Hugh Glass
Bruce Badley
1995 For JvAnn, who once said,
"Why Don't You?
Dear Reader,
When I first began researching the story of Hugh Glass, more than seven years ago, I had no idea where or how long it would take me, or how little I actually knew about this great continent of ours and the people and conditions that once lived here. I knew, or thought I knew, about Indians and buffalo. Having grown up in Alaska, I knew about bears. If anyone had told me that here were once canibals living in this country, or that a well-known plains tribe once practiced human sacrifice, I wouldn't have believed them. I knew that, later on in the nineteenth century, buffalo hunters had driven that great animal to the edge of extincion, but I never conceived the extent of that butchery. At the time that this story takes place, there were two great herds that roamed the plains, numbering more than twenty-five million strong.
Because of the lack of historical documentation, I had to recreate much of the early part of this book. I've tried to be as accurate as possible and any liberties taken were merely to keep the story moving. The events that take place in the latter part of the book--which I consider to be the most fantastic--have been
well documented. Anyone who wants to take the time can check them out. I am including a bibliography at the end of the book which may help in that search. I'll also include short biographies of some of the people found within these pages.
Writing this book has been a wonderfully educational experience for me. I hope reading will be the same for you.
Bruce Bradley -October 1995
"In. point of adventure, dangers and narrow escapes; and capacity for endurance, and the sufferings which befell him, this man (Hugh Glass) was preeminent. He was bold, daring, reckless and eccentric to a high degree; but was, nevertheless, a man of great talents, and intellectual as well as bodily power.
George C. Yount (1794-1865)
The Chronicles of George C.Yount
PART ONE
"One man who allso tore nearly all to peases by a White Bear
and was left by the way without any gunn who afterwards recover'd"
-Daniel T. Putts
(of the Rocky Mountain Fur Co.)
- The DTP Letters
Chapter One
MAY, 1817--
The sea had always been good to him. There was no time in his memory when he had not been near the sea or on the sea, or had not loved the sea. From his first voyage--working as cabin boy on a trip that took him around the world--he had known the sea would be his life.
In a way, he and the great waters were alike. He was quiet and deep as they were quiet and deep, and as they had their wild, tempestuous times, so had he. He respected the sea but had no fear of her. He knew her harsh realities. Many times danger braced him, but rarely had he felt uneasy when on the deck of a ship.
The sea. Always the sea. The sea challenged him and worked him, tried him and bled him and cleansed him. He saw the water not so much as a liquid but as a solid, living thing, a thing that exemplified all that was noble within him. It renewed him with its endless energy and made him strong in ways both spiritual and physical. The sea was pure and it was clean. The sea was life. To be upon the sea and a part of the sea, was all he ever asked.
All of that would change, soon.
The old brig shuddered and moaned with each ball that struck her. Sometimes she bawled in unresisting protest, slowly dying an undignified death. Only meters away the other ship, the Madalaine, continued to pummel her mercilessly. The artillerists aboard the Madalaine were incredibly accurate. Their cannonballs struck the brig with each discharge, yet none hit the ship below the water line, where it would cause her to take on water. Unable to return the constant barrage of cannon fire, the men of the ship, Gallant, huddled deep within her bowels and waited for the shelling to stop.
Most of the men were quiet. They waited, not wishing to show the fear they felt. Some prayed. Three men were wounded. Two of these lay moaning quietly while others tended them. The third man, a sailor named Connors, couldn't contain his pain. Others held him down, but still he thrashed about, screaming incoherently. The hold was rank with the smell of sweat and fear, which was overlaid with the more familiar odors of tar and canvas. A lantern had been hung from an overhead beam, but the unsteady motion of the ship--not only from the sea but from the continuous pummeling of cannonballs--caused the lantern to dance wildly about, creating shadows and adding to the confusion. One of the men took it down and held it, so that the light would be steady.
