ON JULY 12 Commandante Castro and his body of men met Governor Pico and his force at San Luis Obispo, the midpoint between Monterey and Los Angeles. Pico later recalled the moment. “We embraced, and all manifested great enthusiasm for the cause of our country.” The two leaders issued a joint declaration, boldly vowing to repel the American invaders. In fact, the bitter rivalry between them was not so easily forgotten, and to forestall open conflict between their supporters they traveled separately to Los Angeles, where both arrived ten days later. Pico was pessimistic. “No matter how great our patriotism,” he reported to the authorities in Mexico City, without additional men and matériel “we shall never be able to reconquer what is lost nor avoid losing the rest.” He ordered all male Californios between the ages of fifteen and sixty to arm themselves and assemble at the pueblo, but the response was disappointing. Most ordinary Angelenos were outraged at the American invasion, but the elite of rancheros, vineyardists, and merchants expressed more ambiguous sentiments. A number of prominent individuals openly welcomed annexation by the United States, and the division of opinion led to confusion and apathy. By the end of the month fewer than two hundred men had enlisted in defense of Los Angeles.
By that time Frémont and the California Battalion had taken possession of the presidio at San Diego without firing a shot. Rancheros in the surrounding country did what they could to keep livestock out of American hands, and it took more than a week to round up a sufficient number of horses, but with that accomplished, Frémont set out for Los Angeles with 120 men, leaving San Diego under the control of a small garrison commanded by Archibald Gillespie. Castro learned of Frémont’s advance the same day he received news that Stockton had landed with 360 men at San Pedro. Knowing his paltry force would be unable to resist such an onslaught, Castro wrote to Stockton, expressing his willingness to enter into negotiations and proposing a cease-fire.
His dispatch was carried to San Pedro under a flag of truce by Captain José María Flores, a Mexican officer on Castro’s staff. Stockton received Flores and his delegation imperiously and, ignoring diplomatic protocol, forced them to stand on the beach while he withdrew to his campaign tent to read the dispatch and compose a response. Reemerging, he handed Flores a sealed note for Castro and announced he would never agree to a cease-fire. “I will either take the country or be licked out of it,” he declared, then peremptorily dismissed the delegation with a wave of his hand. Flores was deeply insulted, as was Castro when he read Stockton’s reply. His plain duty, Stockton had written, was to press the fight until California ceased to be part of Mexico. The only alternative to war was unconditional surrender. “If you will agree to hoist the American flag in California, I will stop my forces and negotiate the treaty.”
Castro replied in an angry letter. “You offer me the most shameful of propositions, to hoist the American flag in this department. Never, never, never!” Stockton might succeed in raising his banner over Los Angeles, but “it will not be by my acquiescence, nor by that of my compatriots, but solely by force.” Alvarado, who had accompanied Castro to Los Angeles, considered this the moment of no return. “If Stockton had sent a commission to confer with Castro and myself,” he wrote, “a treaty satisfactory to both sides might have been arranged.” Instead, the commodore insisted on capitulation without honor. The refusal to negotiate, Castro warned Stockton, “makes you responsible for all the evils and misfortunes that may result from a war so unjust as that which has been declared against this peaceful department.”
Castro concluded that retreat was his only option. “I can count on only 100 men, badly armed, worse supplied, and discontented,” he told Pico, and “have reason to fear that not even these few will fight when the necessity arises.” Honorable withdrawal to Sonora was better than ignominious defeat in Los Angeles. Not everyone agreed. “If the Spaniards had thought like you when Napoleon Bonaparte invaded,” one of Pico’s aides told Castro, “we would be French.” But on the evening of August 9, after instructing his men to return to their homes and families in the north, Castro fled south, accompanied by a small group of Mexican officers. The following morning, at an emergency meeting of the legislature, Pico read Castro’s parting proclamation to the delegates. American intentions, Castro charged, had been treacherous from beginning to end. The government of the United States, which initially denied any complicity with the insurgents at Sonoma, had in fact joined with them in perpetrating this “iniquitous invasion.” But it got worse. “Not only do our oppressors wish to make us tributary slaves, but moreover they have the effrontery to order that we should voluntarily proclaim this slavery ourselves.” The Americans might take their country but not their honor. “The lack of resources to carry on the war against a powerful nation will perhaps make it triumph over our weak forces, but nevermore over our hearts.”
