Lamy of Santa Fe (12 page)

But alas for the dear homeland: France was in a “very uncertain state” under the current republic. Lamy feared insurrections could be expected at any moment, thanks to higher taxes, anti-clericalism, and absolute rule by Louis Eugene Cavaignac, the dictator who was vested with “supreme power.” “It is nowadays a saying,” wrote Lamy, “that in Europe two men are Supreme Masters Nicolas in Russia and Cavag-nac [
sic
] in France.” He had heard on good authority and he hoped it was true that Cavaignac “approaches the Sacraments.” Even so, “we are far from being in security, everybody is looking from some dreadful explosions …” For himself, Lamy was preparing to return to what he called “my Beloved Ohio.”

Unluckily the seminarians of Mont-Ferrand were on vacation, and he could find no one to pledge to America. But there were others. There was a Father Caron at Boulogne-sur-Mer, a friend of Bishop Rappe, who would come to Cleveland, and a priest in Clermont agreed to come to Cincinnati (though Lamy felt obliged to note with regret that he was already thirty-six years old), an excellent priest who was a
“maitre de conference”
at Mont-Ferrand in Lamy's own time. He still hoped to bring two or three younger ones “who could learn English with more facility.”

In early August he wrote Purcell that he was thinking of bringing his sister to America with him—she was hoping to be dispensed by her superior so that she could join the Brown County Ursulines in Kentucky. His niece Marie might come too—to be brought up by her aunt in that Kentucky convent. The little girl was strongly drawn to America and the religious life. On the twenty-seventh he wrote the bishop, “I will not tarry much longer.” He was happy to report that everyone in Clermont remembered Purcell very well and many had congratulated Lamy for belonging to Purcell's diocese. He would see to the few articles Purcell asked him to buy in France.

Machebeuf, too, had his list of requirements, one of which was word from home. Lamy had written him three times with all the family news. He, whom Machebeuf regarded as his
“plus intime et sincere ami”
was to beg some financial help from Riom, which was duly sent in the amount of “two or three thousand francs.” This, it appeared, was not enough, but for which, in any case, Machebeuf sent his family his best thanks. Sister Philomène was to send to him by way of Lamy “a pair of dalmatiques, white overall, with sides of different colors and
trimmed with galoon, either of real gold or imitation. Also another alb of netting”—all to make it possible at last to celebrate the ceremonies of the Church with “pomp and solemnity.” Lamy had another list.

After these errands, he pursued the more important ones, and ended by finding three Ursulines at Boulogne who would sail home with him, as well as his sister—the bishop of Clermont had approved her going—and his niece, Marie. Julius Brent, from Danville, studying for the priesthood in Europe, had arrived in Clermont, and would lead him to England, where Brent family members wanted to receive them. It was, for Lamy, “a great opportunity to speak English again.” The nuns sailed from Boulogne under the protection of Father Caron, Lamy and Brent went to London, and when the time came, Lamy, with his sister and his little niece, sailed for New York from Liverpool. Years later they still told at Santa Fe how Marie, when the ocean was stormy, would climb up to her uncle's embrace and hug him for safety against her fear of the sea. He too, now, had made the first of many voyages between America and Europe.

He was home in Covington by early autumn 1848. The work which followed growing immigration was heavier than ever—in Ireland the famine was on, and the diocese was increasing by astonishing numbers. Not only did these desperately poor searchers for comfort and freedom need the attention of their Church, thus heavying the burden upon it, but their coming had an odd secondary effect on the furious attempts of the Church to keep up with its task which required additional revenues: for, finding work, however humble in America, the new Irish Americans made a practice of sending part of their wages to those, hungry and destitute, whom they had left at home.

