The Revenant Page 16

  Finally La Vierge looked at Glass. It occurred to him suddenly that they had not really spoken with Glass since leaving Fort Kiowa. There had been scattered exchanges, most concerning Glass’s success in putting fresh game in their pot. But no real conversation, certainly none of the ambling forays on which La Vierge liked to embark.

  La Vierge felt suddenly guilty for his lack of social graces. He knew little about Glass beyond the fact that he had come up short in a scrape with a bear. More importantly, thought La Vierge, Glass knew little about him—and he must certainly want to know more. Besides, it was a good opportunity to practice his English, a language in which La Vierge considered himself an accomplished speaker.

  “Hey, Pork Eater.” When Glass looked up he asked, “From where do you come?”

  The question—and the sudden use of English—took Glass by surprise.

  He cleared his throat. “Philadelphia.”

  La Vierge nodded his head, waiting for a reciprocal inquiry from Glass.

  None came.

  Finally La Vierge said, “My brother and I, we are from Contrecoeur.” Glass nodded his head, but said nothing. Clearly, decided La Vierge, this American would need to be coaxed along.

  “You know how it is that we all come to be voyageurs?” Yew NO how eet EES zat wi all come to bee voyaGEURS?

  Glass shook his head no. Dominique rolled his eyes, recognizing the prelude to his brother’s tired stories.

  “Contrecoeur is on the great St. Lawrence River. There was a time, a hundred years ago, when all the men in our village were poor farmers. All day they worked in the fields, but the dirt was bad, the weather too cold—they never made a good crop.

  “One day a beautiful maiden named Isabelle was working in a field by the river. Suddenly from the water came a stallion—big and strong, black like coal. He stood in the river, staring at the girl. And she was very afraid. The stallion, he sees that she is about to run away, so he kicks at the water—and a trout goes flying to the girl. It lands there in the dirt at her feet …” La Vierge couldn’t find the English word he wanted, so he made a flip-flop motion with his hands.

  “Isabelle, she sees this petit cadeau, and she is very happy. She picks it up and she takes to her family for dinner. She tells her papa and her brothers about this horse, but they think she is making a joke. They laugh and they tell her to get more fish from her new friend.

  “Isabelle goes back to the field, and each day now she sees the black stallion again. Each day he comes a little closer, and each day he gives to her a gift. One day an apple, one day some flowers. Each day she tells her family about this horse who comes from the river. And each day they laugh at her story.

  “Finally there comes a day when the stallion walks all the way up to Isabelle. She climbs on his back, and the stallion runs to the river. They disappear into the current—and they are never seen again.”

  The fire cast dancing shadows behind La Vierge as he spoke. And the rush of the river was like a hissing affirmation of his tale.

  “That night, when Isabelle doesn’t come home, her father and her brothers go looking for her in the fields. They find the tracks of Isabelle and they find the tracks of the stallion. They see that Isabelle has mounted the horse, and they see that the horse has run into the river. They search up and down the river, but they cannot find the girl.

  “The next day, all the men of the village take to their canoes and join the search. And they take a vow—they will abandon their farms and stay on the river until they find the poor Isabelle. But they never find her. And so you see, Monsieur Glass, since that day we are voyageurs. Still this day we keep up the search for the poor Isabelle.”

  “Where’s Charbonneau?” asked Langevin.

  “Where’s Charbonneau!” retorted La Vierge. “I tell you the story of a lost maiden and you’re thinking about a lost old man?”

  Langevin said nothing in reply. “He’s malade comme un chien,” said La Vierge with a smile. “I’ll call to him—make sure he’s safe.” He cupped his hand to his mouth and yelled into the willows. “Don’t worry, Charbonneau—we’re sending out Professeur to help you wipe your ass!”

  Touissaint Charbonneau sat on his haunches, his naked ass pointing discreetly toward a bush. He had been in that position for some time. Long enough, in fact, that he had begun to develop a cramp in his thigh. He hadn’t been right since Fort Brazeau. No doubt he’d been poisoned by Kiowa’s shitty food. He could hear La Vierge taunting him from the camp. He was starting to hate that bastard. A twig snapped.

