by Paul Horgan
If Sandusky, next, was less exciting, it provided them with a glimpse of how beloved Machebeuf was in his former parish, for his welcome there gave them, said one, “a higher idea of our good Father, and a greater love for him.” In St Louis, they met De Smet, watched Machebeuf lay the cornerstone of a new church in the woods, nearly capsized in their waggon on the way to the ceremony, and recovered at a dinner later in a nearby farmhouse. Machebeuf was waiting to hear final plans from Lamy for the plains crossing, and when after some delay these arrived, he took his people (including a new recruit, Thomas Hayes, in minor orders) by river steamboat to Kansas City.
There the waggons sent by the bishop were waiting. Late in the day on 4 October the party set out for the plains, and had their first night of sleeping on the ground, hearing the doleful ruffles of the roving coyotes all night long. In the morning they grumbled to their leader about the animal chorus. Machebeuf replied, “You dread the monotony of the plains; these are a few of their many distractions. You ought to be glad to have a free band to serenade you. If you do not like the music, Mr Truchard with his magnificent voice can intone the Ave Maris Stella, as he used to do for us in the ship.” Truchard obliged; they all joined with him; and the song became “their regular hymn during the trip,” except when they feared to attract Indians. Still, whenever they relapsed into moody silence, Machebeuf would say to them,
“Well, young men, what is the matter? Have you lost your voices? You do not seem to be enjoying your breakfast; perhaps the coffee does not agree with you? Well, let me work a miracle.”
So, reported Gabriel Ussel, Machebeuf went to his waggon for “some good wine, and it brought our spirits back like a charm.”
On 6 October—the second day out on the plains—Machebeuf said to his young men, each of whom, along with the Mexican carters, had an assigned task in the order of the camp,
“Why don’t you speak Spanish with our men?”
They said they did not know how.
“Oh, yes, you do!” replied Machebeuf, “and I shall prove it to you. Now, here are the conversation books; I shall read the Credo very slowly while you follow me in Latin.” He then recited some “very simple rules for the formation of words,” the strangers mastered the system in five minutes, and thereafter “had no great difficulty in conversing” with their Mexicans.
Travelling about twenty miles a day, they met only the peaceful conventions of the prairie experience—herds of bison, visits from Indians whose chief interest seemed to be greedy curiosity, nocturnal forays by wolves in packs, parties of United States cavalry on reconnaissance. On 3 November, twelve miles from the first habitations of New Mexico, Machebeuf took a moment late at night, by a good fire, in the midst of woods and surrounded by snow, while all his companions were sound asleep, to write a word to his brother which he could post next day at Fort Union.
“I have only a moment to write that we are all in good health, we have not had the slightest accident, we have twice been visited by Indians but they did not seem hostile and were satisfied with a little sugar, wheat, and some biscuits. We hope to reach Santa Fe before Sunday….”
It was 10 November when they came to the city, to receive the traditional welcome out on the road, and to attend the bishop’s Te Deum in the cathedral. The six young seminarians were highly important reinforcements for Lamy’s company of priests and teachers; and a month after their arrival they were all ordained in final orders by the bishop in the humble chapel of the Loretto convent, and assigned their posts in the field. Young Father Gabriel Ussel was assigned to Arroyo Hondo, replacing Lucero.
Machebeuf brought, too, items of good news from Rome. Barnabo had sympathetically heard his defense of Lamy against all the charges made against him. He had brought also written permission to sell the Castrense for the benefit of diocesan finances. Barnabo had been elevated to the cardinalate and promoted from secretary to prefect of the Sacred Congregation of the Propaganda Fide. Lamy wrote to congratulate him on these honors, and to thank him for his confidence and favor; and at the same time, though without offering further defense of his own case since this had been well managed already by Machebeuf, he forwarded to the cardinal marked copies of the election contest speeches in Congress by Gallegos and Otéro—exhibits which spoke for themselves well enough. He thought it well to add, since the matter had come up in the civil context of the voting process, “I hope also that the disputed area between Durango and Santa Fe will soon be decided.…”
v.
