(early 1800s)
Behold, this is wisdom in me; wherefore, marvel not, for the hour cometh that I will drink of the fruit of the vine with you on the earth, and with Moroni, whom I have sent unto you to reveal the Book of Mormon, containing the fulness of my everlasting gospel…. And also with Peter, and James, and John, whom I have sent unto you, by whom I have ordained you and confirmed you to be apostles, and especial witnesses of my name, and bear the keys of your ministry and of the same things which I revealed unto them…—Joseph Smith, Doctrines and Covenants1
The northward-extending chain of 21 Franciscan missions in the future state of California came to an impressive conclusion in 1823 with the establishment of the Mission San Francisco Solano in Sonoma, named in honor of Saint Francis Solano (1549–1610). Solano was a Spanish-born Franciscan making his reputation in South America as a friend of the poor, the disenfranchised, and Native Americans at a time in which the Spanish Empire was mainly concerned with imposing its will across the New World and exploiting its vast resources (see Chapter 12). By 1823, however, the world had changed. California was no longer under the long-distance jurisdiction of Madrid, but rather that of a newly independent Mexico City. In Sonoma County, Mexican settlers were colliding head on with Russian, English, and American traders coming from the north and east, while Mexican rule would itself be swept away in the name of Manifest Destiny within the space of a quarter century. For the time being, however, northern California and the Pacific Northwest appeared to be under the primary sway of Roman Catholicism. In Bay-area cities from San Francisco to Napa, streets were (and remain) named after Santiago Mayor, while further to the north in British Columbia, the historic Fort St. James had been established by English fur traders as an official outpost by 1806 and named after the patron saint of furriers, notwithstanding the fact that Great Britain had long since been a staunchly Protestant nation.
Just as the War of the Spanish Succession had been a catalyst of global change at the outset of the 18th century (see Chapter 15), so were the Napoleonic Wars of the early 19th century. Regarding vulnerable Iberia, Bonaparte initiated hostilities in 1807 by invading Spain and Portugal, thus inaugurating a Peninsular War lasting through 1814, and ending only with Bonaparte’s defeat in Russia. This was accompanied by the rise of Arthur Wellesley, future Duke of Wellington, with a string of tenacious victories won against the French within former Spanish and Portuguese dominions. While the British army and local Iberian militias clawed back homeland territory from the French, the once proud Portuguese royal court fled to its Brazilian colony in Rio de Janeiro, where it remained in exile for the next 14 years. As for the Spanish monarchy, whereas in a previous time Louis XIV of France had effectively used legalities and local politics to make his grandson king of Spain, Bonaparte unilaterally placed his brother Joseph on the Spanish throne in 1808, much to the consternation of the Spanish people.2 On May 2, 1808, a spontaneous riot broke out in Madrid when French Mameluke mercenaries were attacked by Spanish patriots using mostly their bare hands and fists. For the Spanish, it was one thing to be invaded and occupied by their old rivals and partners, the French; it was quite another, however—and quite intolerable—to stand by and watch Islamic troops parade through their capital city after all that had transpired over the last thousand years or more. The next day, Spanish rioters were rounded up by French occupiers and summarily executed by firing squad. The tumultuous events of May 2–3, 1808, were soon afterwards immortalized in two magnificent paintings by Francisco Goya (see below), today both on prominent display within the Museo del Prado.3
Another highly unpopular move in Madrid by the French, though far less commented upon, was the ordered demolition and redevelopment in 1810 by Joseph Bonaparte of the Iglesias de San Juan Bautista y Santiago. The original historic church structure dated from the Crusader era of the 12th century and was located at the terminus of Calle de Santiago (leading to the Plaza Mayor) in the Asturias district of Madrid. Later the original church had become a royal chapel for the Palacio Real located to the immediate west and served as a convenient starting point for Camino pilgrims traveling from Madrid to Santiago de Compostela. More universally, the older church was the final resting place of Spain’s greatest artist, Diego (“James”) Velázquez, who had been interred there by his own request in 1660 (see Chapter 14). During demolition, the tomb of Velázquez was irretrievably lost. Today, the former site is marked by the adjacent Plaza de Santiago and Plaza de Ramales (popular with both tourists and locals alike), the latter marked by an image of Velázquez on its street sign.4 As for the 1810 church (which replaced the old one), it is not without aesthetic merit. The distinguished Spanish architect Juan Antonio Cuervo (1757–1834) was commissioned to designed the new edifice, decorated with a bas relief of Santiago Matamoros at the entrance, and adorned within by an impressive painting of the same image by the Spanish-Italian artist Francisco Rizi (1614–1685). Nevertheless, the imposed and artificial reign of Joseph Bonaparte over Spain did not long outlast the displeasure of Madrid citizenry over these various indignities.5 After the fall of his more formidable younger brother, Joseph fled, first to France, then to the United States, and finally to Italy, where he supported himself partly by selling off Spanish antiquities looted during his brief but memorable reign over the Iberian Peninsula (see Chapter 3, note 21).
