“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.