The Excommunications
AND NOW MACHEBEUF heard of the collapse of relations between Martínez and Lamy. Letters had again begun to pour forth to Lamy from the pastor of Taos. Always observing the complimentary conventions of salutation and conclusion, Martínez, in between, went far beyond the honest indignation of a man who felt put upon. Making charges suspiciously like those already lodged at Rome, he declined on 12 November 1856 to retract the rebellious arguments he had published in the Gaceta de Santa Fe; accused Lamy of attempting to impose censorship; undertook to instruct Lamy on the Canon Law requiring three formal warnings before imposing penalty upon a subordinate; cited civil as well as theological rights; edified the bishop with references to scriptural sources; reminded him of the rights of a citizen of the Republic free to express his opinions; attacked him again about his tithing policy and other provisions of the pastoral letters; advised him to imitate his predecessor, Zubiría, in administering the office of bishop; and ended with the most preposterous statement of all, which was that if Lamy would change his policies, lift the “censorship,” and abandon the existing system of financial support for the Church, he, Martínez, “would agree” to make public apology for the transgressions he had committed in his open letters—quite as if these were the only matters at fault, when the schismatic chapel continued to flourish at Taos.
Since there was nothing to say in reply to any of this, Lamy made none, and Martínez wrote again five days later, admitting that in his manner of expression in his public letters he had gone “over the limits of moderation” and exercised “bad behavior in his precipitous writings”—but changed none of his views, leaving support for their lightness to public opinion. If there was an attempt at a mollifying tone in this letter, it was supported further by a postscript stating that he and Taladrid had “repaired” their arguments and had “mutually forgiven” injuries.
But Martínez was unable to leave matters at that, and ten days later, he was again at his desk, laboring through his repetitious and convoluted style to probe old injuries anew. With an air of riding his chair in outrage, he now raked up the manner of his replacement at Taos. He had not, he stated, actually resigned in his first letter of the year, or in his second—he had merely proposed that he would resign, but only after the successor he had named (Medina) had been properly proved at his task. Then, and then only, would he feel he could vacate his office. Further—by implication—he felt that he had been tricked by the bishop, in sending a “foreign” priest instead of a “native” one: this had been the cause of all the trouble. Moreover, he cited Thomas Aquinas—out of his famous vellum copy of that doctor’s works—to indicate that even in suspension, he still had the right to perform such priestly functions as absolution and burial, and he let it be clear that he intended to continue doing so. It now appeared that Taladrid was still “defaming” him, and Martínez said he suspected that this was with Lamy’s knowledge and approval. He charged, too, that Taladrid had formed a party of defenders of himself and Lamy made up of the survivors of the Taos Massacre of 1847 in which Martínez had played a role. Martínez saw in this a cabal against himself. He also informed the bishop that church vessels of silver had been spirited away from Taladrid’s church and replaced with others made of tin, to the scandal of all. Then, there was the matter of the Penitentes—the Fraternity of Penitent Brothers. Reminding Lamy that Pius IX expected him to “quench” the Penitentes—for Lamy had once told Martínez in Santa Fe that he had discussed this with the Pope
in Rome in 1854—and alluding to the mood among the native people who were making trouble over the suspension of their chaplain in the Brotherhood, Martínez warned the bishop to take care, be impartial, and correct the wrongs which would attend his announced course. (In the event, folkways persisted, and the Penitente cult survived.)
Impassive silence at Santa Fe. But Lamy poured out his troubles to Purcell, writing him in March 1857 to report that “the opposition we met at our first coming here, and which manifested itself on several occasions, is far from being crushed down. Their number, we hope, are diminishing, but unfortunately, the less they seem to be, the more head strong they are getting, the few native clergy that are out of their office keep up a bad spirit against us,” and he named Gallegos, Ortiz, and Martínez—all three suspended, Martínez since the preceding October. They were working to embarrass Lamy “in every way,” but chiefly by unceasing efforts to incite the people to refuse to support the Church through tithings. Lamy had to admit they were succeeding all too well. They had nothing to lose—removed from their benefices, they each had “already got a handsome fortune from the church,” and they knew that if Lamy were deprived of the only local temporal means support, he could not expect to succeed in his work for very long. But “the large majority is on the side of order,” he wrote, there were now good priests leading several congregations, and through the children, the future might be secure. Further, there was not much to “fear” as yet from the Protestants who were opening schools and missions in the wake of the eastern American colonization. To the Society in Paris, the bishop said more forcefully, that the suspended clergy were “making war to the death against us, but nevertheless, Mexicans are for the good order.”