The captain of the Gallant had been killed in the first moments of the attack. The first mate was a man named Hugh Glass. A highly capable man, Glass had been a sailor for twenty-four out of his thirty-seven years. He had been educated at sea, both in books and in sailing, and was comfortable in almost any emergency.
Except this one. Glass had been a merchant seaman his entire life. His only experience with fighting had been in his earlier, wilder days. Physically, he was up to the challenge. He was a little taller than most men of his time and powerfully built, with a look in his gray eyes that often stopped confrontations before they began. But he had no experience with leading men into battle, and now he must do so.
The Gallant shuddered violently as three cannonballs struck her at once. "Good Christ!" one of the men yelled. "Are they never going to cease?"
"They'll stop soon," Glass told the man. "They'll have to, if they're to get anything for their troubles!"
Glass thought briefly about his family. His wife, Sarah, had divorced him two years earlier, in favor of a young banker. Hugh had seen neither her, nor their two boys, since that time. He'd written to the boys once, and had meant to do so again. Somehow, he had never gotten around to it.
He steadied himself as another ball struck the ship. Looking through the gloom at the faces of his men, a sudden anger engulfed him. They didn't deserve this, none of them. They were not fighting men, just plain, honest sailors. A few of them would take their toll--Clint Hastings, it was said, was good with his fists, and was one of the strongest men Hugh Glass had ever met. Bill Snider was another who would hold his own. Tall and pious, Tom Halpern had been a volunteer at the Battle of New Orleans, and if Glass knew Halpern, the man would have enough righteous indignation inside him to take on half the pirate crew when they came aboard. Most of the men, though, were ordinary working men--seamen, who sweated and toiled, and whose families depended on their incomes for support and who suffered their absences while they were away. They would be no match for the experienced killers who were waiting to board the Gallant.
Glass continued to study the men. Many were nearly sick with fear. They needed something to bolster them. He wanted to tell them everything would be fine, but lie knew it would be a lie and so would they.
He noticed that Connors was no longer screaming.
"Did he faint?" he asked one of the men.
"No sir," the man answered. "Mr. Connors has died."
Glass nodded to the man. Under his breath he swore, "DAMN!"
The men were waiting. They needed him to say something. Anything.
"Men!" he began. "Listen up! There are some things I want to say!" He looked around at them. "We all know what's waiting for us once those cannons stop! I wish I could tell you that this will all turn out well enough, but we know better! Those men out there--no matter what happens or what they might try to tell you--" he stopped as two cannonballs struck the decks above, rocking the ship. "-No matter what they say, they want no witnesses! Their creed is, Dead men tell no tales!"
"None of us will probably ever leave these waters, and that's the truth of it! When they come aboard, we have to fight them! If the
y even try to talk to us, it will be a trick, so fight! Fight as though you've nothing to lose! Don't fight for the Gallant, or her cargo! Fight for yourselves and for each other! Fight as though it were your wives and daughters you are protecting! Do not try to fight fair--fight to win! Remember that as long as life remains, there is hope!"
"If we, each of us, tries to kill at least one or two them before they take us down, some of us may yet live to see another day!"
His words seemed to help a little, but Hugh Glass knew that once the fighting started, it would be pretty much a one-sided battle.
The shelling continued only a few minutes more. Then, abruptly, it stopped. Hesitating a moment to be certain the shelling was through, Glass started up the ladder.
"Come on, men!" he shouted. "We'll catch them as they come aboard!"
CHAPTER TWO
HE WAS stunned by the sight that greeted him. This ship, which had been his home for the past two and a half years, would never sail out of these waters. Whole sections of the main deck had been destroyed by cannon fire, leaving gaping holes that looked down into the decks below. The masts were down. Sailcloth and lines, pieces of broken decking and rail and all manner of debris lay everywhere about. Looking to port, he saw that the Madalaine was uncomfortably close, with lines already attaching her to the Gallant. One man had already managed to bridge the distance between the two ships. He climbed up onto the deck of the Gallant only a half-dozen steps away from Hugh Glass, and came at Glass in a rush. With a pistol he'd taken from the armory, Glass took aim and fired. The pirate made a clutching motion toward his chest and fell backward into the sea. Ducking behind a section of railing that, miraculously, had not been destroyed, Glass began to reload the pistol. His hands were shaking badly. After a few moments he threw the pistol in disgust and drew his sword.
