Mexico, 1848-1853: Los Años Olvidados 1138684244, 9781138684249

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Mexico, 1848–1853

Historians have paid scant attention to the five years that span from the conclusion early in 1848 of Mexico’s disastrous conflict with the United States to the final return to power in April 1853 of General Antonio López de Santa Anna. This volume presents a more thorough understanding of this pivotal time, and the issues and experiences that then affected Mexicans. It sheds light on how elite politics, Church-state relations, institutional affairs, and peasant revolts played a crucial role in Mexico’s long-term historical development, and also explores topics like marriage and everyday life, and the public trials and executions staged in the aftermath of the war with the U.S. Pedro Santoni is Professor of Latin American History at California State University, San Bernardino. Will Fowler is Professor of Latin American Studies at the University of St. Andrews.

Routledge Studies in the History of the Americas

Memory of the Argentina Disappearances The Political History of Nunca Más Emilio Crenzel Projections of Power in the Americas Edited by Niels Bjerre-Poulsen, Helene Balslev Clausen, and Jan Gustafsson Mexico, 1848–1853 Los Años Olvidados Edited by Pedro Santoni and Will Fowler

For more information about this series, please visit: www.routledge.com/ Routledge-Studies-in-the-History-of-the-Americas/book-series/RSHAM

Mexico, 1848–1853 Los Años Olvidados Edited by Pedro Santoni and Will Fowler

First published 2019 by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017 and by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2019 Taylor & Francis The right of the editors to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Santoni, Pedro, editor of compilation. | Fowler, Will, 1966– editor of compilation. Title: Mexico, 1848–1853 : los años olvidados / edited by Pedro Santoni and Will Fowler. Other titles: Mexico, 1848–1853, los años olvidados Description: New York ; London : Routledge, [2018] | Series: Routledge studies in the history of the Americas ; 3 | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2018007683 (print) | LCCN 2018021641 (ebook) | ISBN 9781315544045 (ebook) | ISBN 9781138684249 Subjects: LCSH: Mexico—History—1821–1861. Classification: LCC F1232.5 (ebook) | LCC F1232.5 .M649 2018 (print) | DDC 972.08/2—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018007683 ISBN: 978-1-138-68424-9 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-315-54404-5 (ebk) Typeset in Sabon by Apex CoVantage, LLC

For María & Bianca

Contents

Preface 1 Setting the Scene: The History and Historiography of Post-War Mexico, 1848–1853

ix

1

WILL FOWLER AND PEDRO SANTONI

2 The Will of the People: Representaciones and Political Riots in Mid-Nineteenth-Century Mexico City

34

REGINA TAPIA

3 Winds of a Coming Storm: The Failure of Vatican Diplomacy and the Rise of an Intransigent Leadership in the Mexican Church

52

PABLO MIJANGOS Y GONZÁLEZ

4 “The Powerful Element That Would Certainly Have Saved Us”: Debating the Revitalization of the National Guard in Post-War Mexico

72

PEDRO SANTONI

5 The Sierra Gorda Pronunciamientos of 1848–1849 and the Origins of Popular Conservatism in Mexico

115

WILL FOWLER

6 To Whom We Now Turn: The Problem of Leadership in Southeastern Mexico’s Age of Transition, 1848–1855 TERRY RUGELEY

141

viii Contents 7 Violence, Collaboration, and Population Movements: The New United States–Mexico Border, 1848–1853

166

MARCELA TERRAZAS Y BASANTE (TRANSLATED BY SUZANNE STEPHENS)

8 Truth and Reconciliation in Front of the Firing Squad: Trials and Executions in Post-War Mexico

189

EVERARD MEADE

9 “Looking for Virtuous Citizens by the Lamp of Diogenes”: Governance, Moral Regulation, and Hegemony in Guanajuato, 1849–1853