Certainly Machebeuf found them so on this return to his “dear Albuquerque” to resume his pastorate. Sixty horsemen and the county prefect received him three miles from town, and escorted him to a great party enlivened by many bottles of “good Mexican wine.” His assistant was the young Father Coudert, who had just come with him from France, and between them, they had to visit on a weekly basis a line of missions consisting of twelve churches, chapels, or oratories, some of which were sixty miles apart. “Imagine,” he exclaimed, “the need for railroads there! But we have no other steam but the sweat of our little Mexican horses pricked by the big spurs of this land …”
But Martínez could not long remain silent in his impotent rage. On 13 April 1857 another enormous missive descended upon Lamy, scolding him for ignoring Martínez’s previous letters; declaring his own suspension “a nullity” because it had not been preceded by “canonic admonitions” and proclaiming his immunity under “canonic rights”; declaring himself “free of suspension,” who was to be “recognized as the rightful priest of Taos,” and demanding the removal of Father Taladrid as pastor—all of which was elaborated repeatedly, and with vehemence, while, kissing the bishop’s hands, he remained “the servant and follower” of His Illustrious Reverence.
When there was, as usual, no reply to this, Martínez wrote to Machebeuf, attacking the bishop once again for his pastoral promulgations and Church rules, and flatly stating that Lamy in suspending him was guilty of “disobeying the laws of the Church.” (It was no wonder that Taladrid, writing in his turn to the Gaceta, called him “a Voltaire, a Rousseau, … egotism personified,” with his “depraved maxims.”) Martínez went on to complain that there were tensions in Taos, with rumors that he was to be threatened by civil authority, and that “armed forces” of certain inhabitants seemed to be ready to move against his personal safety.
What he referred to in the last instance was ominously true; for, tried beyond further patience, Bishop Lamy had come to the end with Martínez, and his ally, Lucero. In June 1857, he set in motion formal proceedings of excommunication against both Father Martínez Father Lucero; and when Machebeuf arrived to publish on three successive Sundays, at both Taos and Arroyo Hondo, the “canonic” admonitions demanding for the last times the submission of the defiant recusants, excitement and emotion among the people threatened to explode into violence. Martínez had his partisans, Lamy his. The pastor mounted a guard over his oratory, which he heard had been threatened with arson. Serious members of a strong faction which supported Lamy had made known their intention of preventing expected danger to Machebeuf from Martínez’s followers, by armed force, if necessary.
Those who stood with Lamy and Machebeuf included both American and Mexican Catholics, whose leaders—all residents of Taos—were formidably determined and known for their prowess. One was Céran St. Vrain, a famous scout and trader, another was the French Canadian Charles Beaubien, whose son Narciso had been murdered in the Taos Massacre of 1847 in which Martínez had been a prime mover, and the third was General Kit Carson. Beaubien said, “Martínez had always been treacherous, and is now afflicted with the bighead. Let him look out!” and Carson said, “We shall not let them do as they did in 1847, when they murdered and pillaged. I am a man of peace, and my motto is: Good will to all; I hate disturbances among the people, but I can fight a little yet, and I know of no better cause to fight for than my family, my Church and my friend the Señor Vicario.”
Martínez knew his people—their emotional loyalty to their own race, to him as their great man, and their resentment of the “foreigners” who had come to dominate them—and he was not now slow to arouse their anger in his defense when Machebeuf began to carry out his dangerous duty. For his part, Martínez made no response to Machebeuf’s public calls to retreat from his revolt, nor did Lucero. Taos, under its dark mountain, and in its habit of violence, was waiting.