Arguably the absolute low ebb during the long history of the Santiago cult occurred in 1834 when the notorious Voto de Santiago, a tax imposed on the rest of Spain since the Middle Ages for the maintenance of the religious shrine at Santiago de Compostela, was formally abolished by a now liberated Spanish Cortes or parliament.6 Even the special interests lobbying in favor of its continuance primarily based their arguments on a 1492 decree by Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand affirming its validity, as opposed to any alleged historicity of the document, which by then was widely acknowledged as a forgery.7 By the time that the keenly observant British traveler and author Richard Ford toured Spain in 1830–1833, the proverbial writing was on the wall. When Ford’s acerbic recollections were later published circa 1845, he made it abundantly clear that he was far more impressed by the simple religious faith and resilience of the Spaniard people, as opposed to any professed authenticity or legitimacy of the Santiago cult.8 Ford’s sharp dismissiveness was in fact part of a long Anglo tradition dating back to the English Reformation (see Chapter 12); on the other hand, by 1834 it was obviously apparent that a majority of the Spanish people outside of Galicia were no longer in favor of paying taxes for the mere upkeep of the Santiago shrine, even while continuing to cherish its traditions and symbolism.
Not surprisingly, one major, immediate effect of these Iberian upheavals of the early 19th century was to spark Spanish-speaking independence movements across the New World. In May of 1810, the same year that Joseph Bonaparte carelessly ordered demolition of the Santiago church in Madrid, Argentina became the first Latin American country to formally and successfully declare independence from its capital in Buenos Aires. Later that same year (1810), on September 16—today celebrated as Mexican Independence Day—the Catholic priest and Mexican patriot Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla issued his Grito de Dolores (“Cry of Dolores”) proclamation, initiating an acrimonious seven-year struggle to transform New Spain into its own sovereign state. Between 1814 and 1822, most nations comprising modern Latin America achieved independence with help from talented Libertador generals such as Simón Bolívar, José de San Martín, and Bernardo O’Higgins, the latter winning a decisive victory over royalist forces near Santiago, Chile, in 1818 at the Battle of Maipú.9 In 1822, Brazil became the last major South American country to declare independence, less than a year after its would-be Portuguese monarchs in exile had returned to an Iberian Peninsula by then made safe by sustained British military efforts. After a decisive victory by the Peruvians over Spanish royalists at the Battle of Ayacucho in 1824, overt hostilities ceased, at least between Latin American patriots and royalist sympathizers, and a new map of the world, one with far more independent nation-states, became commonplace. Thus, what began in Philadelphia circa 1776 as a Pan-American movement in favor of colonial independence from European mother countries came to successful conclusion some 48 years later in the remote regions of the Andes Mountains.