216

DANIEL S. HAWORTH

Contributors Index

247 249

Preface

The origins of this book go back to a June 2014 conference organized by Will Fowler, titled “The Forgotten Years: Post-War Mexico (1848–1853).” Eighteen scholars from Mexico, the United States, and the United Kingdom then traveled to the University of St. Andrews in Scotland to examine this crucial five-year period in Mexico’s history. At that time the country’s political class—specifically the regimes of moderado (or moderates, as that political bloc was known) Generals José Joaquín de Herrera and Mariano Arista—had to cope with the trauma of a devastating military defeat in the 1846–1848 war with the U.S. and the consequent territorial amputation of some 525,000 square miles of Mexican land. Mexican leaders also faced the unenviable task of reconstructing the country and redefining national direction as they confronted political strife, economic decline, and class and ethnic hatreds. These issues had beleaguered the nation—and had not abated—since the achievement of independence from Spain in 1821. Herrera, Arista, and many other public-spirited Mexicans tried to meet these and other challenges in various ways, but their efforts generated much instability. The years 1848–1853 witnessed the organization of formal political parties in Mexico, but increasing polarization among contending factions helped draw the battle lines for the struggles that played out in violent fashion during the Reforma, as the country’s mid-nineteenthcentury Liberal Revolution—which stretched from 1855 to 1876—came to be known. Those two decades saw Mexicans clash over the extent to which they should eliminate the remnants of the Spanish colonial legacy, and one of the most pressing such questions involved the unresolved question of the Catholic Church’s role in Mexican society. This matter had again come to the forefront in the late 1840s as evidenced by the controversy that followed the arrival of the first papal delegate in Mexico, Luigi Clementi. In addition, efforts to rebuild key institutions like the regular army and the national guard became hotly debated and highly contentious issues. The possibility that popular uprisings like the ones that erupted throughout Europe in 1848 would spread across Mexico also greatly worried pundits, particularly because the country then experienced a marked rise in agrarian and indigenous revolts. Coupled with the possibility of further territorial

x Preface encroachments by the U.S., these developments brought Mexican leaders face-to-face with the possibility that the country would be torn asunder. As the above paragraph suggests, these so-called “forgotten years” were more than just an interlude between the end of the war with the U.S. and the Reforma, an era which Mexico’s “official history” regards as the starting point of the nation’s path toward modernization. The events and issues that shaped Mexico between 1848 and 1853 proved crucial to the country’s longterm historical development, but scholars have nevertheless largely ignored this period. Consequently, and after two days of vigorous discussion in which conference participants presented their research and exchanged viewpoints about political, social, cultural, and economic affairs in mid-nineteenthcentury Mexico (interspersed with making time to view the inaugural matches of the 2014 FIFA World Cup), it became evident that there was a need for a book that, building on these findings, could act as a corrective to the historiographical neglect the post-U.S.–Mexican War years had been subjected to. With Professor Fowler unable initially to take the lead on the project because of other academic obligations at St. Andrews, Pedro Santoni volunteered to head the task of editing a volume inspired by the conference. He contacted a selection of conference participants, prepared the book proposal, and recruited three historians who did not travel to St. Andrews but whose expertise (and willingness to write chapters for this book) would provide readers with a more complete, well-rounded understanding of these crucial, but forgotten years. The proposal was finally sent to Routledge in December 2014, and its editorial board, after a number of unforeseen delays, approved the project one year later. The chapters that appear in this volume, then, represent fresh efforts to present a thorough understanding of the 1848–1853 years in Mexico by subjecting them to extensive historical scrutiny. They slice off several distinct, yet interconnected, aspects of Mexican history, and in so doing shed new light on topics (or aspects thereof) that researchers have already examined in other contexts and/or periods, or evaluate matters heretofore largely overlooked by scholars. Together, these articles offer readers a sense of the varied issues that affected Mexicans during this pivotal time, and highlight as well how the proposals and events of post-war Mexico informed and influenced a variety of political, institutional, and social developments during the Reforma. The result, then, is a book that showcases the manifold ways in which the años olvidados (forgotten years) contributed, for better or for worse, to the formation of the Mexican nation-state, and how remarkable it is that these five years have attracted so little attention until now. The book starts off with an introductory chapter by Will Fowler and Pedro Santoni that analyzes the existing historiography of this period, suggests various reasons why contemporary observers and historians have paid little attention to it, and explains why the años olvidados proved to be a critical juncture in Mexican history. Next, Regina Tapia explores a political

