Lamy of Santa Fe

by Paul Horgan

  For Sibley’s brigade was nearing Fort Craig south of Socorro, and in a few days defeated the United States troops under Canby in day-long battle near the mesa of Valverde. Leaving Canby behind in his now useless fort, Sibley resumed the march to Albuquerque. How soon might he be in Santa Fe? As he went, he sustained his forces by taking the crops and goods of the countryside—sheep and cattle, first—and one citizen filed a claim stating that Texas troops had pillaged “all his chili, corn, wheat, carpets, bed covers, ear rings, ladies’ breast pin, hogs, shirts, covered trunks, chinaware, 2 ovens and lard.” Albuquerque was a major United States Army depot, and Sibley counted on capturing great quantities of quartermaster’s stores when he should arrive there; but taking the town without meeting resistance, he found the Army warehouses in flames, and his expected plunder destroyed.

  Santa Fe could do nothing but wait, for the main body of troops which was to have defended it was immobilized at Fort Craig down country, and the local conscripted “volunteers” had little organization and less will to fight. On 4 March Mother Magdalen was dismayed to see two houses next to the convent burning in a high wind which drew the flames and smoke toward her building. It was a store of flour which, to deny it to the enemy, was being destroyed. Just beyond were haystacks in the government corral, and if the fire reached them, the convent would be doubly in danger. The fire did not light upon the convent, though it burned all day. On the same day, the territorial governor, his staff, and a handful of troops, and the national flag, left Santa Fe to be reestablished at Las Vegas, beyond the immediate range of the invasion. The sisters watched them go by on the old street of the Santa Fe Trail, and Mother Magdalen exclaimed, “You can imagine better than I can describe what I felt on seeing all our troops leave [with] that banner under whose shadow I had been reared.…”

  Six days later on Monday, 10 March, eleven enemy soldiers appeared in Santa Fe. They were all former citizens of the capital who had gone south to join the Confederacy at La Mesilla, and they now returned as advance party for the invaders. They were followed on the next Thursday by seventy more, and then in ten days by two hundred. The invaders placed their artillery in strategic positions, which suggested to the nuns that a battle for Santa Fe was to be expected, and they feared for their convent.

  The Confederate bivouacs were all about the convent wall, and along the little Santa Fe Creek which ran by it. One day a Texas soldier climbed to the roof of the convent school and entered by a window overlooking the street. He called out asking if the room were occupied. Opposite, he found another window overlooking the courtyard, and looking down, saw some of the sisters. At that he went out as he had come, and the Mother Superior complained to Lamy, who notified the Texan commander that such incursions must stop, and they did. But because of the Confederate soldiers coming and going all day long, the convent school could not receive the day pupils, and classes were suspended. General Sibley had returned to the city to command the occupation where he had served before as resident.

  One of his first acts was to seize all funds in the territorial treasury which, as the Gazette drily stated, were “appropriated either to the General’s private use or for some other purpose.” Another of his moves was to seize the keys of the printing office of the Santa Fe Gazette, and still another was to arrest “Mr. Parker,’ proprietor of the Fonda Hotel, for reasons not made public. Confederate troops were billeted in the old Governor’s Palace on the Plaza. Sibley was pleased to be with his old friends at Santa Fe again, and was entertained agreeably, though he failed to gain recruits for his cause. He lingered in Santa Fe, and was seen at the fandangos and dinners, quite as though he were again legitimately stationed in town, when he should have been organizing his men and marching on to Fort Union and beyond. He had the delaying temperament of a heavy drinker and, they said, had been in no condition to lead the battle at Valverde a few weeks earlier, but had turned the command over to Colonel Tom Greene. Meanwhile, better use of the critical moment was being made by the miners of Colorado.

  For at the request of Governor Connelly of New Mexico, Governor Gilpin of Colorado had organized a regiment—the 1st Colorado—to hurry south to defend Fort Union, drive back the Confederates, and tear down their “piratical bunting’’ which flew over the rebel headquarters at Santa Fe.