He didn't have long to wait. The two ships came together with a dull thud. The pirates swarmed over onto the Gallant and attacked. The crew of the merchant ship fought back, holding their ground. Hugh Glass had only a moment to observe them, but what he saw made him proud. The men fought with spirit and determination. Then Glass himself was too busy to watch what was going on around him.
He had never thought of himself as a violent man, a fighting man, but now something seemed to burst within him. He watched old Johnnie, the cook, go down under a pirate's blade, and an anger engulfed him that was impossible to contain. Time seemed to slow down for him, making the movements of those around him slow and awkward. He was relentless, tireless, filled with an energy born of pure rage. He threw himself into the midst of the pirates, slashing and killing. What he lacked in skill, he made up for with frenzied wrath and violence. For a time, he was unstoppable.
Clint Hastings thought he was going to be sick. He stood, sword in hand, dazed and queasy, staring down at the man he'd just killed. Momentarily stunned, he was very aware of how slippery the handle of his sword was, because of his own sweaty palm, and quite aware of the bile that had risen in his throat, but was only vaguely aware of the violence that was going on around him. Clint had taken down many a man before, in bar fights and street brawls, but he'd never killed a man before. This was the first time.
The man hadn't died gracefully. He came on, fast and strong, leaving Clint little room or time to react, but Clint had always had good reflexes. When the pirate rushed him, Clint managed to sidestep. Without ever having been trained in swordplay, he performed the most basic of moves--parry and thrust--and ran the pirate through. Blood and entrails spilled out onto the deck. The pirate fell onto his side, kicking and convulsing until the life went out of him. Clint watched, feeling sick inside and somehow apart from the carnage that was going on around him.
The pirate died. Clint continued to stare at him for a minute, then looked around. Across the deck from him, about a dozen steps away, Clint's best friend was in trouble.
At twenty-five, Jeffrey Molloy was a year younger than Clint. He was goodnatured, as most good sailors are, and had a wit that often made him the life of the ship. Whenever he and Clint went together on shore leave, women sought them out. They liked Jeffrey for his boyish charm, Clint for his bulging muscles. The two of them made a good team
Jeffrey was doing a fair job of defending himself, considering the pirate that faced him was larger and very dedicated, and had a good deal more skill with a sword. Using both hands on his own sword, Jeffrey managed to parry the pirate's blows, never managing to strike back. He was slowly being forced backward, toward a spot where the main mast had fallen at an angle and blocked his way. When he reached it he would be trapped and the pirate would clearly have the advantage.
Clint headed toward them, but his progress was slowed by the incredible amount of debris that covered the deck. He was still trying to get to them when he saw Jeffrey trip on some rigging and fall backward, losing his sword. Moving quickly, the pirate stepped over him. Unable to get near enough to help his friend, Clint watched as the pirate placed his blade against Jeffrey's chest and drove it home.
The pirate moved off. Working his way over the debris to where he could move freely, Clint ran to where his friend lay bleeding. Jeffrey had a bewildered look about him. Clint knelt down next to his friend.
"Clint!" Jeffrey choked. "I lost me sword! I-he " His eyes glazed over and he died.
Feeling suddenly lost, Clint stood. Woodenly, he rubbed his forehead.
"Oh, Christ in Heaven, Jeffrey," he said.
He looked around. A heated battle was raging up near the bowsprit. The pirate that had just murdered Jeffrey was moving to join it. Clint went after him.
