gathered at the pass of the Galisteo, fifteen miles north of Santa
Fé, where, as a result of the rugged character of the country,
they could have offered a long and desperate resistance and could
only have been dislodged at a great sacrifice of life, upon the
approach of the American column they retired without firing a shot
and retreated to Chihuahua. On the 18th of August, 1846, the American
forces entered Santa Fé, and four days later Colonel Kearny issued a
proclamation annexing the whole of New Mexico to the Union. As the
red-white-and-green tricolor floating over the palace, which had
sheltered a long line of Spanish, Indian, and Mexican governors,
dropped slowly down the staff and in its stead was broken out a flag
of stripes and stars, from the troops drawn up in the plaza came a
hurricane of cheers, while the field-guns belched forth a national
salute. As United States Senator Benton described this remarkable
accomplishment in his speech of welcome to the returning troops: “A
colonel’s command, called an army, marches eight hundred miles beyond
its base, its communications liable to be cut by the slightest effort
of the enemy--mostly through a desert--the whole distance almost
totally destitute of resources, to conquer a territory of two hundred
and fifty thousand square miles, without a military chest; the people
of this territory are declared citizens of the United States, and the
invaders are thus debarred the rights of war to seize needful supplies;
they arrive without food before the capital--a city two hundred and
forty years old, garrisoned by regular troops.”
To understand the reason for General Armijo’s evacuation of New
Mexico without firing a shot in its defense, it is necessary to here
interject a chapter of secret history. The bloodless annexation of New
Mexico was due, not to Colonel Kearny, but to an American trader and
frontiersman named James Macgoffin. Macgoffin, who had lived and done
business for years in Chihuahua, was intimately acquainted with Mexico
and the Mexicans. He was not only familiar with the physiography of
the country, but he understood the psychology of its people and how
to take advantage of it. When war was declared he happened to be in
Washington. Going to Senator Benton, he explained that he wished to
offer his services to the nation and outlined to the deeply interested
senator a plan he had in mind. Senator Benton immediately took
Macgoffin to the White House and obtained him an interview with the
President and the Secretary of War, who, after listening to his scheme,
gladly availed themselves of his services. Macgoffin thereupon hastened
to Independence, Mo., where he hastily outfitted a wagon-train and
some weeks later, in his customary rôle of trader, arrived at Santa
Fé, reaching there several weeks in advance of Kearny’s column. The
details of his dealings with General Armijo, of how he worked upon
his cupidity, and of the precise inducements which he offered him to
withdraw his forces from the pass of the Galisteo, to evacuate Santa Fé
and leave all New Mexico to be occupied by the Americans, are buried
in the archives of the Department of State, and will probably never be
known. But though Armijo fled and Kearny effected a bloodless conquest,
Macgoffin’s work was not yet done. There remained the most dangerous
part of his mission, which was to do for General Wool in Chihuahua what
he had done for Colonel Kearny in Santa Fé. That he carried his life in
his hands no one knew better than himself, for had the Mexicans learned
of his mission he would have died before a firing-party. As a matter
of fact, he did arouse the suspicions of the authorities in Chihuahua,
but, owing to their inability to confirm them and to his personal
friendship with certain high officials, instead of being executed he
was sent as a prisoner to Durango, where he was held until the close
of the war. Upon his return to Washington after hostilities had ended,
Congress, in secret session, voted him fifty thousand dollars as
remuneration for his services, but, though President Taylor urged the
prompt payment of the same, the War Department arbitrarily reduced the
sum to thirty thousand dollars, which was insufficient to cover the
disbursements he had made. Ingratitude, it will thus be seen, is not
confined to princes.
Having organized a territorial government, brought order out of chaos,
and put New Mexico’s house in thorough order, Kearny, now become a
general, set out on September 25 with only three hundred dragoons for
the conquest of California. This march of Kearny’s, with a mere handful
of troopers, across fifteen hundred miles of unknown country and his
invasion, subjugation, and occupation of a bitterly hostile territory
are almost without parallel in history. Colonel Doniphan, who was left
in command of all the forces in New Mexico, rapidly pushed forward his
preparations for his contemplated descent upon Chihuahua, delaying his
start only until the arrival of Colonel Price’s column to occupy the
newly conquered territory. But on October 11, just as everything was in
readiness for the expedition’s departure, a despatch rider brought him
orders from Kearny to delay his movement upon Chihuahua and proceed
into the country of the Navajos to punish them for the depredations
they had recently committed along the western borders of New Mexico.
