“I know him.”
“Is he a deserter from the Rocky Mountain Fur Company?”
“He’s a deserter from many things. He’s also a thief.”
“Now, that’s a very serious allegation.” Constable felt the latent stirring of his judicial ambitions.
“Allegation? I’m not here to register a complaint, Major. I’m here to settle my account with the man who robbed me.”
Constable inhaled deeply, his chin rising slowly with the breath. He exhaled loudly, then spoke as if patiently lecturing a child. “This is not the wilderness, Mr. Glass, and I would advise you to keep your tone respectful. I am a major in the United States Army and the commanding officer of this fort. I take your charges seriously. I will ensure that they are properly investigated. And, of course, you’ll have an opportunity to present your evidence.…”
“My evidence! He’s got my rifle!”
“Mr. Glass!” Constable’s irritation was growing. “If Private Fitzgerald has stolen your property, I will punish him in accordance with military law.”
“This isn’t very complicated, Major.” Glass could not keep the derision from his tone.
“Mr. Glass!” Constable spit out the words. His pointless career on a godforsaken outpost provided daily tests of his ability to rationalize. He would not tolerate disrespect for his authority. “This is the last time I’ll warn you. It’s my job to administer justice on this post!”
Major Constable turned to an aide. “Do you know the whereabouts of Private Fitzgerald?”
“He’s with Company E, sir. They’re out on wood detail, coming back tonight.”
“Arrest him when he arrives at the fort. Search his quarters for the rifle. If he has it, seize it. Bring the private to the courtroom tomorrow morning at eight. Mr. Glass, I expect you to be present—and clean yourself up before you do so.”
* * *
A jury-rigged mess hall served as Major Constable’s courtroom. Several soldiers carried Constable’s desk from his office, then set it up on a makeshift riser. The elevated seat allowed Constable to survey the proceedings from an appropriately judicious altitude. Lest there be any question about the official sanction of his courtroom, Constable flew two flags behind the desk.
If it lacked the splendor of a true courtroom, at least it was big. A hundred spectators could pack the room when the tables were removed. To ensure an appropriate audience, Major Constable usually canceled other duties for all but a few of the fort’s inhabitants. With little competition in the way of entertainment, the major’s official performances always played to a packed house. Interest in the current proceeding ran particularly high. Word of the scarred frontiersman and his wild accusations had spread quickly through the fort.
From a bench near the major’s desk, Hugh Glass watched as the door of the mess hall burst open. “A-ten-SHUN!” The spectators rose to attention as Major Constable strode into the room. Constable was attended by a lieutenant named Neville K. Askitzen, dubbed “Lieutenant Ass-Kisser” by the enlisted men.
Constable paused to survey his audience before strolling regally to the front, Askitzen skittering behind him. Once seated, the major nodded to Askitzen, who gave an order permitting the spectators to sit.
“Bring forth the accused,” ordered Major Constable. The doors opened again and Fitzgerald appeared in the doorway, his hands in shackles and a guard at either arm. The audience squirmed for a glimpse as the guards led Fitzgerald to the front, where a sort of holding pen had been constructed perpendicular and to the right of the major’s desk. The pen placed him directly across from Glass, who sat to the major’s left.
Glass’s eyes bored into Fitzgerald like an auger in soft wood. Fitzgerald had cut his hair and shaved his beard. Navy blue wool replaced his buckskins. Glass felt revulsion at the sight of Fitzgerald, shrouded in the respectability that a uniform implied.
It seemed unreal, suddenly to be in his presence. He fought against the desire to rush at Fitzgerald, wrap his hands around the man’s throat, choke the life from him. I can’t do that. Not here. Their eyes met for a brief instant. Fitzgerald nodded—as if to politely acknowledge him!
Major Constable cleared his throat and said, “This martial court is hereby convened. Private Fitzgerald, it is your right to be confronted by your accuser, and to hear formally the charges brought against you. Lieutenant, read the charges.”
Lieutenant Askitzen unfolded a piece of paper and read to the chamber in a stately voice: “We hear today the complaint of Mr. Hugh Glass, of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company, against Private John Fitzgerald, United States Army, Sixth Regiment, Company E. Mr. Glass alleges that Private Fitzgerald, while himself in the employ of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company, did steal from Mr. Glass a rifle, a knife, and other personal effects. If found guilty, Mr. Fitzgerald faces court-martial and imprisonment of ten years.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Major Constable banged a gavel against the desk and the room fell silent. “Will the complainant approach the bench.” Confused, Glass looked up at the major, who gave an exasperated look before motioning him toward the desk.
Lieutenant Askitzen stood there with a Bible. “Raise your right hand,” he said to Glass. “Do you swear to tell the truth, so help you God?” Glass nodded and said yes in the weak timbre that he hated but could not change.
“Mr. Glass—you heard the reading of the charges?” asked Constable.
“Yes.”
“And they are accurate?”
“Yes.”
“Do you wish to make a statement?”
Glass hesitated. The formality of the proceeding had taken him completely by surprise. Certainly he had not expected a hundred spectators. He understood that Constable commanded the fort. But this was a matter between him and Fitzgerald—not a spectacle for the amusement of an arrogant officer and a hundred bored enlisted men.
“Mr. Glass—do you wish to address the court?”
“I told you yesterday what happened. Fitzgerald and a boy named Bridger were left to tend me after a grizzly attacked me on the Grand River. They abandoned me instead. I don’t fault them for that. But they robbed me before they ran off. Took my rifle, my knife, even my flint and steel. They took from me the things I needed to have a chance on my own.”
“Is this the rifle you claim is yours?” The major produced the Anstadt from behind his desk.