  At last, after about three weeks, Sibley gave the order to move, and on 25 March the Texans under Major Pryor moved out on the Santa Fe Trail toward Glorieta, Apache Canyon, and Fort Union beyond. To their amazement they were faced on 26 March in Glorieta Pass by the 1st Colorado. A six-hour engagement followed which halted the Texan advance, though neither side could claim the day. The Texans were astonished at meeting “instead of Mexicans and regulars … regular demons, upon whom iron and lead had no effect, in the shape of Pike’s Peakers, from the Denver City gold mines.” A truce was declared for both sides to help their wounded and gather their dead.

  The Confederate battalion commander at Santa Fe ordered the printing, on the Gazette’s captured presses, of General Orders No. 4 for distribution to the field troops, congratulating his men on their “victory” at Glorieta. In a dilution of the Napoleonic style, and with a touch of St John, hoping to inspirit his somewhat disillusioned forces, he declared, “Soldiers—I am proud of you. Go on as you have commenced, and it will not be long until not a single soldier of the United States will be left upon the soil of New Mexico. The Territory, relieved of the burdens recently imposed upon it by its late oppressors, will once more, throughout its beautiful valleys, blossom as the rose, beneath the plastic hand of peaceful industry.”

  Two days later the battle was resumed in Apache Canyon further east, and ended in the total rout of the Texans when their supply depot was destroyed by a flanking movement brilliantly commanded by a Colorado preacher turned battalion commander—Major John M. Chivington. The Colorado regimental historian said that the reverend major’s raid was “the irreparable blow that compelled Texans to evacuate the Territory. Its audacity was the principal cause of its success.”

  For without their supply train, in a land so poor, the invaders were now helpless. They fell back on Santa Fe; and at Loretto, the nuns indoors heard them passing all night long, but until daylight did not know whether they heard Union or rebel troops, but as morning came, saw by their uniforms that they were Texans. “Some came on horseback, others on foot, and other were almost dragged to the city. All were in a most needy and destitute condition in regard to the commonest necessities of life,’ said the Reverend Mother. For some days the sick and wounded Texans were nursed by various women of Santa Fe, a “praiseworthy” act, said the liberated Gazette when it resumed publication on 26 April.

  The Texan army left Santa Fe on 8 April, never to return; the Confederate design for riches and empire, through the conquest of New Mexico, Colorado, and California, was destroyed; the Civil War was ended in the wide lands of the diocese; and in due time the Union forces reentered the capital.

  A Colorado soldier measured the bishop’s church, which had “three or four of the finest sounding bells in the world.” He stood “spellbound by their influence,” and went on to reflect upon “the awful power of the Catholic Church in the dark ages, the overwhelming influence of the clergy obtained by keeping the masses in ignorance and practicing on their feelings through the confessional, the unswerving devotion of the priestly orders to her advancement and glory, weighed against which the rights of whole nations were as a feather.” He entered the church to observe the service and the people who “if they were not deeply impressed with the mummery enacted before them they still preserved a respectful attention.” There were nearly eight hundred, all natives but a few soldiers.

  On Monday, 20 April, the citizens of Santa Fe raised the national flag again in the Plaza. A large crowd heard a salute fired by Captain José Sena’s Volunteer Company, and “great animation pervaded the spectators,” reported the Gazette. A patriotic address followed, and an ode was read, “Our Flag,” by E. Williams, a copy
of which was handed to the paper for publication. An appropriate verse cried,

  We know no rebel vile, can wrench

  Our banner from its stand.

  A few days later, now free of anxiety, the Mother Superior led her sisters and pupils on a walk to the foothills of the mountains for a picnic “close to a spring of crystal water.” They all climbed the “highest mountain” [read: foothill] and “from there we could see the whole of Santa Fe.” To add to their picnic lunch, the bishop had given them wine and baskets of peaches. The convent trees were “laden with flowers,” and Mother Magdalen expected they would soon have plenty of fruit.

  ix.