  Charbonneau bolted upright. One hand reached for his pistol and the other tugged at his deerskin trousers. Neither hand accomplished its task. The pistol slipped to the dark ground. His pants slipped to his ankles. When he lurched again for the pistol, his pants tripped him. He sprawled on the ground, scraping his knee on a large rock. He grunted in pain while from the corner of his eye he watched a large elk lope through the timber.

  “Merde!” Charbonneau returned to his business, grimacing at the sharp new pain in his leg.

  By the time he made his way back to camp, Charbonneau’s normal pique had been ratcheted up a notch. He stared at Professeur, who sat reclining against a large log. The big Scot wore a beard of mush.

  “It’s disgusting the way he eats,” said Charbonneau.

  La Vierge looked up from his pipe. “I don’t know, Charbonneau. The way the fire lights up the porridge on his chin—it kind of reminds me of the Northern Lights.” Langevin and Dominique laughed, which further irritated Charbonneau. Professeur continued to chew, oblivious to the humor at his expense.

  Charbonneau spoke again in French: “Hey, you idiot Scot bastard, do you understand a word of what I’m saying?” Professeur continued to work on the mush, placid as a cow with its cud.

  Charbonneau smiled thinly. He appreciated the opportunity for such wholly naked cattiness. “What happened to his eye, anyway?”

  No one jumped at the opportunity for conversation with Charbonneau.

  Finally Langevin said, “Poked out in a brawl in Montreal.”

  “It looks like all hell. Makes me nervous, having the damn thing staring at me all day.”

  “Blind eye can’t stare,” said La Vierge. He had come to like Professeur, or at least to appreciate the Scot’s ability with a paddle. Whatever he thought of Professeur, he was certain that he did not like Charbonneau. The old man’s grousing commentary had grown stale by the first bend in the river.

  “Well, it sure seems to stare,” insisted Charbonneau. “Always looks like he’s peeking around the corner. Never blinks, either. I don’t see how the damn thing doesn’t dry up.”

  “What if it could see—it’s not like you’re much to look at, Charbonneau,” said La Vierge.

  “He could at least put a patch over it. I’m tempted to tack one on there myself.”

  “Why don’t you? Be nice if you had something to do.”

  “I’m not your damned engagé!” hissed Charbonneau. “You’ll be glad I’m along when the Arikara come looking for your flea-bit scalp!” The translator had worked himself into a frothy lather, spittle forming in the corner of his mouth as he talked. “I was blazing trails with Lewis and Clark when you were still messing your pants.”

  “Jesus Christ, old man! If I hear one more of your damned Lewis and Clark stories, I swear I’m going to put a bullet in my brain—or better yet, your brain! Everyone would appreciate that.”

  “Ça suffit!” Langevin finally interjected. “Enough! I’d put you both out of my misery if I didn’t need you!”

  Charbonneau gave a triumphant sneer.

  “But you listen, Charbonneau,” said Langevin. “There’s none of us that wears just one hat. We’re too few. You’ll take your turn with the dirty work just like everyone else. And you can start with the second watch tonight.”

  It was La Vierge’s turn to sneer. Charbonneau stalked away from the fire, muttering something about the bitterroot as he laid out his bedroll under the bâtard.


  “Who says he gets the bâtard tonight?” complained La Vierge. Langevin started to say something, but Dominique beat him to the punch. “Let it go.”

  SEVENTEEN

  December 5, 1823

  Professeur woke the next morning to two urgent sensations: He was cold, and he needed to piss. His thick wool blanket failed to cover his ankles, not even when he curled his long frame and lay on his side. He lifted his head so that his good eye could see, and found that frost had settled on the blanket in the night.

  The first hint of a new day glowed faintly beneath the eastern horizon, but a bright half-moon still dominated the sky. All the men but Charbonneau lay sleeping, radiating like spokes around the last embers of the fire.

  Professeur stood slowly, his legs stiff from the cold. At least the wind had died down. He threw a log on the fire and walked toward the willows. He had taken a dozen steps when he nearly tripped on a body. It was Charbonneau.

  Professeur’s first thought was that Charbonneau was dead, killed on his watch. He started to yell an alarm when Charbonneu bolted upright, fumbling for his rifle, eyes wide as he struggled to orient himself. Asleep on watch, thought Professeur. Langevin won’t like that. Professeur’s pressing need became more urgent, and he hurried past Charbonneau toward the willows.

