Revenant : A Novel of Revenge (9781250066633)

by Punke, Michael

  The next day, Pig heard from a trapper named Red Archibald that Hugh Glass was returning to St. Louis, carrying a message to William H. Ashley from the captain. He immediately sought out Captain Henry and volunteered to go along. As much as he feared a journey away from the relative comfort of the fort, the prospect of staying was worse. Pig was not cut out for life as a trapper and he knew it. He thought about his former life as a cooper’s apprentice. He missed his old life and its rudimentary comforts more than he imagined possible.

  Red was going too. And a friend of his, a bow-legged Englishman named William Chapman. Red and Chapman had been plotting to desert when the rumor spread about messengers to St. Louis. Captain Henry was even paying a bounty to the volunteers. Accompanying Glass would save them the trouble of sneaking off. They could leave early and get paid for the privilege. Chapman and Red could scarcely believe their good fortune. “You remember the saloon at Fort Atkinson?” asked Red.

  Chapman laughed. He remembered it well, the last taste of decent whiskey on their way up the Missouri.

  John Fitzgerald heard none of the bawdy din in the saloon at Fort Atkinson. He was too focused on his cards, picking them up, one by one as they were dealt, from the stained felt top of the table: Ace … Maybe my luck is changing … Five … Seven … Four … then—

  Ace. Yes. He looked around the table. The smarmy lieutenant with the big pile of coins threw three cards on the table and said, “I’ll take three and bet five dollars.”

  The sutler threw down all of his cards. “I’m out.”

  A strapping boatman threw down a single card and pushed five dollars to the center of the table.

  Fitzgerald threw down three cards as he calculated his competition.

  The boatman was an idiot, presumably drawing for a straight or a flush. The lieutenant was probably holding a pair, but not a pair that could beat his aces. “I’ll see your five and I’ll raise you five.”

  “See me five and raise me five with what?” asked the lieutenant. Fitzgerald felt the blood rise in his face, felt the familiar pounding at his temple. He was down one hundred dollars—every penny from the pelts he had sold that afternoon to the sutler. He turned to the sutler. “Okay, old man—I’ll sell you the second half of that pack of beaver. Same price—five bucks a plew.”

  A poor cards player, the sutler was a cagey trader. “Price has gone down since this afternoon. I’ll give you three dollars a plew.”

  “You son of a bitch!” hissed Fitzgerald.

  “Call me whatever you like,” replied the sutler. “But that’s my price.”

  Fitzgerald took another look at the pompous lieutenant, then nodded to the sutler. The sutler counted sixty dollars from a leather purse, stacking the coins in front of Fitzgerald. Fitzgerald pushed ten dollars to the center of the table.

  The dealer threw a card to the boatman and three each to Fitzgerald and the lieutenant. Fitzgerald picked them up. Seven … Jack … Three … Goddamn it! He struggled to keep his face impassive. He looked up to see the lieutenant staring at him, the slightest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

  You bastard. Fitzgerald pushed the rest of his money to the center of the table. “Raise you fifty dollars.”

  The boatman whistled and threw his cards on the table.

  The lieutenant’s eyes traveled across the mound of money in the center of the table and came to rest on Fitzgerald. “That’s a lot of money Mr.… what was it—Fitzpatrick?”

  Fitzgerald fought to control himself “Fitzgerald.”

  “Fitzgerald—yes, sorry.”

  Fitzgerald gauged the lieutenant. He’ll fold. He hasn’t got the nerve. The lieutenant held his cards in one hand and drummed his fingers with the others. He pursed his lips, making his long mustache droop even further. It irritated Fitzgerald, especially the way that he stared.

  “I’ll see your fifty and call,” said the lieutenant.

  Fitzgerald felt his stomach sink. His jaw tensed as he turned over the pair of aces.

  “Pair of aces,” said the lieutenant. “Well, that would have beat my pair.”

  He threw down a pair of threes. “Except I got another one.” He tossed another three on the table. “I believe you’re done for the evening, Mr. Fitz-whatever—unless the good sutler will buy your little canoe.” The lieutenant reached for the mound of money in the center of the table.