  Emergencies—Denver and Return

  BUT THOUGH THE TEXANS were thrown back, rumors persisted that they might return. Federal troops under General James H. Carleton marched from California to Tucson, expecting to find the enemy there, but the town was undefended. Carleton’s column continued eastward to garrison New Mexico, where they expected once again to meet the enemy, this time at La Mesilla, but there learned the news of the Confederate retreat. Carleton relieved Canby of the territorial command in October, and despite the rumors, New Mexico, like Colorado, was immune to Civil War incursions.

  Lamy resumed his pastoral visits, now in the northern reaches of the diocese. He blessed two new churches in new parishes. They were made of the usual “poor fabric of mud,” but it was the best they could do with what they had, he said, and he thought the buildings looked well enough. There were seven others under construction elsewhere, and the total of new churches or chapels for the years of his work so far was close to thirty. He said it took great patience to build such places, but he was proud of his missioners who led the labors, and their constructions were models for the local country. They built in other ways—travelling miles between their various stations, and, in Santa Fe, even teaching Latin.

  Farther to the north, the war had effects in Utah. To hold the road to California against any conceivable Confederate move along it, Federal troops occupied Salt Lake City in the fall of 1862. The Mormon country was under Machebeuf’s direct jurisdiction, which brought it into Lamy’s diocese. News from Denver came regularly—there was a weekly mail service, and Machebeuf was “well and stirring as ever,’ said the bishop, noting that Machebeuf wanted two more priests, the work was heavy, in Central City alone there were a thousand Catholic voters in the last election. But there was no one to send him. At least Machebeuf was able to make his own incessant journeys about the Rocky Mountains in perfect security, as Colorado was untouched by the war, and even the Indians were quiet. New mines were still being found, but business was almost wholly concerned with helping with war supply. Machebeuf felt that England was on the verge of declaring war against the States—”offended in her rights,” presumably because of the sea blockade; and he believed Canada had already made immense preparations for defense against an American invasion.

  But Indian campaigns against the New Mexico ranches and crosscountry trails increased after the Civil War troop activity ceased; and the open country was less safe than ever for all those ways of life foreign to the marauding Indians. Towns were almost cut off from each other. Farms were despoiled of their crops. Overland parties too often ended up as scattered rubble of person and material in awful stillness on the exposed vastness. The diocese was in “unhappy condition.”

  Still, there was little use in waiting for ideal conditions. The scale of need, the expanse of territory, were too great. It was suddenly good news that the California Jesuits were thinking of migrating to Arizona to live with the Indians there—the Papagos, Pimas, Maricopas. At the suggestion of Bishop Amat of Monterey, Father Luis Bosco of Santa Clara, California, wrote to Lamy in the summer of 1862 to ask whether Santa Fe had plans for establishing a permanent mission at San Xavier del Bac, and if so, whether support for himself and some companion Jesuits, to be assigned by their superior, Father Villiger of the California missions, might be forthcoming. It was evidently a response to Lamy’s letter to Father Sopranis written in St Louis and carried to him a year ago by Father De Smet. Arizona, still abandoned, would soon have to claim Lamy’s own presence. He must first see what was there, and then imagine a future for it.

  Presently came another letter from California. Villiger wrote to state, first, that there was as always a distressing lack of men to send into the field—the Jesuit colleges were increasing rapidly on the coast, and priests were needed there as teachers. But, he thought, he might find people to send, under two provisions—first: that Lamy would provide travelling expenses for their journey to San Xavier del Bac; second: that the Arizona mission would be attached to Santa Fe. Therefore, if three priests and one brother were to be assigned to Arizona, would the local population sustain them with food, clothing, and the like? Or, he added, perhaps something to eat for lunch would be enough in the way of food. He hoped for a reply to be sent to him at Rome, where he would soon be.

  Lamy was able to reply to these inquiries satisfactorily; and he was thinking of two long new journeys—one to Arizona and the West, in this year of 1863; the other, to Rome, in 1864 to make his regular ad limina visit to the Pope.

  Meanwhile, another missionary bishop appeared in Santa Fe—the Right Reverend Josiah Cruickshank Talbot, of the North West Diocese of the Protestant Episcopal Church, who had come down by stage from Colorado. A dreadful trip. Drunken and profane passengers singing obscene songs, all packed in with no room to move; extended runs with most infrequent stops, though the stage drivers were courteous and efficient. There was at least one comfort on the way—a pause at the Hotel Française (sic) at Fort Union.

