Kearny's March

by Winston Groom

  On August 14, as they neared the town of Las Vegas, according to Lieutenant Emory, a “queer cavalcade” rode into camp in the form of a messenger detail from Armijo, consisting of a lieutenant, a sergeant, and two privates of Mexican lancers “dressed in their best bib and tucker.”

  These men produced a letter from Armijo, the gist of which was that his citizens had risen to the danger of American conquest, and the only thing left was for the two sides to have it out. He suggested that Kearny halt his army at the Sapillo River, while Armijo would march his people to the Vegas, and the two of them could “meet and negotiate on the plains between them.” The meaning of “negotiate” was unclear, and Kearny kept his forces moving until they themselves reached the banks of the Vegas, with no Armijo in sight. Kearny summoned the Mexican lieutenant and told him to go back to his commander and say to him that “I shall soon meet him, and I hope it will be as friends.”

  With that, Kearny entered the town of Las Vegas, the largest settlement yet seen on the trail, which was surrounded by cornfields and great flocks of sheep and goats. Emory thought the place resembled “an extensive brick-kiln.” The soldiers found the Mexicans eager to trade, and bargains were soon struck for pigs, chickens, butter, sweets, and other items unobtainable on the trail. Meantime, Kearny had issued strict orders for the men to treat the citizens in a civil fashion, and “pay for every turnip, every ear of corn,” and that army livestock would be kept out of Mexican fields—a rough precursor to the notion of “winning hearts and minds.”

  “From white men who reside here, we learn that the Governor exercises the most despotic sway over the common people, aided by the priests,” Lieutenant Gibson, of Doniphan’s regiment, reported. “All were much disappointed at the poor appearance of the people, and began to realize fully the stories we had heard of the low condition, ignorance, and want of spirit which was characteristic of the country.”

  What Gibson had actually come face-to-face with was the curse of Mexico, peonage, which, Lieutenant Emory had earlier remarked, “has all the disadvantages of slavery without any of the advantages.”

  Emory, a patrician Marylander from a slaveholding family, would have known what he was talking about in 1846, and his allusion here is from the peon’s point of view rather than the master, or patrón.

  The system of peonage had begun long before, during Spanish rule, as a scheme under which millions of impoverished and uneducated Indians, and later mestizos, or mixed races, were enslaved in a kind of permanent indentured servitude. At an early age, or even from birth, the peon, having been induced or forced to borrow some sum of money from the patrón, found himself legally indebted until the loan was paid off. The patrón would in turn pay the peon a pittance each month for his labor, but never quite enough to care for his own needs, let alone to repay the loan, and thus the peon borrowed more and more, further ensnaring himself in debt.

  Like American slavery, the peonage system was enshrined in Mexican law; the main difference between the two was that peons could not legally be sold from master to master and therefore did not have capital value. The patrón, however, unlike the slaveholder, had no legal obligations to the peon, so when the peon became infirm or too old to work, he or she was simply cast aside to starve, suffer, or die—a decided disadvantage for the peon. In the American South, that was against the law, which is what Emory was referring to. If Gibson—who was something of an aristocrat himself, Virginia born and with both grandfathers having fought in the Revolution—knew or cared about any of this he didn’t show it. He considered the Mexicans filthy, and he observed somewhat snobbishly that “they lack that neatness, that taste and refinement we left in the States, a few only having a genteel appearance.”

  Next morning things got off to a rousing start when word came in that six hundred Mexicans were formed in the pass two miles away to meet Kearny’s army. No sooner had that been digested than a party of officers who had ridden all the way from Fort Leavenworth caught up with the van and dashed into camp bearing a dispatch from Washington containing the commission for Kearny as brigadier general. It was soon revealed, however, that the reason the officers—a major, a captain, and a lieutenant—had hastened down the trail was to get in on the fighting, which they were relieved to find had not yet occurred.§

  After ordering a substantial portion of his force to see about the six hundred Mexicans, Kearny strode into the town square, overflowing with citizens who had been told an important announcement was forthcoming. With the alcalde and other town officials in tow, Kearny ascended upon the roof of one of the houses facing the square and made the following pronouncement: “Mr. Alcalde and people of New Mexico, I have come amongst you by the orders of my government to take possession of your country, and extend over it the laws of the United States.”

