Lamy of Santa Fe (19 page)

In the evening, when the air chilled, and the sun fell behind the great sierra west of the town, dust in the air made wonders of the sunset. The mountains became a mysterious violet, the skies were streaked with dusty gold under the high lingering daylight blue, and all was shadow on the streets, roads, and houses. It was then that the other character of El Paso and the lower villages came free; for the transcontinental migrations continued westward since 1849, and to the volatile temperament of the natives was added the lawlessness of the transients. Violence and vice of every description were met at any moment. Gamblers, thieves, even murderers were abroad; and the fandangos—dances held in private houses or public halls, to the rude music of scraped violins and violated guitars—were scenes of every ardor of romance among the swaying couples. Fury often broke out at the gaming tables, with sudden death as ready as a hand on a pistol or a knife. With little organized preservation of the law, posses of citizens were convened, trials were swift, and murderers were often hanged within an hour of their conviction. Was Santa Fe to be like this? “From what I have heard,” wrote Lamy to Blanc, “and the little I have seen here, no doubt I may expect to meet with serious difficulties and obstacles …”

He had over three hundred miles yet to go, and he understood that after advancing one third of the way, he would reach the pueblo lands, and would see at least half of his district before reaching Santa Fe. It was soon time to march again. The military escort from San Antonio—presumably including the troops earlier assigned from Cincinnati—was now divided into two detachments. One was to remain at the military post near El Paso (later Fort Bliss) for eventual return to San Antonio. The other was destined for upstream New Mexico. Accompanied by the new increment for Santa Fe, Lamy and his personal party set forth in early July 1851 on the Rio Grande road—that stretch of the
Camino Real
reaching from Mexico up to Santa Fe over which the waggon trade had been moving since the seventeenth century.

The north road took them at every five or ten leagues through New Mexican parishes for the first time. In all the towns, the reception was the same, as the bishop's waggon and his horsemen appeared with
him from the dusty road—a road as pleasant, said Machebeuf, as the other passage across Texas was tedious, except for the eighty-mile stretch which they would encounter called the Dead Man's March. This was a desert crossing divided from the river by a range of mountains which began shortly north of Las Cruces and ended a little way below Socorro, at a point where the mountains sloped down to the plain, and the road joined the riverside again.

While Lamy was on the way, the Santa Fe rural dean Juan Felipe Ortiz, having received his letter, wrote to various pastors along the way the amazing news of the American bishop's progress northward. The word spread rapidly among the people; and at town after town they marshalled their poor best to receive him in honor. “Everywhere I had to go,” he said, “they erected triumphal arches across the road, in village after village,” and, as he had put it concerning the same honors at San Elizario, he “had” to pass beneath them. Entire villages came out to meet him and escort him in procession to their local churches. In certain towns the women laid their shawls or wraps on the ground before the church doors to make a carpet for him, and men, women, and children came to receive his blessing and kiss his ring. It was clear, said Machebeuf, that they had not come to a non-Catholic land. They thought the people's devotion survived from the time when the first Franciscan missioners from Spain had “watered the Mexican earth with their blood and sweat.”

But the further they advanced, Lamy and Machebeuf saw that their first impression was not wrong—the zeal and piety they saw was only on the surface. The people went to Mass, observed the feast days, kept their religious sodalities active enough, but for the most part failed to adhere to the sacraments, upon which all else depended. The reason was not far to seek: the general disarray was the fault of the clergy. For the Catholic population of seventy thousand, Lamy in the end would encounter only fifteen priests, six of whom, enfeebled by age, were inactive. As for the other nine—he soon saw that they were either lacking in zeal or were actually so scandalous in their lives that the state of affairs could not be worse. He would need prudence, zeal, and devotion if he was to administer such a vicariate. The people were sweet as children in their response to the priest, and if the Mexican clergy who were still active could be moved by good intentions, it would be the easiest thing in the world to lead their people back to the full practice of their religion. “But alas,” exclaimed Machebeuf, “the great obstacle to the good which Monseigneur wants to do comes not from the people but from the Mexican clergy who dread any reform in their ways.… One of the worst of their neglects of their duty to their parishioners was that they almost never preached the
Gospel … and,” he demanded, “how could such priests dare to preach?”

