Revenant : A Novel of Revenge (9781250066633) Read online

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  For my parents, Marilyn and Butch Punke

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  September 1, 1823

  Part One

  1. August 21, 1823

  2. August 23, 1823

  3. August 24, 1823

  4. August 28, 1823

  5. August 30, 1823

  6. August 31, 1823

  7. September 2, 1823—Morning

  8. September 2, 1823—Afternoon

  9. September 8, 1823

  10. September 15, 1823

  11. September 16, 1823

  12. September 17, 1823

  13. October 5, 1823

  14. October 6, 1823

  15. October 9, 1823

  Part Two

  16. November 29, 1823

  17. December 5, 1823

  18. December 6, 1823

  19. December 8, 1823

  20. December 15, 1823

  21. December 31, 1823

  22. February 27, 1824

  23. March 6, 1824

  24. March 7, 1824

  25. March 28, 1824

  26. April 14, 1824

  27. April 28, 1824

  28. May 7, 1824

  Historical Note

  Acknowledgments

  Key Sources

  Also by Michael Punke

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.

  —ROM. 12:19

  SEPTEMBER 1, 1823

  THEY WERE ABANDONING HIM. The wounded man knew it when he looked at the boy, who looked down, then away, unwilling to hold his gaze.

  For days, the boy had argued with the man in the wolf-skin hat. Has it really been days? The wounded man had battled his fever and pain, never certain whether conversations he heard were real, or merely by-products of the delirious wanderings in his mind.

  He looked up at the soaring rock formation above the clearing. A lone, twisted pine had managed somehow to grow from the sheer face of the stone. He had stared at it many times, yet it had never appeared to him as it did at that moment, when its perpendicular lines seemed clearly to form a cross. He accepted for the first time that he would die there in that clearing by the spring.

  The wounded man felt an odd detachment from the scene in which he played the central role. He wondered briefly what he would do in their position. If they stayed and the war party came up the creek, all of them would die. Would I die for them … if they were certain to die anyway?

  “You sure they’re coming up the creek?” The boy’s voice cracked as he said it. He could effect a tenor most of the time, but his tone still broke at moments he could not control.

  The man in the wolf skin stooped hurriedly by the small meat rack near the fire, stuffing strips of partially dried venison into his parfleche. “You want to stay and find out?”

  The wounded man tried to speak. He felt again the piercing pain in his throat. Sound came forth, but he could not shape it into the one word he sought to articulate.

  The man in the wolf skin ignored the sound as he continued to gather his few belongings, but the boy turned. “He’s trying to say something.”

  The boy dropped on one knee next to the wounded man. Unable to speak, the man raised his working arm and pointed.

  “He wants his rifle,” said the boy. “He wants us to set him up with his rifle.”

  The man in the wolf skin covered the ground between them in quick, measured steps. He kicked the boy hard, square in the back. “Move, goddamn you!”

  He strode quickly from the boy to the wounded man, who lay next to the meager pile of his possessions: a possibles bag, a knife in a beaded scabbard, a hatchet, a rifle, and a powder horn. As the wounded man watched helplessly, the man in the wolf skin stooped to pick up the possibles bag. He dug inside for the flint and steel, dropping them into the pocket on the front of his leather tunic. He grabbed the powder horn and slung it over his shoulder. The hatchet he tucked under his broad leather belt.

  “What’re you doing?” asked the boy.

  The man stooped again, picked up the knife, and tossed it to the boy.

  “Take that.” The boy caught it, staring in horror at the scabbard in his hand. Only the rifle remained. The man in the wolf skin picked it up, checking quickly to ensure it was charged. “Sorry, old Glass. You ain’t got much more use for any of this.”

  The boy appeared stunned. “We can’t leave him without his kit.” The man in the wolf skin looked up briefly, then disappeared into the woods.

  The wounded man stared up at the boy, who stood there for a long moment with the knife—his knife. Finally, the boy raised his eyes. At first it appeared that he might say something. Instead, he spun around and fled into the pines.

  The wounded man stared at the gap in the trees where they had disappeared. His rage was complete, consuming him as fire envelops the needles of a pine. He wanted nothing in the world except to place his hands around their necks and choke the life from them.

  Instinctively he started to yell out, forgetting again that his throat produced no words, only pain. He raised himself on his left elbow. He could bend his right arm slightly, but it would support no weight. The movement sent agonizing bolts through his neck and back. He felt the strain of his skin against the crude sutures. He looked down at his leg, where the bloody remnants of an old shirt were tightly wrapped. He could not flex his thigh to make the leg work.

  Marshaling his strength, he rolled heavily to his stomach. He felt the snap of a suture breaking and the warm wetness of new blood on his back. The pain diluted to nothing against the tide of his rage.

  Hugh Glass began to crawl.

  PART

  ONE

  ONE

  AUGUST 21, 1823

  “MY KEELBOAT FROM ST. LOUIS is due here any day, Monsieur Ashley.” The portly Frenchman explained it again in his patient but insistent tone. “I’ll gladly sell the Rocky Mountain Fur Company the entire contents of the boat—but I can’t sell you what I don’t have.”