The disappointment of the Missourians, when these orders were
communicated to them, can be imagined, for they had volunteered for a
war against Mexicans, not Indians. But that did not prevent them from
doing the business they were ordered to do and doing it well. Crossing
the Cordilleras in the depths of winter without tents and without
winter clothing, Doniphan rounded up the hostile chiefs and forced them
to sign a treaty of peace by which they agreed to abstain from further
molestation of their neighbors, whether Indian, Mexican, or American.
A novel treaty, that, signed on the western confines of New Mexico
between parties who had scarcely so much as heard each other’s names
before, and giving peace and protection to Mexicans who were hostile to
both. No wonder that the Navajos and the New Mexicans, who had been at
war with each other for centuries, looked with amazement and respect
on an enemy who, disregarding all racial and religious differences,
stepped in and drew up a treaty which brought peace to all three.
Owing to the delay caused by the expedition against the Navajos, it
was the middle of December and bitterly cold before the column was at
last ready to start upon the conquest of Chihuahua. The line of march
was due south from Santa Fé, along the east bank of the Rio Grande,
to El Paso del Norte. Ninety miles of it lay through the _Jornada del
Muerto_--the “Journey of Death.” In traversing this desert the men
suffered terribly, for the weather had now become extremely cold, and
there was neither wood for fires nor water to drink. The soldiers,
though footsore with marching, benumbed by the piercing winds, and
weakened from lack of food, pushed grimly forward through the night,
for there were few halts for rest, setting fire to the dry bunches
of prairie grass and the tinder-like stalks of the soap-plant, which
would blaze up like a flash of powder and as quickly die out, leaving
the men shivering in the cold. The course of the straggling column
could be described for miles by these sudden glares of light which
intermittently stabbed the darkness. Toward midnight the head of
the column would halt for a little rest, but throughout the night
the weary, limping companies would continue to straggle in, the men
throwing themselves supperless upon the gravel and instantly falling
asleep from sheer exhaustion. At daylight they were awakened by
the bugles and the march would be resumed, with no breakfast save
hardtack, for there was no fuel upon the desert with which to cook.
Such was the three days’ march of Doniphan’s men across the Journey
of Death. On the 22d of December the expedition reached the Mexican
hamlet of Donanna, where the soldiers found an abundance of cornmeal,
dried fruit, sheep, and cattle, as well as grain and fodder for their
starving horses, and, most welcome of all, streams of running water.
The army was now within the boundaries of the state of Chihuahua.
On Christmas Day, after a shorter march than usual, the column encamped
at the hamlet of Brazito, twenty-five miles from El Paso, on the Rio
Grande. While the men were scattered among the mesquite in quest of
wood and water a splutter of musketry broke out along their front,
and the pickets came racing in with the news that a strong force of
Mexicans was advancing. The officers, as cool as though back at Fort
Leavenworth, threw their men into line for their first battle. Colonel
Doniphan and his staff had been playing loo to determine who should
have a fine Mexican horse that had been captured by the advance-guard
that morning.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to stop the game long enough to whip the
greasers,” Doniphan remarked, carefully laying his cards face down upon
the ground, “but just bear in mind that I’m ahead in the score. We’ll
play it out after the scrap is over.” The game was never finished,
however, for during the battle the horse which formed the stakes
mysteriously disappeared.
The Mexican force, which was under the command of General Ponce de
Leon, was composed of some thirteen hundred men. Five hundred of these
consisted of the Vera Cruz lancers, one of the crack regiments of the
Mexican army; the remainder were volunteer cavalry and infantry from
El Paso and Chihuahua. When a few hundred yards separated the opposing
forces, a lieutenant of lancers, magnificently mounted and carrying a
black flag--a signal that no quarter would be given--spurred forward at
full gallop until within a few paces of the American line, when, with
characteristic Mexican bravado, he suddenly jerked his horse back upon
its haunches. Doniphan’s interpreter, a lean frontiersman clad in the
broad-brimmed hat and fringed buckskin of the plains, rode out to meet
him.