  Like many of the things he encountered each day, Professeur was confused by what happened next. He felt an odd sensation and looked down to find the shaft of an arrow protruding from his stomach. For a moment he wondered if La Vierge had played some kind of joke. Then a second arrow appeared, then a third. Professeur stared in horrified fascination at the feathers on the slender shafts. Suddenly he could not feel his legs and he realized he was falling backward. He heard his body make heavy contact with the frozen ground. In the brief moments before he died, he wondered, Why doesn’t it hurt?

  Charbonneau turned at the sound of Professeur falling. The big Scot lay flat on his back with three arrows in his chest. Charbonneau heard a hissing sound and felt a burning sensation as an arrow grazed his shoulder. “Merde!” He dropped instinctively to the ground and scanned the dark willows for the shooter. The move saved his life. Forty yards away, the flash of guns erupted in the inky predawn light.

  For an instant, the shots revealed the positions of their attackers. Charbonneau guessed that there were eight guns at least, plus a number of Indians with bows. He cocked his rifle, drew a bead on the nearest target and fired. A dark form slumped. More arrows flew out of the willows. He spun around and broke for the camp, twenty yards behind him.

  Charbonneau’s expletive woke the camp. The Arikara volley ignited chaos. Musket balls and arrows rained into the half-sleeping men like iron hailstones. Langevin cried out as a bullet ricocheted off his short rib. Dominique felt a shot rip the muscle of his calf. Glass opened his eyes in time to watch an arrow bury itself in the sand, five inches in front of his face.

  The men scrambled for the paltry cover of the beached canoe as two Arikara braves broke from the willows. They hurtled toward the camp, their piercing war cries filling the air. Glass and La Vierge paused long enough to aim their rifles. They fired almost in sync at a range of no more than a dozen yards. With no time to coordinate or even to think, they had both aimed at the same target—a large Arikara with a buffalo horn helmet. He crashed to the ground as both shots penetrated his chest. The other brave ran full force toward La Vierge, the arc of his battle-ax descending toward the voyageur’s head. La Vierge brought his rifle up with both hands to block the blow.

  The Indian’s ax locked with the barrel of La Vierge’s rifle, the force knocking both of them to the ground. The Arikara found his feet first. His back to Glass, he raised the ax to strike at La Vierge again. Glass used both hands to drive his rifle butt into the back of the Indian’s head. He felt the sickening sensation of breaking bone as the metal butt-plate connected. Stunned, the Arikara dropped to his knees in front of La Vierge, who by this time had scrambled to his feet. La Vierge swung his rifle like a club, catching the Indian full force across the side of his skull. The brave toppled sideways, and Glass and La Vierge tumbled behind the canoe.

  Dominique raised himself long enough to fire toward the willows.

  Langevin handed Glass his rifle, the other hand pressed against the bullet hole on his side. “You shoot—I’ll load.”

  Glass raised to fire, finding and hitting his target with cool precision.

  “How bad are you hit?” he asked Langevin.

  “Not bad. Òu se trouve Professeur?”

  “Dead by the willows,” said Charbonneau matter-of-factly as he rose to fire.

  Shots continued to pour from the willows as they hunkered behind the canoe. The report of the guns mixed with the sound of the bullets and arrows smashing through the thin skin of the bâtard.

  “You son of a bitch, Charbonneau!” screamed La Vierge. “You fell asleep, didn’t you?” Charbonneau ignored him, focused instead on pouring powder into the muzzle of his rifle.

  “It doesn’t matter now!” said Dominique. “Let’s get the damn canoe in the water and get out of here!”

  “Listen to me!” ordered Langevin. “Charbonneau, La Vierge, Dominique—the three of you carry the boat to the water. Take another shot first, then reload your rifle and lay it here.” He pointed to the ground between him and Glass. “Glass and I will cover you with a last round of shots, then join you. Cover us from the boat with your pistols.”

  Glass understood most of what Langevin had said from context. He looked around the tense faces. No one had a better idea. They had to get off the beach. La Vierge popped above the lip of the canoe to fire his rifle, followed by Dominique and Charbonneau. Glass raised himself to take another shot as the others reloaded. By exposing themselves they prompted heavier fire from the Arikara. Bullet-size holes kept punching through the birch bark, but the voyageurs managed—at least for the moment—to deter an all-out rush.