  William H. Ashley slammed his tin cup on the crude slats of the table. The carefully groomed gray of his beard did not conceal the tight clench of his jaw. For its part, the clenched jaw seemed unlikely to contain another outburst, as Ashley found himself confronting again the one thing he despised above all else—waiting.

  The Frenchman, with the unlikely name of Kiowa Brazeau, watched Ashley with growing trepidation. Ashley’s presence at Kiowa’s remote trading post presented a rare opportunity, and Kiowa knew that the successful management of this relationship could lay a permanent foundation for his venture. Ashley was a prominent man in St. Louis business and politics, a man with both the vision to bring commerce to the West and the money to make it happen. “Other people’s money,” as Ashley had called it. Skittish money. Nervous money. Money that would flee easily from one speculative venture to the next.

  Kiowa squinted behind his thick spectacles, and though his vision was not sharp, he had a keen eye for reading people. “If you will indulge me, Monsieur Ashley, perhaps I can offer one consolation while we await my boat.”

  Ashley offered no affirmative acknowledgment, but neither did he renew h
is tirade.

  “I need to requisition more provisions from St. Louis,” said Kiowa. “I’ll send a courier downstream tomorrow by canoe. He can carry a dispatch from you to your syndicate. You can reassure them before rumors about Colonel Leavenworth’s debacle take root.”

  Ashley sighed deeply and took a long sip of the sour ale, resigned, through lack of alternative, to endure this latest delay. Like it or not, the Frenchman’s advice was sound. He needed to reassure his investors before news of the battle ran unchecked through the streets of St. Louis.

  Kiowa sensed his opening and moved quickly to keep Ashley on a productive course. The Frenchman produced a quill, ink, and parchment, arranging them in front of Ashley and refilling the tin cup with ale. “I’ll leave you to your work, monsieur,” he said, happy for the opportunity to retreat.

  By the dim light of a tallow candle, Ashley wrote deep into the night:

  Fort Brazeau,

  On the Missouri

  August 21, 1823

  James D. Pickens, Esquire

  Pickens and Sons

  St. Louis

  Dear Mr. Pickens,

  It is my unfortunate responsibility to inform you of the events of the past two weeks. By their nature these events must alter—though not deter—our venture on the Upper Missouri.

  As you probably know by now, the men of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company were attacked by the Arikara after trading in good faith for sixty horses. The Arikara attacked without provocation, killing 16 of our men, wounding a dozen, & stealing back the horses they had feigned to sell to us the day before.

  In face of this attack, I was forced to retreat downstream, while at the same time requesting the aid of Colonel Leavenworth & the US Army in responding to this clear affront to the sovereign right of US citizens to traverse the Missouri unimpeded. I also requested the support of our own men, who joined me (led by Capt. Andrew Henry) at great peril, from their position at Fort Union.

  By August 9th, we confronted the Arikara with a combined force of 700 men, including 200 of Leavenworth’s regulars (with two howitzers) and forty men of the RMF Co. We also found allies (albeit temporary) in 400 Sioux warriors, whose enmity for the Arikara stems from historical grudge, the origin of which I do not know.

  Suffice it to say that our assembled forces were more than ample to carry the field, punish the Arikara for their treachery, & reopen the Missouri for our venture. That such results did not occur we owe to the unsteady timber of Colonel Leavenworth.

  The details of the inglorious encounter can await my return to St. Louis, but suffice it to say that the Colonel’s repeated reluctance to engage in an inferior foe allowed the entire Arikara tribe to slip our grasp, the result being the effective closure of the Missouri between Fort Brazeau & the Mandan villages. Somewhere between here and there are 900 Arikara warriors, newly entrenched, no doubt, & with new motive to foil all attempts up the Missouri.

  Colonel Leavenworth has returned to garrison at Fort Atkinson, where he no doubt will pass the winter in front of a warm hearth, carefully mulling his options. I do not intend to wait for him. Our venture, as you know, can ill-afford the loss of eight months.

  Ashley stopped to read his text, unhappy with its dour tone. The letter reflected his anger, but did not convey his predominant emotion—a bedrock optimism, an unwavering faith in his own ability to succeed. God had placed him in a garden of infinite bounty, a Land of Goshen in which any man could prosper if only he had the courage and the fortitude to try. Ashley’s weaknesses, which he confessed forthrightly, were simply barriers to be overcome by some creative combination of his strengths. Ashley expected setbacks, but he would not tolerate failure.

  We must turn this misfortune to our benefit, press on while our competitors take pause. With the Missouri effectively closed, I have decided to send two groups West by alternate route. Captain Henry I have already dispatched up the Grand River. He will ascend the Grand as far as possible and make his way back to Fort Union. Jedidiah Smith will lead a second troop up the Platte, his target the waters of the Great Basin.

  You no doubt share my intense frustration at our delay. We must now move boldly to recapture lost time. I have instructed Henry and Smith that they shall not return to St. Louis with their harvest in the Spring. Rather, we shall go to them—rendezvous in the field to exchange their furs for fresh supplies. We can save four months this way, & repay at least some portion of our debt to the clock. Meanwhile, I propose a new fur troop be raised in St. Louis & dispatched in the Spring, led by me personally.