As chronicled within these pages, by the mid–19th century the cult of Santiago, either as Moor-slayer or Camino Pilgrim, carried little if any resonance for Latin American patriots or, for that matter, anyone else beyond a shrinking number of devotees within certain parts of Spain itself. Libertador generals were not in the habit of invoking Santiago Matamoros while rallying troops, although the ever-popular Virgin Mary was occasionally used for that purpose. One exception was the curious inversion of the Matamoros symbol into Santiago Mataespañoles (“Spaniard-killer”), a convenient slogan for Native Americans or mixed-blood Latin Americans, but obviously less appealing to those patriots of pure Spanish ancestry.10 Remnants of another exception may still be found in the northeastern Mexican city of Matamoros, located in the Province of Tamaulipas, directly across the Rio Grande River from Brownsville, Texas. Originally this town had been called Villa del Refugio, but in 1826, five years after the success of the first Mexican War for Independence, it was renamed in honor of the fallen patriot Mariano Matamoros (1770–1814), whose family name was in turn clearly derived from the old Santiago cult.11 Among the many Mexican warrior-priests who had put aside their vestments and taken up arms (and subsequently gave their lives) in the cause of independence, none were more venerated than Matamoros, who achieved the high rank of Lieutenant General within the revolutionary forces before being captured and executed by royalist sympathizers during the height of the bloody conflict. As for his namesake city, it has proven to be one of the more prosperous and growing municipalities in northeastern Mexico, in large part thanks to economic stimulus provided by the controversial North American Free Trade Agreement of 1994 (see Chapter 20).12 The 19th century history of Matamoros was no less colorful, being among other things, a heavily-used port of entry for Confederate privateers during the War between the States, before the port itself fell into oblivion.13
Around the same time that Villa del Refugio was being rechristened to commemorate the patriotic memory of Mariano Matamoros, a tremendous religious revival in west-central New York State was producing an entirely new group of Christian Protestant offshoot denominations with distinctively American idiosyncrasies, including Jehovah’s Witnesses, Adventists, Shakers, and perhaps most prominently of all, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (LDS), originally led by its energetic founder, the New England–born evangelist Joseph Smith (1805–1844). This is not the proper place to delve into the endless complexities and subtle policy shifts characterizing the American Mormon sect over the last two centuries. For purposes of this study, however, suffice it to note that the turbulent and somewhat obscure beginnings of the LDS Church in upstate New York included the 1835 publication of Smith’s Doctrine and Covenants, recounting his religious visions experienced as a young man during the 1820s near his then-home of Palmyra, New York. Significantly, for purposes of doctrinal legitimacy (at the very least), heavenly personages appearing to Smith in these visions included SS. Peter, James, and John (see header quote).
The two sons of Zebedee had of course figured prominently as part of the Christian inner circle for Christ’s teachings ever since the time of the New Testament (see Chapter 1). Given that they, along with Saint Peter, had ordained Smith and his followers to a higher priesthood, helped to provide clear justification for establishment of a new church. In a broader context, Smith’s recording of this personal experience circa 1829–30 was only the latest strange occurrence in over a thousand years of strange occurrences regarding the cult of Saint James the Greater, underscoring James’ preeminence among most Christians as being first in apostolic martyrdom, but having also having absolutely nothing to do with Spain or Latin America. After Smith and his devotees fled New York State for the Midwest in 1830, and later following Smith’s murder in 1844 by a mob in Carthage, Illinois, the greater part of the Mormon flock under the leadership of Brigham Young migrated to the Utah territory, even as that remote region was still being contested during the ongoing war between Mexico and the United States (1846–1848). In this sense, one could say that the Church of LDS proved to be one of the main beneficiaries of that infamous conflict.