As they progressed northward, the bishop and his vicar general did what they could to begin meeting needs long neglected. Lamy whenever he could offered the Mexicans “edifying words in poor Spanish,” and Machebeuf, when they came to any of the United States Army forts along the river, brought his spiritual offices to the soldiers who asked for them. On they went (“Goodbye to railroads, steamships, passenger coaches, and so on,” exclaimed Machebeuf, “in New Mexico there's no way to travel but in your own wagon, if you were lucky enough to have one, or on muleback”) through the villages of Socorro, Lemitar, Belen, Tomé (where they saw the parish records which Bishop Zubiría had signed on his last visit on 30 May 1849), and the Pueblo of Isleta, and the Rio Grande town of Albuquerque under its great dome of cottonwoods, and again on to Bernalillo (Coronado had wintered across the Rio Grande there in 1540–41), and to the pueblos of San Felipe and Santo Domingo, where they left the river and began to climb toward the escarpment of La Bajada. There the narrow road led in precarious double curves up to a great plain, and they came in sight of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains twenty miles away, in whose foothills lay the ancient and famous city of Santa Fe and the end of the journey.

vii
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Triumphal Entry

E
ARLY ON
S
UNDAY,
9 A
UGUST
1851, they were drawing near enough to be able to see the city. Lamy had thought it probable that “some of the faithful” would come out to meet his party, but he was astounded to see many thousands advancing at a point five or six miles from the first houses, and his first assumption was that the local garrison was leading a welcome to the troop detachment which accompanied him. In another moment he must accept the welcome on his own account. Most conspicuous in a magnificent carriage was the United States Territorial Governor James Calhoun. He greeted the bishop warmly. The resident Mexican rural dean came forward—Very Reverend Mon-signor Juan Felipe Ortiz—”a large, fat-looking man” with reddish hair
—to pay his respects to Lamy, and the governor took the two into his own carriage. All the civil and military authorities were on hand, and leading citizens, riding in the finest carriages gathered from the city and the country for miles around. Among the festive thousands were ranks of Indian dancers, each group in its own characteristic costume, who “performed their evolutions” along the way.

As the elated procession came to the city, the American artillery at Fort Marcy on its height commanding the plaza fired cannonades in salute. The road of the bishop's entry—evidently San Francisco street leading directly to the parish church of St Francis, which would become the cathedral—was superbly transformed into a lane of “beautiful cedar trees, which the day before had been brought in and planted for the occasion.” All the houses were decorated with their best fabrics—silks and carpets hung from the windows, doors, and balconies—while the animated populace attended the progress up the earthen street.

Going direct to the church of St Francis, the bishop entered the sacristy to change from his dusty travel clothes. The church was filled, the women kneeling on the floor, with black shawls over their heads, while the men stood at the rear. The principal church, it was in poor repair. There was no floor but the packed earth. Particles of the adobe ceiling and walls flaked down. Whenever at rare intervals there should be rain, mud puddles gathered on the floor. The nave was long and narrow, with dim transepts establishing the shape of the cross. On each side of the main chamber were life-sized wax figures left behind from the time when Franciscans administered the province. These were effigies of painted friars with tonsured heads, one group wearing white habits, the other blue, all cinctured with the knotted Franciscan girdles. The altar was a garish bower of ornate mirrors, paintings or colored prints, and brightly colored hangings. Colored glass high up in the walls cast a reddish glow over the interior. A Mexican string orchestra waited for the bishop's entrance, with all the available clergy, for the singing of the Te Deum. He was now robed in his purple cassock, surplice, mozzeta, and a heavy white stole embroidered in gold bullion. Machebeuf, as his vicar general, accompanied him.