  Dominique tossed two paddles on the stack with the rifles. “Make sure you bring these!”

  La Vierge threw his rifle between Glass and Langevin and braced himself against the middle thwart of the bâtard. “Let’s go!” Charbonneau slid to the front of the canoe, Dominique to the rear.

  Langevin shouted, “On my count! Un, deux, trois!” They lifted the bâtard above their heads in a single motion and made for the water, ten yards away. They heard excited shouts and the firing again intensified. Arikara warriors began emerging from concealed positions.

  Glass and Dominique aimed their shots. With the canoe gone, the only cover came from pressing flat against the ground. They were only about fifty yards from the willows. Glass could see clearly the boyish face of an Arikara, squinting as he drew a short bow. Glass fired and the boy pitched backward. He reached for Dominique’s rifle. Langevin’s gun exploded next to him as Glass pulled the hammer of Dominique’s to full cock. Glass found another target and squeezed the trigger. There was a spark in the pan, but the main charge failed to ignite. “Damn it!”

  Langevin reached for Charbonneau’s rifle while Glass refilled the pan on Dominique’s. Langevin started to fire, but Glass put his hand on his shoulder. “Hold one shot!” They scooped up the rifles and paddles and broke for the river.

  Ahead of Glass and Langevin, the three men with the bâtard covered the short distance to the river. In their haste to escape, they practically threw the canoe into the water. Charbonneau crashed into the river behind it and scrambled to climb in. “You’re tipping it!” yelled La Vierge. Charbonneau’s weight on the edge of the craft rocked it wildly—but it stayed upright. He flipped his legs over the lip and flattened himself on the floor of the boat, already taking on water from the seeping bullet holes. Charbonneau’s momentum pushed the bâtard away from the shoreline. The current caught the stern and spun the boat around, propelling the craft away from shore. The long cordelle trailed behind it like a snake. The brothers saw Charbonneau’s eyes, peering above the gunwale. Mini-geysers from bullets erupted in the water ar
ound them.

  “Grab the rope!” shouted Dominique. Both brothers dove for the line, desperate to keep the canoe from floating away. La Vierge caught the cordelle in both hands, struggling to gain his feet in the thigh-deep water. He pulled back with all his strength as the slack disappeared from the line. Dominique slogged heavily through the water to come to his aid. His foot crashed hard into a submerged rock. He grunted in pain as the current swept his feet from beneath him. He found himself completely submerged. He recovered and stood up, two yards from La Vierge.

  “I can’t hold it!” yelled La Vierge. Dominique started to reach for the taut line, when suddenly La Vierge let go. Dominique watched in horror as the cordelle skidded across the water, trailing after the drifting bâtard. He started to swim after it when he noticed the stunned look on La Vierge’s face.

  “Dominique …” stammered La Vierge, “I think I’m shot.” Dominique sloshed to his brother’s side. Blood streamed into the river from a gaping hole in his upper back.

  Glass and Langevin reached the river at the same moment that the bullet crashed into La Vierge. They watched in horror as he recoiled at the impact of the shot, dropping the cordelle. For a moment they thought that Dominique could grab the line, but he ignored it, turning instead to his brother.

  “Get the boat!” barked Langevin.

  Dominique paid no attention. In frustration Langevin screamed, “Charbonneau!”

  “I can’t stop it!” yelled Charbonneau. In an instant the boat was fifty feet from shore. With no paddle, it was true that Charbonneau could do nothing to slow the boat. It was certainly true that he had no intention of trying.

  Glass turned to Langevin. Langevin started to say something when a musket ball buried itself in the back of his head. He was dead before his body hit the water. Glass looked back at the willows. At least a dozen Arikara poured toward the shoreline. Gripping a rifle in each hand, Glass dove toward Dominique and La Vierge. They had to swim for it.

  Dominique supported La Vierge, struggling to keep his brother’s head above the water. Looking at La Vierge, Glass could not tell for sure if he was alive or dead. Distraught and nearly hysterical, Dominique yelled something incomprehensible in French.