  He explained that his army came as “friends” and “protectors,” not as “enemies” and “conquerors.” He absolved them from allegiance to Armijo, or the government in Mexico City, and told them that he was governor now. He said that while he did not expect them to take up arms and fight against their own people, he likewise did not expect them to take up arms and fight his people. Or, put more bluntly, Kearny said, “He who promises to be quiet but is found in arms against me, I will hang!”

  Kearny recited the abuses of the Armijo government—the high taxes and lack of services, mainly the lack of personal protection.

  “The Apaches and Navajoes come down from the mountains and carry off your sheep, and even your women, whenever they please. My government will correct all this. And, I repeat again, will protect your religion. I know you are all great Catholics.” (Here he was countering rumors that had emanated from the Armijo government that the Americans would persecute the Catholics, even, some said, to brand them on the cheek, like livestock.)

  Kearny then informed the startled alcalde and his officials that “the laws of my country require that all men who hold office shall take the oath of allegiance,” and that, if they did so, they could keep their jobs. There was hesitation and some uncomfortable shuffling. The captain of the local Mexican militia began studying his shoes. As Emory described it, “This was a bitter pill, but it was swallowed, and closely watched by the crowd of expectant faces below, the oath was duly taken.” Afterward, “the citizens grinned, and exchanged looks of satisfaction,” and even though there was no spontaneous outburst of cheering, “their burdens, if not relieved, were at least shifted to some ungalled part of the body.”

  That ceremony concluded, Kearny and the rest of the party “descended by the same rickety ladder from the rooftop, mounted our horses, and rode briskly forward to encounter the 600 Mexicans in the gorge of the mountains, two miles distant.”

  Captain Emory, leading his small detachment of topographical engineers, sums it up from here: “The sun shone with dazzling brightness, the guidons and colors of each squadron, regiment and battalion were for the first time unfurled. The drooping horses seemed to take courage from the gay array. The trumpeters sounded ‘to horse,’ with spirit, and the hills multiplied and re-echoed the call. All wore the aspect of a gala day, and as we approached the gorge where we expected to meet the enemy, we broke into a brisk trot, then into a full gallop, preceded by a squadron of horse [cavalry]. The gorge was passed, but no person was seen.

  “One by one the guidons were furled; the men looked disappointed and a few minutes found us dragging out slow lengths along, with the usual indifference in regard to every subject except that of overcoming space.”

  In another two miles they came to another pass but it, too, was deserted. Nine miles later they reached another town, “where General Kearny assembled the people and harangued them much in the same manner as at the Vegas.” Still no Armijo but “reports now reached us at every step that the people were rising and that Armijo was collecting a formidable force to oppose our march at the celebrated pass of the [Apache] cañon, 15 miles from Santa Fe.”

  What had occurred behind the scenes at Santa Fe had al
l the trappings of an opéra bouffe. On the one hand, Armijo was smart enough to realize that nothing less than the entire 250,000 square miles of the New Mexico province was at stake here, including the 250-year-old capital, which he had taken a solemn oath to defend. On the other hand, his defense was, to his mind, wholly inadequate and might very well expose him, personally, to real danger.

  Armijo had at his disposal about 250 trained regulars, infantry, dragoons, and lancers, and enough artillerymen to man the seven cannons in his possession. As well, there were approximately 7,000 military-age men in the province, most of whom were familiar with firearms. On the other hand, he had no money to maintain any of these people with pay, supplies, or provisions, for the simple reason that he had stolen it all.

