blade of a knife thrust suddenly out from the inside of the blanket, hacking open a narrow slit. Two hands appeared, ripping open the shroud. Next emerged Pig’s fleshy face, blinking at the light. More laughter and taunts. “Like watching a calf get born!”

  The gunfire had sprinkled their celebration with fitting punctuation, and soon all the men began firing their weapons into the ceiling. Black powder smoke filled the room along with hearty cries of “Happy New Year!”

  “Hey, Captain,” said Murphy. “We ought to fire off the cannon!” Henry had no objection, if for no other reason than to remove the trappers from the bunkhouse before they destroyed it. Clamoring loudly, the men of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company opened the door, stepped into the dark night, and stumbled en masse for the blockade.

  They were surprised at the intensity of the storm. The light dusting of the afternoon had degenerated into a full-bore blizzard, swirling winds driving heavy snow. Ten inches or more had accumulated, deeper still where drifts had formed. Had they been cogent, the men would have appreciated the good fortune that held the storm at bay while they constructed shelter. Instead, they focused entirely on the cannon.

  The four-pound howitzer was really more of a giant shotgun than cannon, designed not for the ramparts of a fort, but for the bow of a keelboat. It was mounted on a swivel in the corner of the blockhouse, which allowed it to command two of the fort’s walls. The iron tube measured barely three feet, with three trunnions for reinforcement (insufficient, as it would turn out).

  A big man named Paul Hawker fancied himself the resident cannoneer. He even claimed to have been an artilleryman in the War of 1812. Most of the men doubted this claim, though they admitted that Hawker sounded authoritative when he barked out the drill for loading. Hawker and two other men scrambled up the ladder to the blockhouse. The rest stayed below, content to watch from the relative shelter of the parade ground.

  “Cannoneers to your posts!” shouted Hawker. Hawker may have known the drill, but his subordinates clearly did not. They stared blankly, waiting for a civilian explanation of their responsibilities. Under his breath, Hawker pointed to one and said, “You grab the powder and some wadding.” Pointing to the other he said, “You go light the lanyard from the fire.” Returning to his military bearing, he then shouted, “Commence firing.… Load!”

  Under Hawker’s direction, the man with the powder poured thirty drams into a measure, kept in the blockhouse for that purpose. Hawker tipped the brass muzzle of the cannon toward the sky and they dumped in the powder. Next they inserted a fist-size wad of old cloth and used a ramstaff to seat the charge firmly in the breech of the gun.

  While they waited for the return of the lanyard, Hawker unwrapped an oilcloth that held the primers—three-inch sections of goose quill, packed with gunpowder and sealed at both ends with a dab of wax. One of these primers he placed in the small vent hole at the breech of the cannon. When the burning lanyard was set to the quill, it melted the wax and ignited the powder in the quill, which in turn set off the main charge in the breech.

  The man with the burning lanyard now made his way up the ladder.

  The lanyard was a long stick with a hole in the end. A thick piece of rope, treated with saltpeter to make it burn, threaded the hole. Hawker blew on the ember at the tip of the lanyard, the fiery glow casting an ominous red on his face. With the pomp of a West Point cadet, he screamed, “READY!”

  The men below looked up at the blockhouse in eager anticipation of a colossal blast. Though he himself held the lanyard, Hawker yelled “FIRE!” and set the spark to the primer.

  The ember on the lanyard melted quickly through the wax. The primer sparked with a hiss and then “pop.” Compared with the stupendous explosion they expected, the cannon’s bark seemed barely louder than the clap of two hands.

  “What the hell was that?” came a cry from the yard, along with a sprinkling of catcalls and mocking laughter. “Why don’t you just bang on a pot!”

  Hawker stared at his cannon, horrified that this moment of testicular exhibition had wilted so prominently. This had to be rectified. “Just warming it up!” he yelled down. Then, urgently, “Cannoneers to your posts!”

  His two cannoneers looked at Hawker dubiously now, suddenly mindful of the exposure of their own reputations.

  “Move, you idiots!” hissed Hawker. “Triple the charge!” More powder would help. Then again, maybe the problem had been too little wadding. More stuffing, reasoned Hawker, would create more resistance—and a louder explosion. I’ll give them a blast.

  They poured the triple charge down the muzzle. What to use for wadding? Hawker ripped off his leather tunic and rammed it down the tube of the cannon. More. Hawker looked at his assistant. “Give me your tunics,” he said to his crew.

  The men stared back, clearly alarmed. “It’s cold, Hawker.”

  “Give me your damn tunics!”

