TETE ROUGE, THE VOLUNTEER
The next morning, having directed Delorier to repair with his cart
to the place of meeting, we came again to the fort to make some
arrangements for the journey. After completing these we sat down under a
sort of perch, to smoke with some Cheyenne Indians whom we found there.
In a few minutes we saw an extraordinary little figure approach us in a
military dress. He had a small, round countenance, garnished about
the eyes with the kind of wrinkles commonly known as crow’s feet and
surrounded by an abundant crop of red curls, with a little cap resting
on the top of them. Altogether, he had the look of a man more conversant
with mint juleps and oyster suppers than with the hardships of prairie
service. He came up to us and entreated that we would take him home to
the settlements, saying that unless he went with us he should have to
stay all winter at the fort. We liked our petitioner’s appearance so
little that we excused ourselves from complying with his request. At
this he begged us so hard to take pity on him, looked so disconsolate,
and told so lamentable a story that at last we consented, though not
without many misgivings.
The rugged Anglo-Saxon of our new recruit’s real name proved utterly
unmanageable on the lips of our French attendants, and Henry Chatillon,
after various abortive attempts to pronounce it, one day coolly
christened him Tete Rouge, in honor of his red curls. He had at
different times been clerk of a Mississippi steamboat, and agent in
a trading establishment at Nauvoo, besides filling various other
capacities, in all of which he had seen much more of “life” than was
good for him. In the spring, thinking that a summer’s campaign would
be an agreeable recreation, he had joined a company of St. Louis
volunteers.
“There were three of us,” said Tete Rouge, “me and Bill Stevens and John
Hopkins. We thought we would just go out with the army, and when we had
conquered the country, we would get discharged and take our pay, you
know, and go down to Mexico. They say there is plenty of fun going on
there. Then we could go back to New Orleans by way of Vera Cruz.”
But Tete Rouge, like many a stouter volunteer, had reckoned without
his host. Fighting Mexicans was a less amusing occupation than he had
supposed, and his pleasure trip was disagreeably interrupted by brain
fever, which attacked him when about halfway to Bent’s Fort. He jolted
along through the rest of the journey in a baggage wagon. When they came
to the fort he was taken out and left there, together with the rest of
the sick. Bent’s Fort does not supply the best accommodations for an
invalid. Tete Rouge’s sick chamber was a little mud room, where he and a
companion attacked by the same disease were laid together, with nothing
but a buffalo robe between them and the ground. The assistant surgeon’s
deputy visited them once a day and brought them each a huge dose of
calomel, the only medicine, according to his surviving victim, which he
was acquainted with.
Tete Rouge woke one morning, and turning to his companion, saw his eyes
fixed upon the beams above with the glassy stare of a dead man. At this
the unfortunate volunteer lost his senses outright. In spite of the
doctor, however, he eventually recovered; though between the brain fever
and the calomel, his mind, originally none of the strongest, was so much
shaken that it had not quite recovered its balance when we came to the
fort. In spite of the poor fellow’s tragic story, there was something
so ludicrous in his appearance, and the whimsical contrast between his
military dress and his most unmilitary demeanor, that we could not help
smiling at them. We asked him if he had a gun. He said they had taken
it from him during his illness, and he had not seen it since; “but
perhaps,” he observed, looking at me with a beseeching air, “you will
lend me one of your big pistols if we should meet with any Indians.” I
next inquired if he had a horse; he declared he had a magnificent one,
and at Shaw’s request a Mexican led him in for inspection. He exhibited
the outline of a good horse, but his eyes were sunk in the sockets, and
every one of his ribs could be counted. There were certain marks too
about his shoulders, which could be accounted for by the circumstance,
that during Tete Rouge’s illness, his companions had seized upon the
insulted charger, and harnessed him to a cannon along with the draft
horses. To Tete Rouge’s astonishment we recommended him by all means to
exchange the horse, if he could, for a mule. Fortunately the people at
the fort were so anxious to get rid of him that they were willing to
make some sacrifice to effect the object, and he succeeded in getting a
tolerable mule in exchange for the broken-down steed.
A man soon appeared at the gate, leading in the mule by a cord which he
placed in the hands of Tete Rouge, who, being somewhat afraid of his new
acquisition, tried various flatteries and blandishments to induce her
to come forward. The mule, knowing that she was expected to advance,
stopped short in consequence, and stood fast as a rock, looking straight
forward with immovable composure. Being stimulated by a blow from behind
she consented to move, and walked nearly to the other side of the fort
before she stopped again. Hearing the by-standers laugh, Tete Rouge
plucked up spirit and tugged hard at the rope. The mule jerked backward,
spun herself round, and made a dash for the gate. Tete Rouge, who clung
manfully to the rope, went whisking through the air for a few rods, when
he let go and stood with his mouth open, staring after the mule, who
galloped away over the prairie. She was soon caught and brought back
by a Mexican, who mounted a horse and went in pursuit of her with his
lasso.
Having thus displayed his capacity for prairie travel, Tete Rouge
proceeded to supply himself with provisions for the journey, and with
this view he applied to a quartermaster’s assistant who was in the fort.
This official had a face as sour as vinegar, being in a state of chronic
indignation because he had been left behind the army. He was as anxious
as the rest to get rid of Tete Rouge. So, producing a rusty key, he
opened a low door which led to a half-subterranean apartment, into which
the two disappeared together. After some time they came out again, Tete
Rouge greatly embarrassed by a multiplicity of paper parcels containing
the different articles of his forty days’ rations. They were consigned
to the care of Delorier, who about that time passed by with the cart
on his way to the appointed place of meeting with Munroe and his
companions.
We next urged Tete Rouge to provide himself, if he could, with a gun.
He accordingly made earnest appeals to the charity of various persons
in the fort, but totally without success, a circumstance which did not
greatly disturb us, since in the event of a skirmish he would be much
more apt to do mischief to himself or his friends than to the enemy.
When all these arrangements were completed we saddled our horses and
were preparing to leave the fort, when looking round we discovered that
our new associate was in fresh trouble. A man was holding the mule for
him in the middle of the fort, while he tried to put the saddle on her
back, but she kept stepping sideways and moving round and round in
a circle until he was almost in despair. It required some assistance
before all his difficulties could be overcome. At length he clambered
into the black war saddle on which he was to have carried terror into
the ranks of the Mexicans.
“Get up,” said Tete Rouge, “come now, go along, will you.”
The mule walked deliberately forward out of the gate. Her recent conduct
had inspired him with so much awe that he never dared to touch her with
his whip. We trotted forward toward the place of meeting, but before he
had gone far we saw that Tete Rouge’s mule, who perfectly understood
her rider, had stopped and was quietly grazing, in spite of his
protestations, at some distance behind. So getting behind him, we drove
him and the contumacious mule before us, until we could see through the
twilight the gleaming of a distant fire. Munroe, Jim, and Ellis were
lying around it; their saddles, packs, and weapons were scattered about
and their horses picketed near them. Delorier was there too with our
little cart. Another fire was soon blazing high. We invited our new
allies to take a cup of coffee with us. When both the others had gone
over to their side of the camp, Jim Gurney still stood by the blaze,
puffing hard at his little black pipe, as short and weather-beaten as
himself.
“Well!” he said, “here are eight of us; we’ll call it six--for them two
boobies, Ellis over yonder, and that new man of yours, won’t count for
anything. We’ll get through well enough, never fear for that, unless the
Comanches happen to get foul of us.”