i.

Martínez Rampant

IF THERE WAS EVERY REASON FOR LAMY TO BELIEVE that his enemies were intensifying their representations against him at Rome, he had more comforting reason, in January 1856, to hope that peace might at last settle upon his relations with one who was potentially his most formidable, because most intelligent and even least corrupt, adversary. This was the pastor of Ranchos de Taos, Father Antonio José Martínez. Father Martínez had worked for a quarter of a century for his people in Taos—Indians of the pueblo as well as the Mexican families of the ranchos and the central village. He had tried, long before Lamy, to find native youths who could be trained for the priesthood, and had found some—the notorious Gallegos of Albuquerque had been one of them. Martínez, too, had had his fling in local politics, and, remote in his high mountain village on Taos Plain, he had kept up a lively life of the mind, with strong opinions dating from his years as a seminarian at Durango. Now, after his skirmishes with Lamy, over the issue of the division of the Santa Fe parish, and with Machebeuf, over the accusations of betrayals of the confessional oath, he seemed to have subsided, despite his deeply entrenched local patriotism and pride of race. Further, he was beginning to feel the infirmities of age coming upon him, and he fell to considering proper arrangements for a diminishing future. He wrote to Lamy about all this in a temperate spirit.

Sending his letter by way of his cousin Joaquín Sandoval, who brought with it for the bishop a chalice of silver “worth thirty pesos,” he went on to say that he was troubled with rheumatism which, especially when riding, gave him great suffering in his legs. He had to keep himself warmly dressed even in the house. More—his nights were greatly distressed by urinary difficulties—”I am unable to void all that I need to,” and falling asleep became impossible. Lying in bed until three in the morning was all he could do. He was troubling Lamy with these disagreeable personal matters because “if such ills continue,” he must sooner or later vacate his benefice—when, who could say? But it might be in the near future, though until such time he would of course give due attention to his duties. In short, “I might find myself obliged to resign because of poor health,” and he remained at His Excellency’s disposal, and was his most true subject and faithful servant.

To this recital which seemed to cry out for sympathy there was no reply from Santa Fe. Lamy was alert to other concerns, and he wrote of these to Barnabo at Rome; for he had evidence that the legislators of New Mexico, and other laymen, under the sponsorship of Gallegos and J. F. Ortiz, were readying a huge bill of complaints against him to be addressed to Pio Nono. In the light of recent history, he may still have had doubts about Martínez. In any case, instead of answering Martínez, he wrote to Barnabo, “Perhaps the legislators of New Mexico who, though Catholics in name, are far from honoring religion by their moral conduct, will send you a representation against me and some of the rules which I established. I think it my duty to warn you of this, for all this opposition is plotted slyly by two or three Mexican priests”—could Martínez be one?—”who do not easily pardon me for the fault of having come to trouble them.…”

In a month or so Machebeuf was to leave for Rome. He and Lamy were taken up with the preparation of documents which would present the bishop’s case at the Holy See. Father Martínez, with his tall, oval face, framed in black receding hair, his black eyes with the lids drawn down at the outer corners, his lean dour mouth, his jutting cheek bones, the uncertain look oddly lodged in his strong features, above his black neck cloth and his velvet-faced black cloak, was not the foremost of the concerns which now held Lamy’s attention. Once again preparing to manage without the presence of his vicar general, Lamy, as he had written to the Society at Paris, would have to do everything himself—“Je suis alors curé, vicaire, secrétaire et enfin factotum, mats grâce à Dieu j’ai une santé robuste… ”