Preface  xi riot as well as a colonial-era device known as a representación (a type of written request) to examine how elites and lower-class residents of Mexico City tried to manipulate the concept of popular sovereignty in 1849 and 1850 to shape public affairs and further their own agendas. In chapter 3 Pablo Mijangos y González makes clear why government and ecclesiastical leaders missed an excellent opportunity to repair their long-standing differences between 1848 and 1853, a failure that contributed to the open hostility that characterized their relationship during the Reforma. Then, in chapter 4, Pedro Santoni examines the moderados’ well-meaning, but illfated efforts to turn one of early republican Mexico’s most important military institutions—the national guard—into a force capable of safeguarding political stability, social harmony, and middle-class material interests. The book’s remaining five chapters are centered in different geographic locales. Will Fowler’s piece considers how the spread in central Mexico of what he terms “popular conservatism” during the Sierra Gorda rebellion helped turn cavalry officer Tomás Mejía (until his 1867 execution) into the staunchest defender of the region’s popular grievances as he furthered his national political goals. Terry Rugeley then pays close attention to the five modes of governance that emerged in Yucatán, Campeche, Tabasco, and Chiapas in the aftermath of the U.S.–Mexican War; by 1848 legitimate government institutions had weakened or collapsed in the southeast, perhaps more so than anywhere else in Mexico. In chapter 7 Marcela Terrazas y Bazante surveys the changing nature of the U.S.–Mexican border, a largely desolate and unknown area at the time. Her piece shows how communities there adapted to a new boundary line, as well as the way the revamped frontier affected Mexican domestic and international politics. Everard Meade’s chapter scrutinizes government efforts to bring to justice the nefarious Roque Miranda, a well-known delinquent in Mexico City who also collaborated with invading forces during the latter stages of the war with the U.S. Mexican authorities did so in an attempt to bolster the country’s fragile post-war peace and assign responsibility for the enormous suffering brought on by the conflict. Last, Daniel S. Haworth evaluates more than 100 emancipation appeals lodged with authorities of the central Mexican state of Guanajuato to assess evolving marital and moral norms and practices. His analysis of these petitions shows that in Guanajuato, as elsewhere in Mexico, the continuity of daily life helped maintain stability in the post-war era. To conclude, and because a book is a collaborative endeavor, we would like to thank every individual whose efforts and hard work made this volume possible. First, we offer our sincere appreciation to all those speakers who, albeit for various reasons were not included in this collection, offered suggestive papers on the 1848–1853 period at the 2014 conference in St. Andrews: Edwin Alcántara Machuca, José Antonio Aguilar Rivera, Melissa Boyd, Sergio A. Cañedo Gamboa, Rosie Doyle, Brian Hamnett, Erika Madrigal Hernández, Rachel A. Moore, Ana Lilia Nieto Camacho, Berenice Pardo Hernández, Carlos Armando Preciado de Alba, Kerry

xii Preface Roberts, Flor de María Salazar Mendoza, Enrique Sada Sandoval, Patience Schell, and Miguel Soto. Next, we are deeply indebted to Kimberley Guinta, a former Senior Editor at Routledge whom Professor Fowler met at the 2014 Latin American Studies Association conference in Chicago. Although she left Routledge one year later to take another position with a competing press, Kimberly encouraged him to pursue the project. We could not have authored this book without her input. Third, we thank Routledge’s Max Novick for all his help, but especially for his patience. Edited volumes, he acknowledged a long time ago, are always difficult to orchestrate, so we are most grateful to Max for giving us ample time past the original submission deadline to deal with the various issues that delayed timely completion of the manuscript. We want to acknowledge his generous advice and counsel on our countless editorial queries, and hope to have “dotted all the i’s and crossed all the t’s” to his satisfaction. Pedro is especially appreciative of Deborah Kopka, the Senior Project Manager at Apex CoVantage, who gave him plenty of time to further tweak the copy-edited version of the manuscript. Both of us are also indebted to each contributor given that our pleas for further revisions—especially Pedro’s—proved wearing at times. Indeed, as we neared the final stages of production Will began to wonder if we would ever finish the book due to Pedro’s penchant for rigorous editing. Whenever Pedro revised a chapter it underwent a process Will christened as “Santonization,” and likened to having gone on vacation only to find that the furniture in one’s home had been thoroughly rearranged during their absence. In the end, we thank all contributors for their patience, and only hope that they—and our readers—are pleased with the results. Last, and certainly not least, we wish to recognize the two women to whom this book is dedicated. While neither María nor Bianca (Pedro’s wife and fifteen-yearold daughter) is particularly interested in the nuances of nineteenth-century Mexican history, their support and encouragement kept the project on track to its final punctuation marks.