Los Angeles was defenseless, Pico told the delegates, and he asked for their advice and counsel in this dire emergency. Quickly they reached a consensus. “The best thing,” reported Antonio Coronel, “would be for Pico to leave as well, since with neither civil nor military governor at hand the enemy couldn’t impose severe terms of surrender on them.” Together they agreed to dissolve the department government. That decision made, Pico delivered an impromptu address. “My friends, farewell!” he said, shedding bitter tears. “I abandon the country of my birth, my family, property, and everything that a man holds most dear, all to save the national honor.” There would be hard days ahead, but he trusted the courage and loyalty of the hijos del país would frustrate the conqueror’s designs. “The Supreme Being that guards over the future destiny of nations will provide us the glorious day in which we shall again see our dear Fatherland free and happy,” he declared. “That will be for me, beloved compatriots, the fulfillment of all my happiness and the only thing to which my heart aspires, in the midst of the bitter sorrow that it feels in telling you good bye!” Then the legislature voted to adjourn for the last and final time. That night a stream of functionaries, officers, and common soldiers abandoned Los Angeles, leaving Angelenos to their fate.
NEWS OF THE AMERICAN UPRISING at Sonoma and the occupation of Monterey created considerable anxiety among extranjeros in Los Angeles. The hostility of Californios toward resident Americans became so intense that a number of them abandoned the pueblo and sought refuge in the countryside. Governor Pico attempted to reassure them, declaring that their lives and property would be protected as long as they remained neutral. Most hunkered down, kept quiet, and were not disturbed. Abel Stearns, who had served in Pico’s administration, left with his young wife shortly after Stockton landed at San Pedro. They sat out the war at Rancho Los Alamitos, his coastal retreat.
A number of Americans, however, lent active support to the conquest. They were organized by Alexander Bell, a middle-aged Pennsylvanian who in 1844, after nearly twenty years as a successful merchant in Mexico, had settled in Los Angeles and established a flourishing business, trading in hides, tallow, and general merchandise. Bell built a house and storefront on the southeastern side of the Plaza, married into an elite Californio family, and became an active parishioner of the Plaza church. But he declined to become a Mexican citizen. “The United States will come to me,” he predicted to American friends shortly after his arrival in California. When Stockton landed, Bell assembled a group of two dozen like-minded Americans, including James R. Barton, and led them to San Pedro, where Stockton enrolled them as a volunteer rifle company with Bell as their captain.
Despite their years in Mexican California, Bell and his men still considered themselves Americans. For other extranjeros, however, the question of loyalty was more complicated. Benjamin Davis Wilson of Tennessee had spent ten years working as a trapper and trader in New Mexico before coming to Los Angeles with the Rowland-Workman party. He found himself beguiled by both the country and the people. “Receiving so much kindness from the native Californians,” he wrote, “I arrived at the conclusion that there was no place in the world where I could enjoy mor
e true happiness and true friendship than among them.” Using accumulated savings, he purchased Rancho Jurupa, situated on the banks of the Río Santa Ana, sixty miles east of the pueblo, where the city of Riverside would later rise. He married Ramona Yorba, the fifteen-year-old daughter of Bernardo Yorba, wealthy owner of Rancho Santa Ana, downstream from Wilson’s property. And in 1845 he accepted Governor Pico’s appointment as deputy alcalde in charge of the eastern frontier of the Los Angeles district. Like Bell—and unlike most of his fellow Americans—Wilson chose to maintain his American citizenship. But in contrast to Bell, he remained neutral, which pleased neither side. Falling under the suspicion of both American and Californio neighbors, he was compelled to resign his post. If he was permitted to remain unmolested on his rancho, Wilson wrote to Governor Pico, “I would pledge my word to be peaceable and do no act hostile to the country.”