  The men reluctantly complied, and Hawker added these new garments to the wadding. The jeering continued as Hawker worked furiously to reload the big gun. By the time he finished, the entire length of the cannon had been filled with buckskin, tightly packed.

  “Ready!” yelled Hawker, reaching again for the burning lanyard.

  “FIRE!” He set the spark to the primer and the cannon exploded. Actually exploded. The buckskins did indeed create additional resistance—so much so that the weapon blew itself into a thousand, glorious bits.

  For a brilliant moment, the fire of the blast lit the night sky, then an enormous cloud of acrid smoke hid the blockhouse from view. The men ducked as shrapnel from the explosion ripped into the log walls of the fort and sunk hissing into the snow. The explosion knocked both of Hawker’s crewmen over the edge of the blockhouse and into the yard below. One broke an arm in the fall; the other two ribs. Both might have died had they not managed to land in a deep snowdrift.

  As the driving wind cleared the smoke from the blockhouse, all eyes turned upward, searching for their brave artilleryman. No one said anything for a moment, until the captain called out, “Hawker!”

  Another long moment passed. The swirling winds pushed the smoke away from the blockhouse. They saw a hand reach over the edge of the rampart. A second hand appeared—and then Hawker’s head. His face was black as coal from the blast. His hat had been blown from his head, and blood trickled from both ears. Even with his hands on the blockhouse he tottered from side to side. Most of the men expected him to pitch forward and die. Instead he yelled, “Happy New Year, you dirty sons of bitches!”

  A great roar of approval filled the night.

  * * *

  Hugh Glass stumbled in the drift, surprised that the snow could already be so deep. He wore no mitten on his shooting hand, so the fall thrust his bare flesh into the snow. The icy sting made him wince. He pushed his hand under his capote to dry it. The snow had begun as scattered flurries, hardly enough to justify forting up. Glass now realized his mistake.

  He looked around, trying to gauge the remaining daylight. The storm drew the horizon in close, as the high mountains in the background disappeared altogether. He could make out a thin ridge line of sandstone and the occasional pine sentinel. Otherwise, even the foothills seemed to fuse with the white-gray formless clouds of the sky. Glass was glad for the sure path of the Yellowstone River. An hour before sunset? Glass pulled the mitten from his possibles bag and placed it on his stiff, damp hand. Nothing to shoot at in this weather anyway.

  It had been five days since Glass struck out from Fort Union. He knew now that Henry and his men had come this way; the path of thirty men was not difficult to follow. From the maps he had studied, Glass remembered Manuel Lisa’s abandoned trading post on the Big Horn. Surely Henry would go no farther—not in this seaso
n. He had a rough idea of the distances. But how much ground had he covered? Glass could only guess.

  The temperature dropped precipitously with the arrival of the storm, but it was the wind that worried Glass. The wind seemed to animate the cold, endowing it with an ability to penetrate every seam of his clothing. He felt it first as a biting sting on the exposed flesh of his nose and ears. Wind forced water from the corners of his eyes and his running nose created moisture, compounding the chill. As he trudged through the deepening snow, the sharp bite faded slowly into an aching numbness, leaving once agile fingers as lumps of dysfunctional flesh. He needed to seek shelter while he could still find fuel—and while his fingers could still work the flint and steel.

  The opposite bank rose steeply from the river. It would have provided some cover, but there was no way to ford the river. The terrain along his side of the river was featureless and flat, making no concessions to the driving wind. He saw a stand of a dozen cottonwoods about a mile away, barely perceptible through the blowing snow and the growing darkness. Why did I wait?

  It took twenty minutes to cover the distance. In places the whipping wind had cleared the ground down to the dirt, but in others the drifts rose to his knees. Snow filled his moccasins and he cursed himself for not having fashioned gaiters. His deerskin breeches became wet from the snow and then froze solid, stiff shells encasing his lower legs. By the time he reached the cottonwoods he could no longer feel his toes.

  The storm intensified as he scanned the tree stand for the best shelter. The wind seemed to blow from every direction at once, making it difficult to pick a spot. He settled on a downed cottonwood. The upturned roots spread out in a perpendicular arc from the thick base of the trunk, creating a windbreak in two directions. If only the wind would stop blowing from all four.

  He set down his rifle and immediately began to gather fuel. He found plenty of wood. The problem was tinder. Several inches of snow covered the ground. When he dug beneath it, the leaves were damp and unsuitable. He tried to snap small branches from the cottonwood, but it was still green. Glass scoured the clearing. Daylight seemed to pour away, and he realized with growing concern that it was later than he had thought. By the time he gathered what he needed, he was working in near total darkness.