  Fitzgerald pulled the skinning knife from his belt and slammed it into the back of the lieutenant’s hand. The lieutenant screamed as the knife pinned his hand to the table. Fitzgerald grabbed a whiskey bottle and shattered it on the pitiful lieutenant’s head. He was poised to ram the jagged neck of the bottle into the lieutenant’s throat when two soldiers grabbed him from behind, wrestling him to the ground.

  Fitzgerald spent the night in the guardhouse. In the morning he found himself in shackles, standing before a major in a mess hall dressed up to look like a court of law.

  The major talked for a long time in a stilted verse and cadence that made little sense to Fitzgerald. The lieutenant was there, his hand in a bloody bandage. The major interrogated the lieutenant for half an hour, then did the same thing with the sutler, the boatman, and three other witnesses from the bar. Fitzgerald found the whole proceeding curious, since he had no intention of denying that he’d stabbed the lieutenant.

  After an hour the major told Fitzgerald to approach “the bench,” which Fitzgerald assumed was the rather ordinary desk behind which the major had ensconced himself.

  The major said, “This martial court finds you guilty of assault. You may choose between two sentences—five years imprisonment or three years enlistment in the United States Army.” One quarter of Fort Atkinson’s men had deserted that year. The major took full advantage of opportunities to replenish his troops.

  For Fitzgerald, the decision was simple. He’d seen the guardhouse. No doubt he could break out eventually, but enlistment presented a far easier path.

  Later that day John Fitzgerald raised his right hand and swore an oath of allegiance to the Constitution of the United States of America as a new private in the Sixth Regiment of the U.S. Army. Until such time as he could desert, Fort Atkinson would be his home.

  * * *

  Hugh Glass was tying a pack on a horse when he saw Jim Bridger walking toward him across the yard. Before now, the boy had avoided him scrupulously. This time both his walk and his gaze were unwavering. Glass stopped his work and watched the boy approach.

  When Bridger reached Glass he stopped. “I want you to know that I’m sorry for what I did.” He paused for a moment before adding, “I wanted you to know that before you left.”

  Glass started to respond, then stopped. He had wondered if the boy would approach him. He had even thought about what he would say, rehearsed in his mind a lengthy lecture. Yet as he looked now at the boy, the particulars of his prepared speech eluded him. He felt something unexpected, a strange mixture of pity and respect.

  Finally Glass said simply, “Follow your own lead, Bridger.” Then he turned back to the horse.

  An hour later, Hugh Glass and his three companions rode out of the fort on the Big Horn, bound for the Powder and the Platte.

  TWENTY-THREE

  MARCH 6, 1824

  ONLY THE TOPS OF the highest buttes held a grip on the few rays of sunlight. As Glass watched, even those were extinguished. It was an interlude that he held as sacred as Sabbath, the brief segue between the light of day and the dark of night. The retreating sun drew with it the harshness of the plain. Howling winds ebbed, replaced by an utter stillness that seemed impossible for a vista so grand. The colors too were transformed. Stark daytime hues blended and blurred, softened by a gentle wash of ever darkening purples and blues.

  It was a moment for reflection in a space so vast it could only be divine.

  And if Glass believed in a god, surely it resided in this great western expanse. Not a physical presence, but an idea, something beyond man’s ability to comprehend, something large
r.

  The darkness deepened and Glass watched as the stars emerged, dim at first, later bright as lighthouse beacons. It had been a long time since he studied the stars, though the lessons of the old Dutch sea captain remained fixed in his mind: “Know the stars and you’ll always have a compass.” Glass picked out Ursa Major, followed its guide to the North Star. He searched for Orion, dominant on the eastern horizon. Orion, the hunter, his vengeful sword poised to strike.

  Red interrupted the silence. “You get the late watch, Pig.” Red kept a careful tally of the distribution of chores.

  Pig needed no reminder. He pulled his blanket tightly over his head and closed his eyes.

  They camped in a dry ravine that night, a ravine that cut the plain like a giant wound. Water had formed it, but not the gentle, nourishing rains of other places. Water came to the high plain in the torrential flood of spring runoff or as the violent spawn of a summer storm. Unaccustomed to moisture, the ground could not absorb it. The water’s effect was not to nourish, but to destroy.