As soon as he could, Lamy went to see Machebeuf in Sandusky. The two old friends would have much to talk about, eager questions, keenly deliberate replies. Family news. The state of France. And the fulfillment of errands. What had Lamy brought home? One item which required particular care—cuttings of the best grape vines from Auvergne, muscats, Damas, Gamay. Wine was wanted for Mass, and also for the table. Lamy was a lifelong gardener. But more: he brought some fine vestments and six beautiful gilded candlesticks and a chalice of gold-plated bronze, with the cup lined in vermeil. Fine as they were, Machebeuf, poor as he was, later had to go to Detroit to sell them. But “the pity was,” wrote Machebeuf, that Lamy had “forgotten to bring the two white dalmatics” which he had particularly asked for. A disappointment, but there were larger matters to talk about. The railroad had reached Cincinnati, and the flood of middle western settlers from the East and abroad increased even more as a result. It was agreeable to report that a priest could have a pass which would
allow him to travel
gratis
at any time. Only nine years ago, travel had been a matter of jolting along ruts, wet or dry, or breaking through woods, or halting at some forest cabin during blizzard or downpour. Material development was so rapid and widespread and called for such strong measures to meet it that Machebeuf, writing in May 1849, to Sister Philomène, declared that “at the moment when I write these lines, Bishop Rappe and all the other bishops of the United States are gathered at Baltimore” a crucial provincial council. They were to debate the resolution to ask Rome to create new archbishoprics—there were only two—one at St Louis, the other at Baltimore, which was the ranking U.S. see. In their session, these prelates, by their very convening, were creating a national character for the Church in the United States; and among the results of their debates was a decision which neither Lamy nor Machebeuf could have imagined, if they contemplated their futures.

xii
.

After the 1846 War

T
HE SIGNED TERMS
of peace laid out new boundaries which yielded a vast domain from Mexico consisting of Texas and California, and all lands between, which embraced the province of New Mexico as it then included present-day Arizona. The southern border of this huge territory was defined in a provisional way by the Rio Grande from the Gulf to “the whole southern border which runs north of the village called Paso,” as the Vatican copy of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo stated. From there the boundary would go west until cut by the first arm of the Gila River, and proceed to its confluence with the Colorado River. From the point where the rivers met, the boundary would be drawn to the Pacific Ocean along the existing line which divided the provinces of Upper and Lower California. The agreement was shown in the adjustment of a map published by one J. Disturnell in New York in 1847. By treaty terms, both nations in due time were to set up a joint boundary commission which would conduct a proper survey and permanently fix legitimate possessions of both nations.

Something of the difficulties of defining a conclusive boundary was reflected in a letter written by an Army officer and quoted in a speech
on the floor of the House in Washington by Congressman Truman Smith of Connecticut. “The boundaries of the territory have never been very exactly defined, as a great share of the line lies over desert countries, where very little importance can attach to an exact location. Whilst in Santa Fe I endeavored to ascertain the exact southern boundary of the territory, but I found that various lines had been claimed both by New Mexico and Chihuahua. All agreed, however, in considering the settlements to the north of the ‘Jornada del Muerto' (‘Dead Man's Journey') as belonging to New Mexico, whilst those to the south of it were considered as belonging to Chihuahua.” The congressman for his part spoke sentiments which to one degree or other were shared by a vocal minority of his fellow citizens. He announced that the common people were very ignorant, the women less educated than the men, and both sexes were, as he understood, “under the control of the clergy to an extraordinary degree. The standard of morals is exceedingly low … the country is little better than a Sodom.” He thought the whole acquisition of the territory a disaster. “The moral desolation which exists in Northern Mexico must long continue; … I am free to say that if all the vices which can corrupt the human heart, and all the qualities which reduce man to the level of a brute, are to be ‘annexed' to the virtue and intelligence of the American people,
I DO NOT DESIRE TO BELONG TO ANY SUCH UNION
.” The congressman ended his grand periods by saying, “It is apparent that we have extorted a bargain from Mexico at the point of a bayonet, and cheated ourselves.”

In any case, such a political separation, imprecise as it had to be in its first phase, and relying on self-interest as well as lines drawn on a map, brought another serious matter for debate; and that was the question of religious jurisdiction in the new United States territories. All lands that had been ceded had been administered by bishops of Mexico. What should now be decided? Should this, could this, old ecclesiastical authority continue, even across national boundaries?

The American bishops nearest the problem were those who presided at New Orleans and Galveston. Bishop Blanc of New Orleans had given much thought to the question, and had gathered what information he could. In January 1849, he wrote to his colleague and far neighbor, Bishop Odin of Galveston. “New Mexico,” he stated, “is under the Bishop of Durango [in Mexico], who is there at the moment (in New Mexico) and plans to spend six months there—it seems that matters there are not good—and in general are even worse than those in California.” Durango was fifteen hundred miles from Santa Fe, the civil and ecclesiastical capital of the province of New Mexico. But there, too, was California, dependent on the bishop of Sonora. Texas—
at least the eastern Gulf portion—was independent of Mexican jurisdiction, having been established under the Texan Republic. But the Mexican bishops were as concerned as the American, and, wrote Blanc to Odin, “having jurisdiction over the ceded parts of their territory, have consulted Rome to know if they should continue their control of those lands which are now American.”