Looking upon him clearly now, the people saw Lamy in his early middle age, with the signs of ten years of hard, maturing work on him. Gaunt and sparely built, he was weathered from his travels. His manner was mild but when he met their gaze, his dark eyes sparkled. His head was broadly modelled, with deeply porched eyes and strongly shadowed cheeks, outlined by his long, dark, curly hair. In repose his wide mouth wore a melancholy expression, but when he smiled people felt the illumination of his nature. Patience, civility, and intelligence marked his face. His jaw was bony and square, and his chin was resolute. He
seemed young—and in fact was, at thirty-seven—to be a bishop. His vicar general looked older than he. They saw that Machebeuf was shorter, and how his thin little frame seemed to quiver with controlled animation. His hair, long and brushed straight back from his spacious brow, was light. His face was as plain as the bishop's was handsome. Over his deep-set little eyes he wore small spectacles rimmed in metal. His face was lean, with marked cheekbones, and his mouth was a trifle protuberant, with a thick lower lip. A large mole made a lump on his right jaw. His collar was too large for his thin neck. Through all this, his witty and compassionate nature charmed people's spirits when they looked at him. However curious a pair they were to come before strangers whose ways and wants were so different, the Santa Feans paid respect to their offices now.

The Te Deum was sung, and in the liturgical intervals, the music of the fandangos—for it was the only music available—twanged forth from the string players. Lamy at the end gave his triple blessing, and was then conducted to the adjacent rector's house of Monsignor Ortiz. What Lamy found there amazed him. The house, as both he and Machebeuf remarked, was transformed into a veritable “Episcopal palace”—presumably with rich furniture, hangings, and rugs. Ortiz had moved out in order to accommodate the bishop, and had taken up residence under his mother's roof. The rectory looked like a suitable lodgement and Lamy resolved to live there.

Now followed a “magnificent dinner” to which came all the leading authorities and citizens of the town, including Mexicans and immigrant Americans, Protestants and Catholics alike, military and civil. It was such a feast, declared Machebeuf, as to cause Lamy and himself to forget entirely their long journey across the Texas deserts.

The day needed only one more blessing to make it memorable. As at El Paso, and all the length of New Mexico, the drought over Santa Fe had been ruinous. Fields and ranges were scorched, cattle and sheep were dying of starvation, the hardest of times faced the people. Like everyone in New Mexico, the guests at the ceremonial dinner were all concerned at the disaster which threatened. And then, on the very day of the bishop's arrival, clouds appeared from across the mountains, and rain fell in torrents until the earthen streets ran like brown rivers. The downpour was general. Crops would revive, the grass ranges be saved. The year would be one of plenty after all. In the common thought, could it be anything but an omen?

The day's welcome could hardly have been more joyful, and, in terms of what was to be had in Santa Fe, extravagant. But if Lamy thought it an auspicious beginning for his new labors, he was wrong.

IV

THE DESERT DIOCESE

1851–1852

i
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Defiance

A
LEADER IN THE JUBILANT WELCOME
given to Lamy, Juan Felipe Ortiz, the rural dean (or vicar forane) at Santa Fe, reserved until later the most unexpected news he had for the new bishop. Having paid all proper respect to mitre and crozier—Lamy was undoubtedly a bishop—Ortiz, and the local clergy over whom he presided, suddenly maintained that Lamy was not the bishop for Santa Fe, and refused to recognize him as such.

It was astonishing to be told this after all the triumphal arches, the episcopal palace of mud placed at his disposal, the public excitement. How could this be?

Ortiz stood his ground, believing he had good reason to do so. Only a few months ago, his own bishop, Zubiría of Durango, had been in Santa Fe, when the two discussed the ruling given to Durango by Rome—that Mexican bishops should “continue to exercise their episcopal authority north of the border.” What else (as Bishop Blanc had noted earlier) could have taken Zubiría to New Mexico after the 1846 war?

But the papal bulls, the faculties vested in Lamy, all set forth in the documents which he carried with him?

Well and good, conceded Ortiz; but he had had no word from Durango that the episcopal power was to be transferred, and lacking such direct authority, the dean would continue to disavow Lamy as his ordinary. His local clergy would do the same, for it was to him that they looked as the representative of Bishop Zubiría. As rural dean since 1832, Ortiz had been responsible for the entire administration of the Church in New Mexico—the duties of the clergy, the upkeep of the churches, the keeping of parish records, the strict observance of the liturgy, the care of sick priests, continuous visits to his parishes, and the making of annual reports to his bishop. Ortiz had shown no zeal
for his duties, and under his regime his clergy had lost theirs. But in the matter of a change of bishops, he was suddenly zealous, legalistic, and rudely stubborn.