The night before Pico fled Los Angeles, he summoned Wilson to his headquarters and asked him to carry a message to Commodore Stockton. “Tell him of my intention to abandon the country,” Pico said, “and that I hope he will not ill treat my people.” On the morning of August 11, accompanied by his friend John Rowland and several other Americans, Wilson left for San Pedro. A few miles from the harbor they encountered Stockton at the head of his “web-feet regiment” of approximately three hundred sailors and marines. Hauling four large guns, taken from the Congress and mounted on carretas, they were making slow progress. Wilson delivered Pico’s message, and when Stockton learned Los Angeles was without defenders, he sent half his men back to their vessel. The Domínguez family, owners of Rancho San Pedro, had provided Wilson with a beautiful saddle horse for the commodore, and he presented it with an invitation that Stockton accompany his party back to the pueblo. They arrived in the afternoon and found the place deserted. Wilson took Stockton to Government House on Calle Principal, south of the Plaza, vacated by Pico only hours before. Later that afternoon a marine detachment from the Congress arrived after a forced march and established a defensive perimeter around the new American headquarters.
The main force of American sailors reached the southern outskirts of the pueblo two days later, about midday on August 13. Stockton and the marines came down to greet them and were soon joined by Frémont and his mounted rifles who had ridden up from San Diego. At four in the afternoon approximately three hundred Americans entered Los Angeles in triumphant formation, led by a brass band playing “Hail Columbia!” The procession resembled more “a parade of home guards than an enemy taking possession of a conquered town,” wrote Frémont. They hoisted the American flag from a staff on the Plaza while small clusters of Angelenos observed from the summit of the hill behind the church. As the band continued playing, a few brave souls drew nearer. “At first the children on the hill ventured down and peeped round the corners of the houses,” wrote William Dane Phelps, captain of an American merchant vessel, who had joined Stockton’s sailors in their march. “A few lively tunes brought out the ‘vivas’ of the elder ones, and before closing for the day quite a circle of delighted natives surrounded the musicians.” Californios loved music and dancing, but few had ever heard a full brass band. Captain Phelps found himself standing next to the priest from the Plaza church. “Ah!” the old man exclaimed, “that music will do more service in the conquest of California than a thousand bayonets.” The band continued to hold concerts in the Plaza every evening for the next several days.
Gradually the pueblo came back to life, as first the children and the elderly, then the women, and finally the men returned to their homes and occupations. On August 17 a messenger came up from San Pedro with the first definitive word of the American declaration of war against Mexico three months before, and later that day Stockton issued a proclamation declaring that henceforth California would be “a Territory of the United States.” Until a civil government could be organized, he declared, the country would remain under martial law. All civil and military officers of the old regime would be required to swear an oath not to take up arms. Frémont’s men had already been dispatched in pursuit of Castro and Pico, both of whom successfully evaded capture and escaped to Mexico. But the Bears took other Californios into custody, and a number more came in of their own volition. Andrés Pico, José Antonio Carrillo, José María Flores, and others surrendered to the Americans and took an oath, solemnly swearing, “That I will not take up arms against the United States of North America, that I will not do anything, or say anything, or write anything that may disturb the peace and tranquility of California, so pena de muerte,” under penalty of death. They were then released on parole.
Los Angeles, that turbulent pueblo, had been occupied by the forces of the United States without bloodshed. The Americans misinterpreted the lack of resistance as a sign of the Californios’ timidity and cowardice, but it was, in fact, the result of their divided leadership. A hatred of the American invaders would continue to simmer among ordinary Angelenos, but for the time being they remained leaderless.