“General Ponce de Leon, in command of the Mexican forces,” began the
young officer arrogantly, “presents his compliments to your commander
and demands that he appear instantly before him.”
“If your general is so all-fired anxious to see Colonel Doniphan,” was
the dry answer, “let him come over here. We won’t run away from him.”
“We’ll come and take him, then!” shouted the hot-headed youngster
angrily; “and remember that we shall give no quarter!”
“Come right ahead, young feller,” drawled the plainsman, as the
messenger spurred back to the Mexican lines, his sinister flag
streaming behind him. “You’ll find us right here waitin’ fer you.”
No sooner had the messenger delivered the American’s defiance than the
trumpets of the Mexican cavalry sounded and the lancers, deploying into
line, moved forward at a trot. They presented a beautiful picture on
their sleek and shining horses, their green tunics faced with scarlet,
their blue skin-tight pantaloons, their brass-plated, horse-tailed
_schapkas_, and the cloud of scarlet pennons which fluttered from their
lances. The bugles snarled again, the five hundred lances dropped as
one from vertical to horizontal, five hundred horses broke from a trot
into a gallop, and from five hundred throats burst a high-pitched
scream: “_Viva Mexico! Viva Mexico!_”
Waiting until the line of cheering, charging horsemen was within a
hundred and fifty yards, the officer in command of the American left
called, in the same tone he would have used on parade: “Now, boys,
let ’em have it!” Before the torrent of lead that was poured into it
the Mexican line halted as abruptly as though it had run into a stone
wall, shivered, hesitated. Dead men toppled to the ground, wounded men
swayed drunkenly in their saddles while great splotches of crimson
spread upon their gaudy uniforms, riderless horses galloped madly
away, and cursing officers tore up and down, frantically trying to
reform the shattered squadrons. At this critical juncture, when the
Mexicans were debating whether to advance or to retreat, Captain
Reed, recognizing the psychological value of the moment, hurled his
company of dismounted Missourians straight at the Mexican line. So
furious was the onset of the little band of troopers that the crack
cavalry of Mexico, already on the verge of demoralization, turned and
fled. Meanwhile the Chihuahua infantry, taking advantage of the cover
afforded by the dense chaparral, had moved forward against the American
right. As the Mexicans advanced Doniphan ordered his men down on their
faces, cautioning them to hold their fire until he gave the word. The
advancing Mexicans, seeing men drop all along the line and supposing
that their scattering fire had wrought terrible execution, with a storm
of _vivas_ dashed forward at the double. But as they emerged into the
open, barely a stone’s throw from the American line, the whole right
wing rose as one man and poured in a paralyzing volley. “Now, boys, go
in and finish ’em!” roared Doniphan, a gigantic and commanding figure
on a great chestnut horse. With the high-keyed, piercing cheer which in
later years was to be known as “the rebel yell,” the Missourians leaped
forward to do his bidding. In advance of the line raced Forsyth, the
chief of scouts, and another plainsman, firing as they ran. And every
time their rifles cracked a Mexican would stagger and fall headlong.
Meanwhile the American centre had repulsed the enemy with equal
success, though a field-piece which the Mexicans had brought into
action at incautiously close range continued to annoy them with its
fire.
“What the hell do you reckon that is?” inquired one Missourian of
another, as a solid shot whined hungrily overhead.
“A cannon, I reckon,” answered some one.
“Come on! Let’s go and get it!” shouted some one else, and at the
suggestion a dozen men dashed like sprinters across the bullet-swept
zone which lay between them and the field-piece. So quickly was it
done that the Mexican gunners were bayonetted where they stood and in
another moment the gun, turned in the opposite direction, was pouring
death into the ranks of its late owners. In thirty minutes the battle
of the Brazito was history, and the Mexicans--such of them as were
left--were pouring southward in a demoralized retreat, which did not
halt until they reached Chihuahua. Five hundred Americans--for the
balance of Doniphan’s column did not reach the scene until the battle
was virtually over--in a stand-up fight on unfamiliar ground, with all
the odds against them, whaled the life out of thirteen hundred as good
soldiers as Mexico could put into the field. In killed, wounded, and
prisoners the Mexicans lost upward of two hundred men; the American
casualties consisted of eight wounded. In such fashion did Doniphan and
his Missourians celebrate the Christmas of 1846.