1 Setting the Scene The History and Historiography of Post-War Mexico, 1848–1853 Will Fowler and Pedro Santoni

Until recently, the political, social, and economic turmoil that afflicted early republican Mexico (1824–1855) rendered that epoch incomprehensible as well as inaccessible to specialists and general readers alike. As two scholars put it, the conventional image of those times remained synonymous with the “chaotic age of [General Antonio López de] Santa Anna. . . [and] its endless sagas of opera bouffe caudillos, foreign intervention, and caste warfare.”1 In the 1980s, however, historians of Mexico began to reexamine the three decades that followed the country’s independence from Spain in 1821, and their findings have helped dispel the aforesaid stereotype. Scholars have since elaborated a more precise categorization of nineteenth-century political factions and their positions on the issues of the day, shed new light on the comportment of institutions like Congress and the Catholic Church, demonstrated the agency of subaltern actors like peasants and urban dwellers, revealed Santa Anna as more than a power-hungry, opportunistic, and corrupt leader, and shown that the nation’s frequent pronunciamientos (often translated as revolts) were not just barracks rebellions, but rather an instrument that allowed various historical actors and groups to draft lists of grievances in order to negotiate for political change.2 Despite renewed interest in Mexico’s history between the 1820s and the 1850s, academics have paid scant attention to the period that spans from the conclusion early in 1848 of that republic’s disastrous conflict with the United States to the final return to power in April 1853 of the muchmaligned Santa Anna. These five years remain woefully understudied. Compared to other regimes and epochs, like the presidencies of Santa Anna and Benito Juárez, or the mid-nineteenth-century Liberal Revolution known as the Reforma (1855–1876), historians have shown little interest in the policies, and efforts at reform, of the governments headed by moderado (as the moderate liberal political bloc was known) Generals José Joaquín de Herrera and Mariano Arista. And yet the 1848–1853 years, which we are calling the años olvidados (forgotten years),3 were a crucial time in Mexican history—not only in their own right—but also because they exemplify how many problems that prevented the country’s leaders from establishing a viable nation-state gave way, in the wake of war with the U.S., to a marked

2  Will Fowler and Pedro Santoni radicalization and polarization of politics, and a discernable rise in agrarian unrest and violence. This introductory essay, therefore, aims to make clear how the 1848– 1853 period played a key role in drawing the battle lines of the Reforma by contextualizing the chapters in this volume in three ways. First, it provides a discussion of the existing historiography, concentrating on what one may learn from those works that have engaged with the 1848–1853 years while exploring the reasons why the period has received so little attention to date. Second, the introduction offers a concise overview of the Herrera and Arista administrations so that readers can appreciate the chronology of events, as well as the overarching issues that inform the case studies contained in the book. Finally, the chapter explores the relevance of the main themes that defined these años olvidados, with special reference to the reverberations of the 1848 European revolutions, and to Mexico’s own historical trajectory from independence to the rise to power of General Porfirio Díaz in 1876. In this way the essay highlights how important these years were in informing and influencing the events of the next two decades.

The Historiography of Post-War Mexico Much has been written about the history of Mexico’s war of independence (1810–1821) and of the different governments that held power in the twenty-six years that followed, sometimes almost immediately after the given events had taken place. Individuals like the prolific politician and journalist Carlos María de Bustamante provided a running commentary that relived and historicized the era in the numerous volumes he published between 1822 and 1847.4 In a similar vein, aging protagonists of the early national period like conservative patriarch Lucas Alamán, as well as santanistas (as Santa Anna’s supporters were known) José María Tornel and Juan Suárez y Navarro, looked back in anger at the decades that followed independence in the cluster of historical accounts that started to proliferate after 1849.5 Santa Anna’s 1853–1855 dictatorship, in particular the Revolution of Ayutla that brought it to an end, was likewise recounted in 1856 by Spanish eyewitness Anselmo de la Portilla,6 while the ensuing Reforma period with its civil war (1857–1861) and French Intervention (1862–1867) was discussed by both Miguel Galindo y Galindo and José María Vigil.7 In stark contrast, Mexican intellectuals who lived between 1848 and 1853 did not write elaborate accounts of what transpired at that time. Squeezed in between the traumatic U.S.–Mexican War that preceded them, and the two decades of bloodshed and civil conflict that came after, pundits overlooked— if not forgot—these five years. What happened in Mexico between the departure of U.S. forces in the late spring of 1848 and Santa Anna’s sixth and last presidency, became, in a way, both figuratively and literally, but a few lines in subsequent general histories of nineteenth-century Mexico. The post-war years are largely lost in the concise Historia de México, which