  For nearly twenty years the authorities in Mexico City had been content to let the New Mexico province exist financially solely on the revenues from import duties claimed against goods brought through the customs offices at Santa Fe and Taos by American wagon trains coming down the Santa Fe Trail. This had worked out fairly well until Armijo took over, first as customs collector, then governor, after which the treasury strangely began to run deficits.

  As Kearny’s army approached, Armijo asked the province assembly to appropriate an emergency $1,000 loan (about $50,000 today) to activate his military force. The assembly agreed, but reconsidered next day, possibly after taking into account what had become of the customs revenues.

  Nevertheless, Armijo was prompted to issue another in a series of his proclamations, this one vowing to “sacrifice [his] life and interests for [his] beloved country.” With that in mind he began at once to assemble a military force in New Mexico at the narrow pass at Apache Canyon. The pass itself presented one of the most formidable military obstacles in the territory. Armijo set up his main defenses about fifteen miles from Santa Fe, at a place where the walls of the narrow canyon “rise 1,000 to 2,000 feet—a gateway,” according to Emory, “which in the hands of a skillful engineer and a hundred resolute men, would have been perfectly impregnable.”

  Armijo had positioned his artillery pieces among the rocks and bottoms of this natural fortress and had his army—estimated at about 2,000 to 3,000 men, including the veteran dragoons—set up behind an abatis, or breastworks of felled trees with sharpened ends. From there, Kearny’s army would have found itself in the dangerous predicament of being at the wrong end of an artillery funnel, and with any skill and determination at all the New Mexicans might have held off the American advance indefinitely.

  Except that as soon as it was apparent that Kearny’s army was fast approaching, Armijo hightailed it out of there, leaving the remainder of his men to fend for themselves.

  Kearny had received advance word of this disgraceful departure from a prisoner who had been captured by one of Bent’s patrols, an officer named Salazar, who was the son of a high official in Santa Fe. This man told of an argument between Armijo and his subordinates, which ended with the governor’s decision to depart the province in utmost haste. One of Kearny’s officers wrote of this informant, “The Gen. told him he would keep him a prisoner, and if he found that he had told him falsely, he would hang him.”

  Actually, it appears Armijo’s decision to desert his post had been made several days previous, at which time he had appointed his lieutenant governor to act with power of attorney over all of Armijo’s lands and other nonmovable property. In any case, the governor rode back to Santa Fe from Apache Canyon, escorted by about fifty of his dragoons, and piled all his belongings and portable wealth onto a wagon train in preparation for leaving the province. It was said that when word got out the citizens “became panicky” and an angry crowd descended on the governor’s palace. As Armijo prepared to leave, this crowd began to threaten him as he mounted his horse. But the governor, “always a resourceful man,” reached into his coat, whose pockets he had filled with gold and silver coins, pulled out some coins, and flung them at the mob, and while they scrambled to pick them up he got upon his horse and made his getaway.

  Meantime, General Kearny had named Captain Cooke’s troop as his advance guard to enter Apache Canyon. When he reached the dangerous part of the pass Cooke reported finding “only a rude breastwork of felled trees across it.” Following Armijo’s departure, the rest of the Mexican defenders had run away, leaving the Army of the West free to enter Santa Fe, which it did around sundown, August 18, 1846, not quite two months after its leading elements departed Fort Leavenworth, Kansas.

  For the first time in its history the United States had taken by military conquest a territory belonging to a foreign nation—and, remarkably, without firing a shot.‖

  What had persuaded Armijo to give up New Mexico without a fight has been the subject of much historical speculation through the years. It has been said he was simply a coward, or that he wanted to escape with his ill-gotten gains rather than face the possibility of being taken prisoner, but the most tantalizing suggestion is that he had been bought off by Uncle Sam. In this version, James Magoffin’s visit prior to Kearny’s arrival was the occasion for a bribery offer in exchange for Armijo’s compliance with the U.S. takeover.