On the final Sunday, with Martínez still within his own silence, Machebeuf appeared in the Taos church to celebrate High Mass and to pronounce the excommunication. Tension was almost tangible. The church was filled, and people stood outside to hear the ceremony and to watch each other, and to see who had guns. When time came for the sermon, Machebeuf explained the meaning of excommunication, of which most of the people had no understanding except that it was the Church’s ultimate discipline; and then he read the instrument itself to a hushed congregation, finished the Mass, and announced that he would remain in Taos for several days to help Taladrid in hearing confessions—a calm invitation to any who had joined the schism to return to the bishop’s fold. In silence, the listeners dispersed. There was no disturbance, though everyone had felt the precarious atmosphere, and later, at Beaubien’s house, when he and Carson and the others commended Machebeuf for his courage, they heard him answer, with the effect of a shrug, “Why should I be afraid? I only did my duty.” Taos was left with two churches—one licit under the bishop, the other illicit under Martínez, who would keep his followers and would never give up his independent parish while he lived.
Machebeuf next had to proceed to Arroyo Hondo. Carson and the others proposed to go along to protect him in the foothill village; but he declined their help, and again, in a tense but quiet scene, he imposed the excommunication on Father Lucero, who left to join Martínez in spiritual exile. Father Ussel now presided alone at Arroyo Hondo. Done with his difficult and dangerous assignment, Machebeuf said to Ussel before returning to Santa Fe and Albuquerque,
“It is always the way. Bishop Lamy is sure to send me when there is a bad case to be settled; I am always the one to whip the cats (fouetter les chats)”
Before the excommunications, Lamy had seen the necessity of replacing not only Lucero with Ussel, but Taladrid with Eulógio—the young priest (brother of the old belligerent vicar) who had, in all loyalty, travelled abroad with the bishop. Taladrid was reassigned to Isleta. As the new pastor of Taos, Juan Eulógio Ortiz, a native New Mexican, could do more to keep the peace in Taos parish than the Spaniard Taladrid. In early July, he tried to report to Lamy in Santa Fe, but the bishop was absent, visiting outlying parishes, including that of El Vado de San Miguel, on the Santa Fe Trail. Ortiz wrote him subsequently, and had a curious tale to tell.
One day Martínez sent him a message asking if
he would go so far as to receive a visit from an excommunicant. Ortiz replied that since he was now the rightful pastor, with all proper faculties, he was of course able to receive “even the condemned.” Martínez came and they talked for an hour, inevitably about the recent events of his disgrace. Ortiz asked him “hard questions,” evidently to give him opportunity to admit the justice of his penalty, to which Martínez replied each time in affirmation of his guilt, “Amen, amen, amen.” When asked why he had so furiously opposed the bishop, Martínez said he had “done it out of pure caprice,” in hostility to Father Taladrid, and then handsomely added that now, since circumstances were not the same, he recognized Ortiz as the rightful pastor, and would not again interfere in any act of the ecclesiastic administration. It was a gesture of ingratiation.
But it meant nothing, reported Ortiz; for Martínez forthwith returned to his own chapel to continue his old ways. Ortiz felt, though, that these could not continue forever, for Martínez was “ weaker.” To comfort the bishop, Father Eulógio Ortiz declared that he, though naturally under suspicion by his own brothers in the Ortiz family who opposed Lamy, would always serve him loyally. “Even though I am not of much use, I will be on your side.… It is true, Most Illustrious Lord, that I have other faults, but of that sort which can be publicly condemned, I want none.”
It was a measure of the pathetic degree of poverty, in regard to tithes over which Martínez—and others—raised such furor, that Ortiz in the same letter declared that when he came to Taos to assume his pastorate, it was an unpropitious time, since Martínez had already predisposed everyone against Taladrid, and little had been contributed; so that now there remained for the bishop only seventy-five sheep, a young bull, and a calf. Was he to send them to Santa Fe, or sell them, and remit the proceeds?