Setting the Scene  3 the Mexican government published and distributed free of charge across all educational establishments as part of the bicentenary of independence celebrations in 2010. There Josefina Zoraida Vázquez’ chapter about the early national period (which ends in 1848) has but one paragraph that mentions the Caste War in Yucatán, the polarization of politics, the formation of the Conservative party in 1849, Herrera’s achievement in completing his term in office and Arista’s failure to emulate his predecessor, as well as a brief subsequent reference to the $15 million war indemnity that the U.S. paid to Mexico. Meanwhile, Andrés Lira’s contribution on the Reforma does not pay any attention to the años olvidados as it begins in 1853.8 Five Mexican history textbooks, some of which are commonly used today in university classrooms across the U.S., also reflect the prevalence of this narrow, myopic vision. First published in 1979, and currently in its eleventh revised edition, the ever-popular The Course of Mexican History still offers insubstantial coverage of the 1848–1853 period. It disregards the Herrera and Arista presidencies, and fails to effectively contextualize the two specific events from that time it does refer to—the publication of Alamán’s five-volume Historia de Méjico, and the outbreak of the indigenous revolt in Yucatán. Everyday Life and Politics in Nineteenth Century Mexico: Men, Women, and War (2000) contains only two short paragraphs on the postwar context, one on the rebellion in the Sierra Gorda (a region in central Mexico that borders several states including Guanajuato, Querétaro, and San Luis Potosí), and another on the conflict in Yucatán, before going on to discuss the Reforma. The pertinent chapters of The Oxford History of Mexico (2010), an edited text with twenty-one chapters, all but ignore the años olvidados; the article about the U.S.–Mexican War penned by Vázquez ends in 1848 while Paul Vanderwood’s contribution on the Reforma takes up the narrative in 1853. Mexico in World History, published in 2011, skims through the post-war years in less than two pages that focus almost exclusively on the ideological divide between political factions. Finally, the chronological discussion of the post-independence era in The Essential History of Mexico: From Pre-Conquest to Present (2016) devotes but two paragraphs (approximately 120 words) to the 1848–1853 era; in contrast, Santa Anna’s 1853–1855 regime merits seven paragraphs, and roughly 300 words.9 Monographs that examine the años olvidados, or segments thereof, as an intrinsic unit of analysis are far and few in between. The first book to closely scrutinize these years was Moisés González Navarro’s Anatomía del poder en México, 1848–1853, which remains an important contribution to our understanding of this period. In this volume, first published in 1977, the author highlighted several key issues that then came to the fore, including the increase of independent Indian raids in northern Mexico and indigenous rebellions generally, the drought of 1849–1850, and the profound sense of disillusion which had replaced the hopes for a prosperous future that many Mexicans harbored at the time of independence. Anatomía del poder