B. D. Wilson decided the moment had come to return to his rancho and resume his business, so he went to Stockton to bid goodbye. “I should have someone on the frontier watching events,” the commodore said, and he asked Wilson to take the job. When Wilson objected that he was a civilian, Stockton replied with a laugh. “That is nonsense. You have a ranch on the frontier and there is no other person in whom I can trust who knows the people or understands their language. Therefore accept a captaincy from me and make up your own company of as many men as you please.” Wilson reluctantly agreed, and when he returned to the upper Río Santa Ana, he recruited some two dozen settlers, including both Americans and New Mexicans, to his ranger company.
On August 26 Stockton composed an ebullient dispatch to President Polk. He had routed and dispersed the Californio forces and secured the country for the United States. In a few days he would return to Monterey, resupply the Pacific Squadron, and extend naval operations south to the Pacific coast of Mexico. He planned to appoint Frémont territorial governor. “All is now peaceful and quiet,” he wrote. “My word is at present the law of the land. My person is more than regal. The haughty Mexican cavalier shakes hands with me with pleasure, and the beautiful women look to me with joy and gladness as their friend and benefactor. In short, all of power and luxury is spread before me, through the mysterious workings of a beneficent Providence.” In the words of the psalmist, pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.
•
CHAPTER 7 •
¡ABAJO LOS AMERICANOS!
IN EARLY SEPTEMBER, Stockton and Frémont decamped for Monterey with their forces. Archibald Gillespie and a company of fifty American rifleros, including a score of Bear Flag veterans, remained to enforce martial law in Los Angeles. From his headquarters at Government House on Calle Principal, Gillespie ruled with a heavy hand. Stockton had granted parole to all Mexican and Californio officers who agreed to lay down their arms, but Gillespie jailed those he deemed troublesome. He issued arbitrary rules prohibiting Angelenos from congregating in public, riding horses on public streets, or conducting business after sunset. He dispatched his rifleros to ransack private homes in search of weapons and other contraband.
On Mexican independence day, the sixteenth of September 1846, there were no public celebrations. Gillespie refused to lift the curfew, forcing Angelenos who wished to commemorate the holiday to assemble in small groups behind locked doors. On the evening of the fifteenth a number of men gathered at Ylario Varela’s, and as the midnight hour approached, José Antonio Carrillo rose to lead them in the grito. Politics was Carrillo’s passion. “A remarkable fellow he was,” wrote Horace Bell, “standing six feet four inches tall, weighing about two hundred and forty pounds, and bearing a perfect resemblance to the statues of some of the old Roman senators.” One early Los Angeles historian described Carrillo as “the Machiavelli of California politics,” the reigning master of political intrigue. That evening at Varela’s, he was working his craft.
“¡Los Mexicanos!” he began. “¡Viva la independencia! Long live the heroes who gave us our homeland!” The other men joined in, reciting the familiar phrases, but their words rang hollow. Mexico had done nothing to protect them from the American invaders. Even the leaders of California, their patria chica, had abandoned them. Don José paused, fighting back tears, then departed from the standard script. “There is not one among us who deserves to call himself the son of those great men,” he said. “We are craven cowards for allowing ourselves to be so shamefully conquered.”
Cobardia—cowardice. Angelenos were haunted by the charge. The American occupiers taunted them with it. Commodore Stockton, in a bombastic speech to a crowd of Americans at Yerba Buena in the north, characterized the conquest of Los Angeles as a test of honor the Californios had failed. He had challenged Castro and Pico to a “fair fight,” Stockton exclaimed, giving them the choice of “when and where this great matter was to be settled.” They responded with pronunciamentos, something they were very good at doing. But after all their threats, he scoffed, “they would not under the most favorable circumstances strike one manly blow for their capital or their country.” Californios deeply resented such talk. They considered themselves men of honor. Honor was the prime regulating force in their world. Yet among themselves they had to admit their shame at the conduct of leaders who, in the words of one patriot, had “disgraced the country” by running away.
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