The prelude to the annexation of west-central North America by the United States came in March of 1836 when the Republic of Texas declared its own independence from Mexico, which itself had achieved independence from Spain only some 15 years previous. After an army led by Mexican President and General Antonio López de Santa Anna overran the Alamo mission in San Antonio a mere four days after Texan independence had been proclaimed, the Mexicans were then promptly defeated and Santa Anna taken prisoner by Texan revolutionaries under the command of Virginia-born Sam Houston at the decisive Battle of San Jacinto on April 21. It was, for all practical purposes, the first time that a major Spanish-speaking military force had been cleanly beaten in the field by an Anglo-led competitor in the New World. The old mystique of Santiago Matamoros obviously no longer held any sway, particularly in the face of American Manifest Destiny; moreover, this indifference seemed rather appropriate since no one on either side was known to have invoked the saint’s help during these struggles. Then in 1845, a mere nine years after the Battle of San Jacinto, Texas achieved official statehood. Mexico and the U.S. were now adjacent neighbors, but peace between the two did not last very long. The final irony in this long saga is that by 1861, after Texas had been quickly transformed into a slave state by its new masters, it voted to secede from the Union—over the strong objections of an aging Sam Houston—and fought tenaciously for the Confederate Army during the War between the States. To this day, the state of Texas retains a strong secessionist element among its populace—not unlike the contemporary Basque region of Spain, which throughout history has witnessed innumerable foreign powers cross its borders while contending for supremacy.
Within a year after Texas became an American state, the Mexican War broke out in 1846. Two years later (by 1848), American expeditionary forces in Mexico had achieved total victory, and dictated its terms of peace, later commonly known as the Mexican Cession. Consequently, the U.S. acquired all of what had previously been northern Mexico (and before that, northern New Spain), including the modern-day states of California, Arizona, New Mexico, Nevada, Utah, Colorado, and parts of Wyoming. In an unprecedented move, cash compensation of approximately $15 million was willingly paid by the victors to the vanquished.14 It was as if the collective American conscience was somewhat troubled by what it had just accomplished. Among the countless prominent Americans who were combat veterans of the Mexican War, many such as Ulysses S. Grant agreed that the conflict was little more than a pretext for a naked land grab (for the sake of expanding slavery) by a strong nation against a weaker one. In his memoirs, Grant ruminated at length on the decisive U.S. victory despite severe numerical inferiority while fighting on foreign ground for a rather dubious cause at best. Ultimately, he attributed American military success (and territorial conquest) to superior leadership, training and resources—in the process strongly suggesting these were the very same reasons for Northern federal victory over the South in the War between the States.15 In short, righteous valor was no match for disciplined might.16 Though Grant did not speculate any further than this, additional reflection shows that these were the identical factors giving earlier victories to the Spanish Conquistadors in America, as well as to Spanish Christians over Moorish Spain during the Reconquista.17 After the Mexican War, the Rio Grande River valley became a designated buffer zone between the two countries, which have remained at peace with one another ever since, excepting ongoing immigration and labor disputes (see Chapter 20).
As discussed elsewhere in this study (see Chapter 2), the artistic legacy of Francisco de Goya holds a special place of its own both during the late 18th and early 19th centuries. Few painters, Spanish or otherwise, can claim similar greatness for technical brilliance, emotional impact, or diversity of ever-evolving style; moreover, Goya addressed the Santiago theme and symbolism in a number of his works, both directly and indirectly. For example, Goya’s 1804 portrait of Ignacio Garcini y Queralt (1752–1825), Spanish Brigadier of Engineers, presents its military subject proudly displaying the red sword-cross medal of the Order of Saint James. This was only about three years before the entire Iberian Peninsula would subjugated by the Napoleonic invasion. Imposing companion works such as May 2, 1808, and May 3, 1808, while neither makes any overt reference to the Santiago cult, both still provide plenty of symbolic overtones recalling the old Spanish tradition. In May 2, Spanish patriots are unapologetically portrayed as Moor-slayers, killing North African Islamic mercenaries who occupy Madrid, while in May 3, these same patriots are presented as martyrs more in the political sense, dying before a French firing squad, yet at the same time receiving final benediction from a priest who himself is also among the condemned victims. Goya’s interpretation of a recent historical event evokes a new kind of Spanish nationalism, presaging the trend towards European nation-states of the 1800s, while incorporating, consciously or unconsciously, traditional elements of the distant past into that same vision.