4  Will Fowler and Pedro Santoni also enhanced our grasp of Mexico’s mid-nineteenth-century social history, with chapters on demography, population trends, land tenure, and early attempts at industrialization and their consequences. The author’s focus, however, is not without problems. Not so much concerned with the events of 1848–1853 or with the governments that then ruled and the policies they put forward, González Navarro’s preoccupation was more sociological. He sought to understand the society that made it possible for Santa Anna to make it back to the presidential chair in 1853 given that five years earlier he had left the country resoundingly defeated, if not in disgrace, and accused of secretly having pocketed a fair share of U.S. dollars in exchange for losing the 1846–1848 war on purpose. González Navarro dedicated over a third of the monograph to the plot to bring back Santa Anna and his actual return, and thus failed to give much attention to the 1850 presidential election or the actual day-to-day politics of Herrera’s and Arista’s administrations. Notwithstanding these oversights, his view that “the period 1848–1853 has been studied relatively little [. . .] because Mexican historiography has been interested in other topics” still holds true today.10 Aside from Anatomía del poder, only one other book focuses exclusively on the post-war years. Written fourteen years after Gónzalez Navarro’s monograph, Salvador Rueda Smithers’ El diablo de Semana Santa: El discurso político y el orden social en la ciudad de México en 1850 offers a suggestive window into the apprehensions that kept middle-class Mexico City dwellers awake at night during the year that marked the half-century. Relying heavily on the newspapers, speeches, and pamphlets that then circulated in the Mexican capital, the author analyzes the concerns that those publications featured: Matters of crime and punishment, news of indigenous uprisings, the scandal surrounding the gruesome assassination of the prominent politician and former diplomat Juan de Dios Cañedo, and the devastation caused by the 1850 cholera epidemic. While El diablo provides a fascinating window into how fear featured as a prominent theme throughout 1850, it does not engage with the entire period that concerns us.11 Michael P. Costeloe also deeply probed into the años olvidados. In the mid1990s, following the publication of his books on the First Federal Republic (1824–1835) and the Central Republic (1835–1846), Costeloe began to research the Restored Federal Republic (1846–1853)—which stretches from the reinstatement of the 1824 federal constitution in August 1846 to the cessation of that charter in April 1853—with a view to completing a trilogy on independent Mexico. He then wrote several seminal articles and book chapters that offer much insight into various episodes or events that took place between 1848 and 1853. Costeloe tackled the response of contemporaries to the first volumes of Alamán’s Historia de Méjico in 1849–1850; the nature of campesino (peasant) unrest and Mexico state Governor Mariano Arizcorreta’s controversial defense of peasant claims to village lands in 1849; the 1850 presidential election and the unscrupulous, yet effective, campaign General Arista waged to win that office; Arista’s loneliness vis-à-vis his

Setting the Scene  5 difficult relationship with Mexico City’s conservative elite; and the negotiations led by Francis Falconnet to ensure the London-based Committee of Mexican Bondholders was paid back a portion of the money its investors had lent Mexico in the mid-1820s.12 Costeloe’s interest in the Restored Federal Republic waned after this last article as his subsequent research focused instead on British–Mexican economic relations,13 but his concern for the 1848–1853 period found a second wind toward the end of his life when he began work on a biography of Arista. His premature death in 2011, sadly, prevented him from completing the project.14 Other scholars have published articles and book chapters on disparate topics that helped shape the años olvidados. In addition to some events that this book later touches on (like the Sierra Gorda rebellion), these works have focused on the condition of Mexico’s penitentiary system and state efforts to curtail criminal behavior, the growing use of political cartoons by journalists, government efforts to make patriotic icons out of the middleclass national guardsmen who in 1847 defended Mexico City against U.S. forces, and the fierce debate that newspapers in the Mexican capital waged late in 1849 when Alamán rejected the concept of popular sovereignty.15 Nevertheless, there is still no overarching, all-encompassing study of the Restored Federal Republic, and one has to trawl for references to the period in works not exclusively concerned with these years. For example, Thomas Ewing Cotner’s biography of General Herrera, albeit published in 1949 and focused mainly on the man himself rather than the context at large, remains one of the clearest accounts of the most prominent political events and issues that transpired during Herrera’s second presidential term (June 2, 1848–January 15, 1851).16 Similarly, when it comes to the economic problems that beleaguered Mexico between 1848 and 1853, interested readers must turn to the fourth chapter of Barbara A. Tenenbaum’s monograph on the country’s fiscal structure—and the agiotistas (money lenders) from whom governments borrowed money—to learn about public finances at that time.17 So, the question remains: Why have these years been forgotten? Is it because nothing worthy of note happened during them? Given that the 1848–1853 period proved critical in determining the nature and substance of the political violence that came after, it is difficult to pinpoint a specific reason why the historiography has consistently overlooked them. There are no concrete references to why they have been ignored. No politician or historian paused to explain why he or she chose not to write about Herrera and Arista’s post-war governments. Inevitably, the temptation is to justify this omission on grounds that those years were caught up between two singularly violent and traumatic historical periods: The war against the U.S. and the Reforma, stretching from its roots in Santa Anna’s repressive and extravagant 1853–1855 dictatorship through the Restored Republic of 1867–1876. This may well be the case. Nothing as overtly dramatic took place between 1848 and 1853. It is also true that Santa Anna, the larger-than-life caudillo