  Pig was certain that he had just fallen asleep when he felt the persistent prodding of Red’s foot. “You’re up,” said Red. Pig grunted, hoisting his body to a sitting position before working his way to his feet. The splash of the Milky Way was like a white river across the midnight sky. Pig looked up briefly, his only thought that the clear sky made it colder. He wrapped his blanket around his shoulders, picked up his rifle, and walked down the ravine.

  Two Shoshone watched the changing of the guard from behind a clump of sagebrush. They were boys, Little Bear and Rabbit, twelve-year-olds on a quest not for glory but for meat. But it was glory that now stood before them in the form of five horses. The boys imagined themselves galloping into their village. They imagined the bonfires and feast that would celebrate them. They imagined the stories they would tell of their cunning and bravery. They could scarcely believe their good fortune as they stared into the ravine, though the nearness of the opportunity filled them with fear as much as excitement.

  They waited until the last hour before dawn, hoping the guard’s attentiveness would fade as the night wore on. It did. They could hear the man snoring as they crept from the sage. They let the horses see them and smell them as they crept up the ravine. The animals stood tense but quiet, ears perked as they watched the deliberate approach.

  When the boys finally reached the horses, Little Bear slowly extended his arms, stroking the long neck of the nearest animal and whispering soothingly. Rabbit followed Little Bear’s lead. They patted the horses for several minutes, gaining the animals’ confidence before Little Bear pulled his knife and went to work on the hobbles that bound each animal’s front legs together.

  The boys had cut the hobbles from four of the five horses when they heard the sentry stir. They froze, each prepared to jump on a horse and gallop off. They stared at the dark hulk of the guard and he seemed to settle again. Rabbit motioned urgently to Little Bear—Let’s go! Little Bear shook his head resolutely, pointing to the fifth horse. He walked to the animal and stooped to cut the hobble. His knife had grown dull, and it took an agonizing length of time to saw slowly through the twisted rawhide. In growing frustration and nervousness, Little Bear gave a hard tug at the knife. The rawhide snapped and his arm jerked backward. His elbow bashed into the horse’s shin, eliciting a loud whinny from the animal in protest.

  The sound jolted Pig from his sleep. He struggled to his feet, eyes wide and rifle cocked as he rushed toward the horses. Pig pulled up suddenly as a dark form appeared directly in front of him. He skidded to a halt, surprised to be confronted by a boy. The boy, Rabbit, looked about as menacing as his namesake, all wide eyes and spindly limbs. One of those limbs held a knife, though; another a length of rope. Pig struggled to know what to do. His job was to defend the horses, but even with the knife, the mere boy before him seemed a good measure short of threatening. Finally, Pig simply pointed his rifle and yelled, “Stop!”

  Little Bear stared in horror at the scene before him. He had never seen a white man before that evening, and this one did not even appear to be human. He was enormous, with a chest like a bear and a face covered in fiery hair. The giant approached Rabbit, yelling wildly and pointing his gun. Without thinking, Little Bear rushed at the monster, burying his knife in its chest.

  Pig saw a blur from his side before he felt the knife. He stood there, stunned. Little Bear and Rabbit stood there too, still terrified at the creature before them. Pig’s legs felt suddenly weak and he dropped to his knees. Instinct told him to squeeze the trigger of his gun. It exploded, the bullet launching harmlessly toward the stars.

  Rabbit managed to grab a horse by the mane, pulling himself to the animal’s back. He yelled at Little Bear, who took one last look at the dying monster before leaping behind his friend. They had no control of the horse, which almost bucked them before all five animals galloped down the ravine.

  Glass and the others arrived just in time to watch their horses disappear into the night. Pig still stood on his knees, his hands clutched to his chest. He fell to his side.

  Glass bent over Pig, prying his hands away from the wound. He pulled back Pig’s shirt. The three men stared grimly at the dark slit directly over his heart.

  Pig looked up at Glass, his eyes a terrible mixture of pleading and fear.

  “Fix me up, Glass.”