  But then, Santa Fe! Talbot saw everywhere “loose morals,’ and “universal concubinage,’ and “open adultery,” of which “priests and people alike” were guilty. From all he heard, though, Bishop Talbot was able to credit Lamy with “cleaning up” the corrupt clergy, though he still thought the Church bled the natives for ritual services, including baptisms, for which, actually, the cathedral bells rang out (for a fee). On 3 July the two bishops met in the office of Captain McFerran at Fort Marcy and had a “pleasant conversation about the territory,” but when another person entered the captain’s office, Lamy withdrew. Bishop Talbot made a note that Lamy and “indeed many of the people of the town” knew ahead of time that “we were on our way here…”

  Perhaps the weekly mail from Colorado? But it was not always prompt, and Lamy was sharply concerned when in mid-summer he received a letter from Denver dated some time before, written in an unfamiliar hand, to say that Father Machebeuf had been the victim of a shocking accident in the mountains when his carriage had fallen from the narrow road to precipitous rocks below. The letter gave few details, but Machebeuf’s condition was clearly dangerous, and Lamy concluded that he might not live. If he was to see him, Lamy must leave for Denver within the hour. He left so precipitately that he neglected to take a supply of rations. A servant rode with him. By noon the next day they appeared in Mora, where Father Salpointe was pastor. Lamy told him the news, and asked him to go along to Denver. The invitation became an order when Salpointe proposed taking a couple of hours to prepare food for the overland ride: Lamy said they would take the remains of lunch on the table and leave at once. It was enough for one meal.

  Salpointe could only agree. He was a full-bodied man with large dark eyes and a thick thatch of dark hair which gave him a boyish look. He had an observant, original habit of mind, a keen practical sense, and a Frenchman’s taste for a well-set table. Lamy’s austere habits—exaggerated by his present haste—led Salpointe to remark that “the Bishop, who could do with one meal a day even at home, provided he had a cup of black coffee and a piece of bread morning and evening, always objected to making ample provision of victuals for traveling,’ As a result, hurrying to Denver, the little party had to live for the most part on game which they hunted and cooked (without salt) though when infrequently they came to a habitation they did supply themselves with rations. Water was scarce
, and they had the plains traveller’s familiar disappointment when a deep and beautiful catch basin turned out to contain brackish water; but a few miles further on, they found fresh water, and the next day they came to the Huerfano River and the ranch of a friend, who was able to tell them that Machebeuf was beginning to recover from his accident, though it seemed that he would be somewhat crippled for life.

  The relief in this, tempered though it was, gave Lamy a sense of ease, and he pursued the rest of his way to Denver at a more leisurely pace, setting the next day’s goal at the new town of Pueblo, only twenty-five miles farther on. When they reached there expecting from promoters’ maps to see “a second New York, with splendid streets and blocks [read: business buildings], parks and public gardens,” they saw only “a few miserable huts of frame,” on one of which, scrawled in charcoal, was the primal word “Saloon.” They decided not to spend the night in Pueblo but moved two miles beyond on the banks of a little river, a place “indeed very beautiful.” They were at the foot of Pike’s Peak, and now nothing lay between them and Denver but grand plains. They moved on, seeing the first habitations at Cherry Creek near Denver City, and after ten days, at last knocked at Machebeuf’s door in Denver. In a few moments the door was opened by Machebeuf himself, on crutches.

  His astonishment and joy were rewarding. He had had no word that Lamy was coming. The old friends made much of their reunion, and Lamy learned what had happened in the accident. Machebeuf, returning from Central City in his buggy on a precarious, narrow, rocky road chipped out of the mountainside, had met a train of supply waggons. When he drove close to the outside edge to let them pass, he miscalculated, the buggy slipped, and he was thrown down the slope to the rocks below. His right leg was broken at the hip. People took him to a house nearby on the ridge, a doctor was called, the leg was set, but for many months he would be unable to say Mass. Raverdy was still with him, active in the town parish and the mountain missions.