6  Will Fowler and Pedro Santoni who is rightly or wrongly associated with the entire early national period (the so-called “chaotic age of Santa Anna,” as referenced earlier) had been living in self-imposed foreign exile since 1848. The absence of such a polarizing individual may well be another reason that helps explain the dearth of studies on these years. But perhaps a more important factor for this disregard lies with the relative little attention that the moderados have garnered from scholars. As Charles A. Hale noted five decades ago, bearing in mind the moderados’ staunch opposition to puro (radical liberal) acting president Valentín Gómez Farías’ attempt to raise fifteen million pesos in the midst of the U.S.–Mexican War via a January 11, 1847, decree that mortgaged Church property, “the moderados did not fare well in subsequent liberal historiography, primarily because of their hesitancy on anti-clericalism.”18 Silvestre Villegas Revueltas’ monograph on the moderados covers 1852–1864, but no substantial study exists of this bloc or their politics prior to 1852.19 Historians have paid some attention to moderado leaders, and studies of men like Manuel Gómez Pedraza, Luis Gonzaga Cuevas, Luis de la Rosa, Manuel Payno, Mariano Otero, and José María Lafragua have been published in the last thirty years,20 but as of today there is no biography of the man who succeeded Herrera in power in 1851, General Mariano Arista. Researchers also gave prominence to the puros over the moderados because the former came to be regarded as the natural predecessors of Benito Juárez’ generation of triumphant Reforma liberals. Given that many moderados subsequently endorsed the French Intervention and the imposition of a European prince on the throne, they fell, along with conservadores (conservatives) and santanistas, into the vilified (and thus unworthy of study) category of cowards, traitors, and/or villains.21 “This Manicheism,” as Enrique Krauze has suggestively argued, “demonstrates that Mexicans have not yet succeeded in reconciling themselves with their past: that is why their understanding of the past is based on lies or, to put it more accurately, half-truths.”22 As a result, the historia patria (patriotic history) first propounded by the nationalist historians and educators of Porfirian Mexico (1876–1911) deliberately ignored and forgot these “weak” or “imperfect” liberals, and they fared no better thereafter in the historia oficial (official history) that developed under the Partido Revolucionario Institucional (PRI)-led governments of the twentieth century. We would argue, therefore, that the post-war years have been forgotten not only because of the events that came before and after them, but also because it was a time in which the historiographically ostracized moderados held political power. Studying the 1848–1853 epoch thus fosters an understanding of how Mexico went from its pre-war condition of political instability, economic decline, and class hatreds, to the polarities and violence of the Reforma. Furthering our knowledge of the años olvidados opens a new and poignant window as well into the politics of moderado liberalism. One cannot fully comprehend the mid-century liberal-conservative divide

Setting the Scene  7 unless one has previously engaged with the factions that made up Mexico’s conflict-ridden liberal family.

Los Años Olvidados: An Overview Nearly twenty years ago Will Fowler argued that the three decades that followed Mexico’s independence would be best understood if divided into stages, the first two of which were marked by hope (1821–1828), and then disenchantment (1828–1835). By the middle of the next decade, however, the country had entered a new phase marked by a profound disillusion that permeated most political writings, newspaper editorials, and speeches of the day. As santanista faithful José María Tornel noted in 1840 when he addressed those who gathered in Mexico City’s Alameda Park to celebrate the thirtieth anniversary of the start of the struggle for independence, “the Mexican nation, mutilated and sick is still alive; but its life is torture, [and] even the hope of happiness lies hidden.”23 Indeed, by that time it seemed Mexico was condemned to suffer from a chronic case of acute instability. Mexicans appeared incapable of governing themselves, as they so far had experimented with a short-lived monarchical regime (1822–1823) and two different constitutions (1824 and 1836); additional variants would be forthcoming, including three dictatorial interludes (1841–1843, 1846, and 1853–1855). The country’s territorial integrity was also in danger because the regular army had failed to crush the Texan insurrection of 1835–1836, a revolt that resulted in the de facto, albeit unrecognized from a Mexican perspective, independence of the province. Matters worsened dramatically in the late spring of 1846 when war with the U.S. broke out. The conflict lasted a little over two years, saw the Star-Spangled Banner fly from the National Palace in Mexico City, and officially ended in February 1848 with the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo that entailed the loss of half of Mexico’s national territory.24 As a result, Mexicans not only had to come to terms with the realities of a new frontier with the U.S., but also with the traumatic consequences of the defeat. Pundits and government officials had to address painful, soulsearching questions such as why they had lost the war. In ways that had not happened until then, leading intellectuals sought to explain the absence of a national spirit which moderado luminary Mariano Otero had perceived in the country’s inability to rally together in the face of foreign invading armies.25 Where and why had they erred so abysmally? Why did the Mexican people not feel a sense of duty toward their nation? They came up with different answers to these and other questions. The aforesaid Carlos María de Bustamante largely blamed Santa Anna for the defeat, and accused him of handing over the country to the U.S. On the other hand, a noted scholar from Durango, José Fernando Ramírez, regarded the turbulent factionalism that afflicted mid-nineteenth-century Mexican politics as the main culprit for the military debacle of 1847. Both men, however, were despondent over