The expedition remained six weeks at El Paso, awaiting the arrival of
a battery of artillery which Doniphan had asked Colonel Price to send
him from Santa Fé; so February was well advanced before the troops
started on the final stage of their advance upon Chihuahua. A few days
after his departure from El Paso Colonel Doniphan received astounding
news. An American named Rodgers, who had escaped from Chihuahua at
peril of his life, brought word that General Wool, to whom Doniphan
had been ordered to report at Chihuahua, had abandoned his march upon
that city and that the Mexicans were mobilizing a formidable force to
defend the place. Though Wool’s change of plan was known in the United
States, Doniphan had penetrated so far into the enemy’s country that
there was no way to warn him of his danger, and the nation waited with
bated breath for news of the annihilation of his little column. Even
at this stage of the march Doniphan could have retraced his steps and
would have been more than justified in doing so, for it seemed little
short of madness for a force of barely a thousand men, wholly without
support, to invade a state which was aware of their coming and was
fully prepared to receive them. It shows the stuff of which Doniphan
and his Missourians were made that they never once considered turning
back.
[Illustration: In another moment the gun was pouring death into the
ranks of its late owners.]
On February 12 the expedition reached the edge of the arid, sun-baked
desert, threescore miles in width, whose pitiless expanse lies
squarely athwart the route from El Paso to Chihuahua. Two days
later, after giving the animals an opportunity to feed and rest, the
never-to-be-forgotten desert march began. Aware that not a drop of
water was to be had until the desert was crossed, the troopers not
only filled their water-bottles, but tied their swords about their
necks and filled the empty scabbards with water. The first day the
column covered twenty miles and encamped for the night in the heart of
the desert. The following day the loose sand became so deep that the
wagons were buried to the hubs and the teams had to be doubled up to
pull them through. The mules were so weak from thirst, however, that
the soldiers had to put their shoulders to the wheels before the wagons
could be extricated from the engulfing sands. Notwithstanding this
delay, twenty-four more miles were covered before the soldiers, their
lips cracked open, their tongues swollen, and their throats parched
and burning, threw themselves upon the sands to snatch a few hours’
rest. The next day was a veritable purgatory, for the canteens were
empty, the horses and mules were neighing piteously for water, and many
of the men were delirious and muttered incoherently as they staggered
across the _llanos_, swooning beneath waves of shifting heat. As the
day wore on their sufferings grew more terrible; many of the supplies
had to be abandoned, and finally, when only ten miles from water, the
oxen were turned loose. Though only a few miles now separated them from
the Guyagas Springs, where there was water and grass a-plenty, men and
horses were too weak to continue the march and fell upon the desert,
little caring whether they lived or died. Indeed, had it not been for
a providential rain-storm which burst upon them a few hours later,
quenching their thirst and cooling their burning bodies, a trail of
bleaching skeletons would probably have marked the end of Doniphan’s
expedition.
Upon reaching the lush meadows which bordered the little lake[G] near
Guyagas Springs a long sigh of relief went up from the perspiring
column, for here they could spend a few days in rest and recuperation.
But, though they had, as by a miracle, escaped a death by thirst,
they were suddenly confronted by another and even greater danger. A
trooper carelessly knocked the ashes from his pipe upon the ground;
the sun-dried grass instantly took fire; and before the soldiers
realized their peril, a waist-high wall of flame, fanned by a brisk
wind, was bearing down upon them. All attempts to check the progress
of the fire proving useless, the animals were hastily harnessed and a
desperate attempt was made by the teamsters to get their wagons ahead
of the flames, but a gale was blowing in the direction the column was
advancing and the barrier of fire, now spread out for many miles,
was approaching faster than a man could walk; so the wagons and guns
were run into the lake. That the expedition was saved was due to the
ingenuity of a trooper in the Missouri Horse Guards, who had had
experience with prairie fires before. Acting upon his suggestion,
the soldiers were dismounted and ordered to cut the grass with their
sabres over a zone thirty feet in width and then set fire to the
grass standing next to the wind, which burned slowly until it met the
advancing conflagration. That night the men slept on the bare and
blackened earth, without forage for their horses but with thankfulness
in their hearts.