  Glass picked up Pig’s massive hand and held it tightly. “I don’t think I can, Pig.”

  Pig coughed. His big body gave a mighty shudder, like the ponderous moment before a great tree falls. Glass felt the hand go limp.

  The giant man gave one final sigh and died there beneath the bright stars of the plain.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  MARCH 7, 1824

  HUGH GLASS STABBED AT THE ground with his knife. It penetrated an inch at most; below that the frozen earth remained unpersuaded by the blade. Glass chipped away for almost an hour before Red observed, “You can’t dig a grave in ground like that.”

  Glass sat back, his legs folded beneath him, panting from the exertion of the dig. “I’d make more progress if you pitched in.”

  “I’ll pitch in—but I don’t see much use in chipping away at ice.” Chapman looked up from an antelope rib long enough to add, “Pig’s gonna take a big hole.”

  “We could build him one of those scaffolds like they bury the Indians on,” offered Red.

  Chapman snorted. “What are you gonna build it with, sagebrush?”

  Red looked around him, as if newly aware of the treeless plain. “Besides,” continued Chapman, “Pig’s too big for us to lift up on a scaffold.”

  “What if we just covered him with a big mound of rocks?” This idea had merit, and they spent half an hour scouring the area for stones. In the end, though, they managed to locate only a dozen or so. Most of those had to be extricated from the same frozen soil that prevented the digging of the grave.

  “These are hardly enough to cover his head,” said Chapman.

  “Well,” said Red. “If we covered up his head at least the magpies won’t pick at his face.”

  Red and Chapman were surprised when Glass turned suddenly and walked away from the camp.

  “Now where’s he going?” asked Red. “Hey!” he shouted at Glass’s back. “Where you going?”

  Glass ignored them as he walked toward a small mesa, a quarter mile away.

  “Hope those Shoshone don’t come back while he’s gone.”

  Chapman nodded his head in agreement. “Let’s get a fire going and cook some more of the antelope.”

  Glass returned about an hour later. “There’s an outcropping in the base of that mesa,” he said. “It’s big enough to hold Pig.”

  “In a cave?” said Red.

  Chapman thought about it for a minute. “Well, I guess it’s kinda like a crypt.”

  Glass looked at the two men and said, “It’s the best we can do. Put out the fire and let’s get on with it.”

  There was no dignified way to move Pig. The
re were no materials to build a litter and he was too heavy to carry. In the end, they put him facedown on a blanket and dragged him toward the mesa. Two men took turns with Pig while the third carried the four rifles. They did their best, with mixed results, to steer around the cactus and yucca that littered the ground. Twice Pig dropped to the ground, his rigid body landing in a plaintive, ungainly lump.

  It took more than half an hour to reach the mesa. They rolled Pig on his back and covered him with the blanket while they gathered stones, now abundant, to seal the makeshift crypt. Sandstone formed the outcropping. It hung over a space about five feet in length and two feet in height. Glass used the butt of Pig’s rifle to clear out the space inside. Some type of animal had nested in there, though there was no sign of recent occupation.

  They piled up a great mound of loose sandstone, more than they needed, hesitant, it seemed, to move on to the final stage. Finally Glass threw a stone on the pile and said, “That’s enough.” He walked over to Pig’s body and the other men helped him pull the dead man to the opening of the makeshift crypt. They lay him there, all of them staring.

  The task of saying something fell to Glass. He removed his hat and the other men quickly followed suit, as if embarrassed at needing a prompt. Glass tried to clear his throat. He searched for the words to the verse about the “valley of death,” but he couldn’t remember enough to make it appropriate. In the end, the best he could come up with was the Lord’s Prayer. He recited it in the strongest voice he could muster. It had been a long time since either Red or Chapman had said a prayer, but they mumbled along whenever a phrase evoked some distant memory.

  When they were done, Glass said, “We’ll take turns carrying his rifle.”

  Next he reached down and took the knife from Pig’s belt. “Red, you look like you could use his knife. Chapman, you can have his powder horn.”

  Chapman accepted the horn solemnly. Red turned the knife in his hand. With a short smile and a brief flash of eagerness he said, “It’s a pretty good blade.”