  The remnants of the candle sputtered and spit foul black smoke. Ashley looked up, suddenly aware of the hour, of his deep fatigue. He dipped the quill and returned to his correspondence, writing firmly and quickly now as he drew his report to its conclusion:

  I urge you to communicate to our syndicate—in strongest possible terms—my complete confidence in the inevitable success of our endeavor. A great bounty has been laid by Providence before us, & we must not fail to summon the courage to claim our rightful share.

  Your Very Humble Servant,

  William H. Ashley

  Two days later, August 16, 1823, Kiowa Brazeau’s keelboat arrived from St. Louis. William Ashley provisioned his men and sent them west on the same day. The first rendezvous was set for the summer of 1824, the location to be communicated through couriers.

  Without understanding fully the significance of his decisions, William H. Ashley had invented the system that would define the era.

  TWO

  AUGUST 23, 1823

  ELEVEN MEN HUNKERED in the camp with no fire. The camp took advantage of a slight embankment on the Grand River, but the plain afforded little contour to conceal their position. A fire would have signaled their presence for miles, and stealth was the trappers’ best ally against another attack. Most of the men used the last hour of daylight to clean rifles, repair moccasins, or eat. The boy had been asleep from the moment they stopped, a crumpled tangle of long limbs and ill-shod clothing.

  The men fell into clusters of three or four, huddled against the bank or pressed against a rock or clump of sage, as if these minor protusions might offer protection.

  The usual banter of camp had been dampened by the calamity on the Missouri, and then extinguished altogether by the second attack only three nights before. When they spoke at all they spoke in hushed and pensive tones, respectful of the comrades who lay dead in their trail, heedful of the dangers still before them.

  “Do you think he suffered, Hugh? I can’t get it out of my head that he was suffering away, all that time.”

  Hugh Glass looked up at the man, William Anderson, who had posed the question. Glass thought for a while before he answered, “I don’t think your brother suffered.”

  “He was the oldest. When we left Kentucky, our folks told him to look after me. Didn’t say a word to me. Wouldn’t have occurred to them.”

  “You did your best for your brother, Will. It’s a hard truth, but he was dead when that ball hit him three days ago.”

  A new voice spoke from the shadows near the bank. “Wish we’d have buried him then, instead of dragging him for two days.” The speaker perched on his haunches, and in the growing darkness his face showed little feature except a dark beard and a white scar. The scar started near the corner of his mouth and curved down and around like a fishhook. Its prominence was magnified by the fact that no hair grew on the tissue, cutting a permanent sneer through his beard. His right hand worked the stout blade of a skinning knife over a whetstone as he spoke, mixing his words with a slow, rasping scrape.

  “Keep your mouth shut, Fitzgerald, or I swear on my brother’s grave I’ll rip out your bloody tongue.”

  “Your brother’s grave? Not much of a grave now, was it?”

  The men within earshot paid sudden attention, surprised at this conduct, even from Fitzgerald.

  Fitzgerald felt the attention, and it encouraged him. “More just a pile of rocks. You think he’s still in there, molderin
g away?” Fitzgerald paused for a moment, so that the only sound was the scraping of the blade on the stone. “I doubt it—speaking for myself.” Again he waited, calibrating the effect of his words as he spoke them. “Course, could be the rocks kept the varmints off. But I think the coyotes are dragging little bits of him across…”

  Anderson lunged at Fitzgerald with both hands extended.

  Fitzgerald brought his leg up sharply as he rose to meet the attack, his shin catching Anderson full-force in the groin. The kick folded Anderson in two, as if some hidden cord drew his neck to his knees. Fitzgerald drove his knee into the helpless man’s face and Anderson flipped backward.

  Fitzgerald moved spryly for someone his size, pouncing to pin his knee against the chest of the gasping, bleeding man. He put the skinning knife to Anderson’s throat. “You want to go join your brother?” Fitzgerald pressed the knife so that the blade drew a thin line of blood.

  “Fitzgerald,” Glass said in an even but authoritative tone. “That’s enough.”

  Fitzgerald looked up. He contemplated an answer to Glass’s challenge, while noting with satisfaction the ring of men that now surrounded him, witnesses to Anderson’s pathetic position. Better to claim victory, he decided. He’d see to Glass another day. Fitzgerald removed the blade from Anderson’s throat and rammed the knife into the beaded sheath on his belt. “Don’t start things you can’t finish, Anderson. Next time I’ll finish it for you.”

  Captain Andrew Henry pushed his way through the circle of spectators. He grabbed Fitzgerald from behind and ripped him backward, pushing him hard into the embankment. “One more fight and you’re out, Fitzgerald.” Henry pointed beyond the perimeter of the camp to the distant horizon. “If you’ve got an extra store of piss you can go try making it on your own.”

  The captain looked around him at the rest of the men. “We’ll cover forty miles tomorrow. You’re wasting time if you’re not asleep already. Now, who’s taking first watch?” No one stepped forward. Henry’s eyes came to rest on the boy, oblivious to the commotion. Henry took a handful of determined steps to the crumpled form. “Get up, Bridger.”