A few days after this episode the scouts in advance of the column saw
a group of horsemen riding toward them across the plain. As the party
came nearer it was seen to consist of thirty or forty Indians led
by a single white man. The latter proved to be one of the strangest
characters ever produced by the wild life of the frontier. His name
was Captain James Kirker, or, as he was called by the Mexicans,
Santiago Querque, and he was an Indian fighter by profession. By this
I do not mean that he took part in the periodical wars between the
Indians and the whites, but that he contracted to kill Indians at so
much per head, just as hunters in certain portions of the country make
a business of tracking and killing vermin for the bounty. For many
years past Kirker, whose fame was as wide as the plains, had been
employed by the state of Chihuahua to exterminate the Apaches who
terrorized its borders, and, thinking to fight the devil with fire, he
had imported twoscore Delaware braves, noted even among the Indians for
their abilities as trackers, to help him in hunting down the Apaches.
Shortly before the outbreak of the war the government of Chihuahua owed
Kirker thirty thousand dollars for the scalps of Apaches he had slain,
but when hostilities began it refused to pay him and threatened him
and his braves with imprisonment if they persisted in their claims.
Thus it came about that Doniphan received a considerable addition to
the strength of his force, for no sooner had Kirker received word of
the approach of the column than he and his Delawares slipped out of
Chihuahua between two days and rode off to offer their services to
their countrymen. Because of his remarkable knowledge of the country
and his acquaintance with the language and customs of the people,
Kirker proved of essential service to Doniphan as an interpreter
and forage-master, while his Delawares were invaluable as scouts.
In appearance Kirker was a dime-novel hero come to life, for his
long hair fell upon his shoulders; his mustaches were of a size and
fierceness that would have abashed a pirate; from neck to knees he was
dressed in gorgeously embroidered, soft-tanned buckskin; his breeches
disappeared in high-heeled boots ornamented with enormous spurs, which
jangled noisily when he walked; his high-crowned sombrero was heavy
with gold braid and bullion; thrust carelessly into his scarlet sash
was a veritable armory of knives and pistols, and the thoroughbred he
bestrode could show its heels to any horse in northern Mexico.
On the 28th of February, when within less than ten miles of Chihuahua,
the Americans caught their first glimpse of the army which had
been assembled to receive them. The enemy occupied the brow of a
rocky eminence, known as Sacramento Hill, which rises sharply from
a plateau guarded on one side by the Sacramento River and on the
other by a dried-up watercourse, known as an _arroyo seco_. The great
natural strength of the position had been enormously increased by an
elaborate system of fieldworks consisting of twenty-eight redoubts and
intrenchments. Here, in this apparently impregnable position, which was
the key to the capital of the state, and hence to all northern Mexico,
the Mexican army, which, according to the muster-rolls which fell into
Doniphan’s possession after the battle, consisted of four thousand two
hundred and twenty men, was prepared to offer a desperate resistance to
the invader. To oppose this strongly intrenched force, which comprised
the very flower of the Mexican army, Colonel Doniphan had one thousand
and sixty-four men, of whom one hundred and fifty were teamsters. No
wonder that the Mexicans were so confident of victory that they had
prepared great quantities of shackles and handcuffs to be used in
marching the captured _gringos_ to the capital in triumph.
Now, if Colonel Doniphan had acted according to the cut-and-dried rules
of the game as taught in military schools and books on tactics and had
done what the Mexican commander expected him to do, there is little
doubt that he and his men--such of them as were not killed in battle or
shot in cold blood afterward--would have gone to the City of Mexico in
the chains so thoughtfully provided for them. But being a shirt-sleeve
fighter, as it were, and not in the least hampered by a knowledge of
scientific warfare, he did the very thing that he was not expected to
do. Instead of attempting to fight his way down the high-road which led
to Chihuahua, which was commanded by the enemy’s guns, and where they
could have wiped him out without leaving their intrenchments, he formed
his column into a sort of hollow square, cavalry in front, infantry on
the flanks, and guns and wagons in the centre, suddenly deflected it
to the right, and before the Mexicans grasped the significance of the
manœuvre he had thrown his force across the _arroyo seco_, had gained
the summit of the plateau, and had deployed his men upon the highland
in such a position that the Mexican commander was compelled to hastily
reconstruct his whole plan of battle. By this single brilliant manœuvre
Doniphan at once nullified the advantage the Mexicans derived from
their commanding position.