Rome's reply was astonishing, and bore the seed of years of legalistic wrangling. Rome “answered the Mexican bishops in the affirmative”—they were to continue to exercise their episcopal authority north of the border. “No doubt,” said Blanc, “it is for this reason that the Bishop of Durango went off to New Mexico, on ecclesiastical affairs.” Bishop Blanc had been told that the Mexican bishops were extremely responsive to everything which must interest them concerning the spiritual good of those provinces. Blanc thought two very capable men were needed in those territories—men who spoke both languages, English and Spanish. He did not specify their nationalities—but that was nothing new, since a bishop from far away often was sent to preside over a new diocese. He ended with a local bulletin: the cholera epidemic at New Orleans was drawing to its close, after having carried off at least between twelve and fifteen hundred people.

But the territorial problems were not to be readily resolved. How could Rome, in her great distance from the scene, grasp the realities of the scale of the land, the needs of the people, indeed, the fallen state of the Church herself in the ex-Mexican states? At Baltimore three archbishops and twenty-three bishops assembled in synod to enter into more than the recommendation of additional American archbishoprics and dioceses.

They gathered in early May 1849 in the archbishop's residence at the rear of Latrobe's superb classical cathedral, which though not completed (the pedimented portico was not yet built) was the finest Christian monument in the country, symbolic of the earliest Catholic colonization, seat of the premier bishop, who at the time of this convening was Archbishop Eccleston. Led by a crucifer, and wearing mitres and copes, carrying their croziers, and following a long column of lesser clergy, attended by acolytes, and watched by a crowd of citizens, the women in crinolines and the men uncovered, the prelates processed to the opening session from the archbishop's house, along the south side of the cathedral, around the corner, passing a locally admired iron fencing which enclosed the premises, and entered by the main doors on the west front. The cathedral's serenely unadorned lines were enriched within by nine large religious paintings sent from Rome in 1824 as a gift from Cardinal Fesch, Napoleon's uncle, and by two even larger donated by the last Bourbons of France. Under the noble coffered
dome of the cathedral and before the high altar with its classical pillared apse, the bishops, conducting their business in Latin, entered upon their agenda.

The matter of the new archbishoprics would not have taken long to deal with—the developing provinces were immense, several bishops were needed in each, and a presiding head, or metropolitan, must assist with the making of policy for each suffragan bishop. But more difficult, perhaps even more urgent, was the question of the Mexican territories now within the United States, their proper administration, and the state of the Church within them for the past many years. There was much to be brought forward about the latter point, before the territorial issue was to be taken up.

Shocked observations of Mexican life had been made by soldiers who had gone to the border war. Many such men were officers who recorded their impressions. Some drew faithful if not wholly skilled pictures of aspects of the Mexican life now so abruptly incorporated into the American territories, and some accounts had been published. The Mexican society and—so far as the Council was concerned—the Church could only be described as outlandish in their condition. Thousands of Catholics—Mexican and Indian—who had inherited the faith so laboriously and successfully implanted by the Franciscans between the Spanish conquest and the early nineteenth century—when they had been withdrawn from the vast area now annexed to the United States—thousands lived in scattered sites, far removed from each other, and almost totally without spiritual succor. Even where this was present, as in the older settlements of New Mexico, in particular Santa Fe, the lives of the priests appalled visitors from the States and from abroad. It was the bishop of Durango in Mexico, fifteen hundred miles from Santa Fe, who was responsible for the whole of New Mexico as part of his immense diocese, and he had paid only three visits there in the twenty years before the war. An English traveller reported that to come there, the “good old man was glad to return [to Durango] with any hem to his garment, so great was the respect paid to him …” It was thought a miracle that he escaped death at the hands of Apache or Comanche warriors in the course of his three-thousand-mile round trip over an empty landscape which was a seemingly endless repetition in sequence of desert, parched river, and mountain barrier.