He armed Machebeuf with “a long letter” in his own defense which the vicar general was to present at Rome. He gave him a letter to Pius IX asking permission for his travelling priests to say two Masses in one day—keeping the fast—at far separated missions, during the pre-Christmas novenas of the Virgin Mary, for he feared that without this privilege, certain places would be deprived of the devotions which alone could save the feast day from lapsing into merely secular celebration. Once more, he wrote an outline of the entire dispute with Zubiría over “Doñana” or “Condado” patiently supporting the logical, indeed legal, claim which Santa Fe held to the still unassigned area. In February he had already written again to Barnabo, hoping to hasten the decision, and pointing out that “the inhabitants of the Condado are astonished that I do not exercise my jurisdiction in this part of the Territory as in the other parts …” Now Machebeuf would press the claim again. So far, if Lamy had not taken possession of the disputed lands, it was only to “avoid any controversy with Mgr. Zubiría,” and also to permit the decision to come from Rome. But it was to be noted that “several bishops and archbishops of the United States” were joining him “to demonstrate to the Holy See the justice” of his appeal. For the rest, “M. Machebeuf will expose to you the various reasons why the Holy See should deign to grant my request, for the order and general well-being of our holy religion.” In another matter, finding himself “financially embarrassed,” he asked permission to sell a small piece of Church property—evidently the Castrense chapel, now unused since the departure of Ortiz and the reconsolidation of the parish of Santa Fe. In addition, and of vital importance, he gave Machebeuf a general document authorizing him to recruit, wherever he might go, “priests, seminarians, brothers, nuns, or monks,” to meet the “immense need” of the diocese. (Machebeuf kept the paper all his life.) Counting on success in such enrollments, Lamy asked the Society at Paris to stand ready to pay the travel expenses of those who would return home with Machebeuf. Not for the last time Lamy had to turn to the Old World to succor the New; for all America was still a missionary district and his diocese was remote from everything but the concern of Paris, Lyon, and Rome.

In bitter weather and heavy snows, Machebeuf travelled eastward over the plains in March. Everyone had adventures, but his always carried, in his accounts, a particular kind of pleasurable amazement. His carriage was upset in the snow four days out of Fort Union. He must abandon the carriage and in order not to overload his other cart, which already carried luggage and rations, he and a companion had to walk for two days through the snow, at last joining up with a waggon train of merchants, American and Mexican, who were bound for the St Louis markets. They “took pity on him” and gave him and his equipment travelling room in an enormous waggon containing six other passengers and fodder for twenty animals, pulled by ten mules. It could be imagined how all this was less than agreeable or thrilling, but preserving a dignity becoming to a Frenchman and a missioner, he showed himself satisfied none the less, and did not allow his “good humour to suffer.”

There were compensations, for, in return for inconvenience, he was witness to the marvels of the snowy plains: buffalo, deer, antelope in the thousands; and he revelled in the adventures of dining now and then with the plates laid on the snow, but for the most part, they all ate “like the Israelites”—standing, with their weapons in hand. They slept at night under two buffalo robes with an added cover of five or six inches of snow, while great packs of wolves circled the camp, eating what was left, even to bits of harness. One of his fellow travellers told him he had seen wolves prowling several times about his bed, but he neither saw them himself, nor paid attention, for soundly asleep he was “not of this world.” (Between St Louis and Cincinnati in April, he wrote this account to his sister from the steamboat Sultana, a ship which blew up nine years later when her entire battery of boilers “went,” killing 1647 persons in the worst steamship disaster of the inland rivers.) He would proceed first to Paris, then Clermont, then Rome.

At Santa Fe, by the beginning of April, after the long and hard winter, which had brought much extra work in keeping the adobe houses and churches with their mud roofs in repair, fine weather came to the mountains and brought the first easing of spring, when everything stood clear and sharp to the eye, and the air wafting down from the high pine forests lifted the spirits. Lamy—had he been struggling already for five years there?—seemed to see a few signs of progress.

The cathedral parish church was now “pretty well repaired.” He had a good lot and house for the sisters, and as much for the school for boys, and he began to think that his heavy expenses might be over, so that he could begin to “square” some of his debts. “If on one part we have troubles,” he told Purcell, “on the other we meet with some consolation, where I have good priests, the improvement is sensible.” People were able to resume the sacraments; children were being taught and catechized; new churches were being built, others restored; schools were improving, “particularly that of the sisters,” whose pupils were steadily increasing in numbers. “The priests I brought two years ago, and to whom you yourself gave hospitality in Cincinnati are doing great good, they are animated of the right kind of spirit. I hope Mr Machebeuf will bring me a few more of that kind.…”

True, expenses continued to be dreadful, chiefly because of the high cost of transporting everything over the plains. There seemed no possibility of letting up on his means of raising money through church fees. These seemed harsh not only to the old residents, and their priests whose benefices had been reduced and divided, but also to other observers. The secretary of the Territory wrote,

In the spring of 1856 a young Mexican gentleman was buried in Santa Fe according to the rites of the Catholic Church, and a friend afterward handed me a copy of the bill the officiating priest presented for the services, which, though considerable in amount, is quite reasonable compared to that previously mentioned. As a matter of curiosity, I append an exact copy of the bill of fees, viz.:

Dobles (tolling the bells)	$10.00
El sepulcro (the grave)	30.00
La cruz alta (the grand cross)	1.00
La capa (high mass vestments [cope])	3.00
La aqua bendita (holy water)	1.00
Los ciriales (candlesticks)	1.00
El incensario (vessel for incense)	1.00
Las mesas (resting places [bier])	3.00
El intierro (the interment)	30.00
La Misa (Mass)	20.00
El organo (use of the organ)	15.00
Los cantores (the chanters [choir])	6.00
El responso del oratorio (response of the oratory)	10.00
Mas al diacono (the deacon’s fee, additional)	10.00
	$141.00

It must be borne in mind that these charges are solely the dues of the Church for the religious services of the burial, and the bills are made out in mercantile form and duly presented for payment. From this showing, it is an expensive matter to die and be buried in New Mexico, and appears to cost quite as much as it does to live. There is no doubt about the right of the Church to charge for the burial service all the people are willing to pay, but we may fairly question the propriety of making such simple and necessary rites so expensive.… Facts of this kind are a strong argument in favor of the abolition of the system of tithing in New Mexico, and instead giving the priests a fixed salary, as is the case in other parts of the United States.

Where the income for such salaries was to come from, the secretary did not say.

“Though the time rolls on,” wrote Lamy, “the strong opposition raised altogether by few of the old padres does not seem to stop.” For one thing, Gallegos was campaigning furiously for reelection to the post of delegate to the Congress, spending money, making splendid promises. His opponent was a young man of a great old family, the Otéros. He was well educated, he spoke sensibly, and he saw the society as Lamy did; but Gallegos by an early reckoning was in the lead and his party, said Lamy, were “trying all they can to embarrass us.”

But even more extraordinary—Juan Felipe Ortiz was again agitating the scene. In his condition of suspended priest, he was the principal one who had induced the members of the legislative assembly of New Mexico to “make a petition to the court of Rome” against Lamy. But—Lamy could not forbear to report the most astounding absurdity—Ortiz “had the humility to propose himself to Rome as Bishop of the Diocese and to have us suspended or at least removed. This very week”—the last week of April 1856—”he wrote me an insolent letter, asking me to show him a Document of the Sovereign Pontife [sic] by which I could prove that I was authorized to take this parish.” The hysterical unrealism of such a performance, which alone must guarantee that Rome would never view Ortiz as a potential bishop, moved Lamy to add, “From these facts you may have an idea of their ability. I have to pray for them that the Almighty will change them.”

In the same month, Martínez wrote again to Lamy from Taos. His maladies persisted. He hoped a priest might be sent to relieve him—not for the sake alone of his health, but for the fact that he felt unable to fulfill his duties properly. In fact, he had a candidate, and he proposed him to the bishop: Father Don Ramόn Medina. He said he was asking for Medina “because the people are terribly worried about the priesthood that is not native to the country”—an admission which said much, if tactlessly, about the local opinion of the French clergy. He hastened to add that the parishioners regarded the new clergy as Americans, and did “not believe in them.” Recognizing their fears, Martínez did what he could to allay their suspicions, “but,” he said, in the end, “it is a sort of general preoccupation which they do have.” He thought, therefore, that if Medina, a native priest, could be sent, he could learn his duties and the local obligations under Martínez’s supervision, and, surely, would in a short time be able to continue alone as pastor. “At this time,” said Martínez, “I would formally resign.”

It was an adroit proposal (he accompanied it with sixteen pesos due to the bishop) by which in effect Martínez would retain control, the cabal against Lamy could be maintained, and the ways of reform could be resisted; but it failed of its purpose.

Lamy, moving swiftly, gently, and with finality, within a fortnight notified Martínez that his resignation was accepted, saying that he wished to accommodate him, and “contribute with all in my power toward the recovery of your health, since you say … you feel quite unwell and unable to carry out the duties of the administration.” He was therefore sending a priest to Taos to assume the pastorate—not Don Ramόn, for this young priest was not yet experienced enough for such a post. But instead, the bishop was assigning Taos to the mature

Spanish priest, Don Damaso Taladrid, who had come with him from Rome two years ago, and already had had much experience “in the priestly ministry” of parish duties. To make his point quite clear, Lamy added that under this new arrangement, Martínez would be “without responsibility, and, relieved of cares,” could, out of consideration for his advanced age, accept the ease and rest he deserved.

A stunning rebuff, the reply was anything but what Martínez expected. Consequences painful and protracted for both him and the bishop would not be long in coming.