As he drew near, Clint realized that it was the Chief Mate, Mr. Glass, and Tom Halpern who were at the middle of it. Six of the pirates were trying to take them down, but were having no success in getting to them. Looking at Glass, Clint was stunned. In the year that Clint had served aboard the Gallant, he had never seen the Mate riled, much less violent. Now he was like a madman. None of the pirates could get near him.
The pirate that had killed Jeffrey was moving carefully, picking his way along what was left of the rail, toward the two men. Clint looked around. A few feet away from him, amidst the debris, was an iron loop that had been broken free from the mast by cannon fire. The loop was about three inches in diameter and was mostly intact. Sweeping it up, Clint threw it at the pirate.
The missile struck the man squarely in the back. The pirate took two quick steps forward, catching his balance and howling in pain. Then, roaring in anger, he turned and charged back across the clutter that lay over the deck of the ship.
Clint waited. When the pirate was six feet away, Clint let out a yell and stepped forward to meet him, at the same time striking downward with his sword. The pirate raised his own sword to block the blow, but Clint's downward strike contained such force that it knocked the sword from the pirate's hand. Before the man could recover, Clint took hold of his shirt, pulling him in close. With the blade of his sword against the pirate's jugular, he said:
"This is for Jeffrey, you son-of-a-bitch!"
He cut the pirate's throat.
***
Hugh Glass was in trouble. After fighting for what seemed like hours, he was beginning to tire. The man he was fighting seemed unfatigued, as though he had just arrived.
The man was enormous. He was several inches taller than Glass, and powerfully built. For nearly a quarter hour they had fought back and forth along the deck of the ship, neither gaining a clear advantage. Glass was fired by rage and hatred. The pirate was stronger and a skilled swordsman. In the beginning, they had seemed an equal match, but now Glass began to feel exhaustion creeping in. He continued to fight on, as determined as ever, but he was beginning to grow tired.
The pirate seemed to sense his fatigue. With a series of powerful, unrelenting blows, he began forcing Glass backward, never letting Hugh recover from one blow before the next was struck. The handle of Hugh's sword had become slippery. His arm ached with each blow he countered and he could feel the painfu
l vibration up into his shoulder and into the middle of his back. The pirate rained blow after blow upon him, striking with such ferocity that Glass expected his own sword to break each time the pirate struck. He continued to move backward, looking for an opening to strike back. No opening appeared. Suddenly, Glass lost his footing and fell against a section of the deckhouse. Seeing an opportunity, the pirate moved in to make the kill. Just as he struck, the two ships came together and he was thrown slightly off balance. Hugh felt the blade tear through his shirt and graze across his ribs. With a downward slice of his own sword, Glass half-severed the pirate's head from his shoulders. Not for the first time in Hugh Glass' life, the sea itself had saved him.
Then it seemed otherwise. A very small, wiry man stepped up. From less than six feet away, he pointed a pistol at Hugh's face, and fired.
CHAPTER THREE
HE AWOKE without comprehension, in blackness and in pain. For several minutes he lay very still, trying to remember what had happened and hoping the pounding in his head would cease. What on earth had he been drinking?
Then he remembered. He sat up much too quickly and the pain became nausea. Gagging, he fell back again.
"You all right, Captain?" A voice from the darkness. Hugh recognized it as Tom Halpern.
"I'm.... not the captain," he said thickly.
"You are now, sir," -Clint Hastings' voice. "The captain's dead. We're all agreed those of us that are left--you're in charge, for whatever it's worth."
"How many...." he swallowed, "....how many are left?"
"Only six, sir, counting you. Are you all right?"
"I feel like dog's leavings. I can't see a blessed thing. Are we in the hold?"
"Aye, sir," Hastings said. "They've blacked out the light. You aren't blind."
"What happened?"
"They got us, sir. They sank the Gallant. We put up a good fight, though. A couple of us thought you were gonna lick 'em all single-handed, 'til one of 'em bounced a pistol ball off your skull. Then it all just stopped, and we were surrounded."
Hugh Glass - Bruce Bradley Page 1