Returning to Latin America (Mexico specifically), a far simpler work of art perhaps speaks greater volumes as to the subtly continuing influence of the Santiago cult over Spanish-speaking military affairs and Latin American nationalism of the early to mid–19th century. Mexican artist José María Obregón (1832–1902) was born after Mexican independence had been achieved from Spain in 1821 but well before the Mexican Cession to the United States of 1848. A native of Mexico City, the formally trained Obregón had made a name for himself as a painter of historical subject matter by the time that Austrian-born Maximilian I (1832–1867) began his short-lived reign as Emperor of Mexico in 1864. Attempting to take advantage of diverted U.S. attention while the American Civil War raged, a foolish Napoleon III of France, when not covertly sympathizing with the Confederate cause, attempted to impose his influence on the New World by placing his own man on the Mexican throne, even though Mexico had by that time been a stubbornly independent republic for many years (see Chapter 17).18 Obregón associated himself with the court of Maximilian to his own personal advantage while it lasted, but with the arrest and execution of the would-be Emperor in 1867, the artist was forced to make amends in the eyes of republicans, both for the sake of his life and his career. At this crucial juncture in 1868, Obregón chose the slain revolutionary Mariano Matamoros as his subject matter, since no known images of the popular fallen hero were known to exist. It proved to be a shrewd choice, allowing Obregón once again to fully demonstrate his not inconsiderable talents as a portrayer of sentimental and romanticized Mexican history, both distant and recent.
Obregón’s 54-year posthumous heroic portrayal of Mariano Matamoros (from 1868), today on display in the Palacio Nacional in Mexico City, is interesting on several levels. The subject is depicted with what appears to be priestly vestments covered by the simple coat jacket and cape of citizen-soldier, bare-headed, and holding a lowered curved sabre in his right hand. Mounted Spanish patriots parade behind him in the background, but the gaze and focus of Matamoros himself is forward-looking, solely towards the future. In many respects Obregón’s depiction of the Mexican Lieutenant-General is similar to that of another American Lieutenant-General, Ulysses S. Grant, painted by John Antrobus a few years earlier in 1863–1864.19 Both men strike a similar aloof, bareheaded pose with a concentrated expression.20 Both are strictly men of the people, holding high rank despite their humble origins. The difference is that by 1868, Grant was on the verge on being elected President of the United States, whereas Matamoros was an idealized war hero and fallen patriot of a fairly distant Mexican past. Like his namesake Saint James (Matamoros) the Greater, Mariano Matamoros was widely viewed as a martyr for his nationalist cause—a cause, though political, one also heavily overlaid with religious or semi-religious connotations.
It appears evident that by the mid–1800s, and probably long before that time as well, popular associations with the Matamoros nickname or surname—especially in Latin America—had become more anti–Spanish or anti-royalist than the more traditional, opposite meanings. In truth, there was a racial component to this inversion of usage. Latin Americans by then could, far more oftentimes than not, claim Native American heritage over the Arabic heritage of any Spanish ancestry, while in Spain traces of the old Islamic Iberian world, both ethnically and culturally, one subdued long previously by the Reconquista, were still far more in evidence. In the New World, whether one spoke of Santiago Matamoros or Santiago Mataindios, the old image of forceful conquest was considered merely offensive or oppressive by anyone beholding it. North of the Rio Grande Valley, with some isolated exceptions in New Mexico, one rarely encountered the image at all. In Mexico itself, it had become more of a battle cry against imperialism, rather than against Islam. Even in Spain, outside of Galicia, there was waning enthusiasm, especially if it involved paying more taxes. Wherever a Christian religious shrine or cult was needed, the Virgin Mary suited that purpose far better. In short, by 1850 the cult of Saint James the Greater was badly in need of a makeover, both in and outside of Spain. This it would shortly receive, however, not before Spain was completely stripped of the last vestiges of what once had been an aspiring global empire by its international rivals. Curiously enough, before the remnants of the old Spanish Empire received their final death blow, the rapidly populating plains of North America would witness the spectacle of light cavalry fighting each other in the style of à la jinete, a stratagem developed in North Africa during ancient times and transported to a new continent by Spanish practitioners. Now Santiago Matamoros had nothing to do with the conflict. It was as if things had finally come full circle.