  Captain Cooke’s family lore certainly seems to have it so. Cooke’s great-grandson Philip St. George Cooke III, writing in 1964, referred to Cooke’s 1878 chronicle of the expedition in which Cooke escorted Magoffin, stating: “What he did not tell was that he was the only officer on the frontier that the government would trust with the large sum of gold used to bribe Armijo to leave Santa Fe and New Mexico, without fighting the forces of the United States Army.”

  Moreover, after the Mexican-American War had ended Magoffin presented the U.S. government with a claim for $50,000 (about $1.5 million today) for services rendered. Although there is no direct mention of a bribe in connection with Armijo and the acquisition of New Mexico, it is easy to see why such a matter might have been omitted from a public document. Despite objections and arguments from officials in the War Department, the government in fact paid Magoffin the sum of around $30,000, presumably at the direction of Secretary of War Marcy, who had originally vouched for Magoffin in his letter to Kearny, and in which he referred to the important services that the savvy Santa Fe trader might render to the general’s expedition.

  While the subject has drawn considerable interest from historians, the fact is that in 1848 the United States government wound up paying Mexico handsomely for all the territories it acquired during the war, and even if Armijo was bribed it wouldn’t be the first time in U.S. history—and one way or another it likely won’t be the last.

  When most of the army had finally gotten into the city plaza the U.S flag was run up and a thirteen-gun salute fired from Kearny’s artillery, which had been posted on an overlook. Then the troops encamped for the night. There was no trouble from civilians or from the former Mexican belligerents, who it was said had taken to the mountains. Captain Cooke, acting as provost, reported that he “took charge of the city with a guard of only fifty men.”

  Apparently many residents, fearing they knew not what, had fled in advance of Kearny’s approach. A prominent Mexican political leader posted a notice trying to calm the “dread” of the people, and decrying the fact that “many families are leaving their homes in order to hide in the deserts, as if [Kearny’s] forces were composed of cruel and sanguinary savages.”

  That night General Kearny slept on the floor of the governor’s palace, while Cooke noted that “the taverns and saloons were overrun by the hungry and thirsty volunteers, and at last I had to drive them all out. After midnight I lay down on my cloak in the main hall of the ‘palace,’ and there, with my saddle for a pillow, slept soundly.”

  Next morning Kearny repeated his public change-of-allegiance ceremony, receiving indifferent if not reluctant pledges from province officials, whom he left in place to perform their duties so long as they took the oath, once more explaining that the consequences of violation lay at the end of a rope. He met with Colonel Doniphan, the lawyer, to c
reate some kind of territorial legal framework for the citizens. The result, which Doniphan modeled on Mexican statutes, the U.S. Constitution, Missouri statutes, and the Livingston Code of Louisiana, was so brilliantly constructed that much of it—known as the Kearny Code—remains today as a principal basis of law in the Southwest.a

  A few days later the chiefs of the many Pueblo tribes in the area arrived at the Governor’s Palace and not only pledged submission but “expressed great satisfaction” at the American conquest. According to Captain Emory, the chiefs informed General Kearny that Pueblo lore was steeped in a tradition that “a white man would come from the far east and release them from the bonds and shackles which the Spaniards had imposed, not in the name of, but in a worse form, than slavery.”

  Kearny ordered Emory and several of his engineers to start building a fort that would guard against both any attempt by the Mexicans to recapture their province capital as well as depredations by the Indians.

  Then he began preparing for a greater ordeal, the long march west, another thousand miles across terra incognita, to California and the Pacific Ocean.

  * Half a century later a Colorado schoolteacher named Katharine Bates penned the words to “America the Beautiful” after a mule-wagon visit to the “purple mountain majesties” of Pike’s Peak’s crest.

  † Travelers at Bent’s and other outposts often furnished their rooms with gear from their own wagons.

  ‡ Also known as the Purgatoire, a name given it by French explorers, but the soldiers called it the “Picket Wire.”