8  Will Fowler and Pedro Santoni Mexico’s situation. Bustamante asked God in his diary that September 15, one day after the U.S. army had entered Mexico City, if this was the punishment he meted out to nations that wasted and misused the gift of independence. Two weeks later, as he assessed the insecurity that prevailed in the capital, Ramírez despaired about the future and characterized the U.S. victory as “a punishment [that] has been deserved.”26 One might suppose, as one scholar put it, that such a “humiliating defeat . . . and the consequent loss of almost half of their national territory would have had a cathartic impact on Mexico’s politicians.”27 This, however, was far from the case. Contrary to Roswell S. Ripley’s 1849 claim that Mexico then entered a period of peace and stability—an assertion that Herrera’s biographer repeated a century later—the country’s situation became even more violent and convulsed after the war with the U.S.28 The outcome of the conflict radicalized the political class. Although the political parties that came into being after 1848 were still far from homogenous or without ideological contradictions, one can nevertheless discern among them a more clearly delineated set of beliefs and convictions than ever before. Furthermore, the political ideas that started to circulate during the post-war years spread even more widely thanks to the publication of national histories that took stock of the experience of Mexico’s first three independent decades, as well as through the veritable proliferation of newspapers; their production more than doubled in the years that span 1841 and 1855, from 48 between 1841–1845 to 108 in 1851–1855.29 These beliefs ultimately became the backbone of the irreconcilable and hostile ideological puro-conservative divide that degenerated into the civil wars, revolutions, and conservative-sponsored French Intervention of the next two decades. On one hand, those who wanted to conservar (preserve) the traditions and customs Mexicans had inherited from their colonial forefathers joined forces in and around Catholic Europhile Lucas Alamán’s Conservative party, formed in 1849, with the newspaper El Universal, first published on November 16, 1848, as their leading mouthpiece. The conservadores, as they now became known, argued that the country’s disastrous situation was due to the adoption of foreign liberal political models that did not work on Mexican soil. It was imperative to either establish a dictatorship or back the return of a monarchical regime; a former diplomat, José María Gutiérrez Estrada, had first voiced the latter idea in 1840, and five years later, as war with the U.S. drew near, Alamán and other conservatives plotted with Spanish officials to restore a monarchy. Although both projects aroused much opposition and did not prosper, in the late 1840s and early 1850s conservatives suggested by innuendo that monarchism would be beneficial to Mexico as they repeatedly blamed republicanism for the country’s woes and troubles.30 They believed in protecting and promoting the Church and its values because the Catholic faith was “the only common tie left that unites all Mexicans,”31 and society was in desperate need of regaining its moral compass. Faced with the disaster of the 1847 defeat, the ongoing

Setting the Scene  9 Caste War in Yucatán, news of increasing peasant revolts and revolutionary events across Europe, together with a growing fear of social dissolution among the population, conservatives saw themselves standing for order, a strong centralist no-nonsense government, and tough military measures. The Santanista party, also created in 1849, shared many of the conservatives’ beliefs concerning the need for a robust centralist administration, and to defend the Church and its values; they circulated these views via La Palanca, a newspaper that initially appeared on September 1, 1848. They differed, however, on several important points. Santanistas wanted a much larger regular army than the conservatives deemed necessary. While staunchly republican, santanistas were paradoxically against all political parties, favoring instead, as their slogan made evident, the idea of “Union! Nationality!” (e.g., the belief that they sought what was good for the country rather than a political faction).32 They also remained convinced that only Santa Anna could save the country, and displayed certain populist tendencies that were anathema to conservatives. Their June 19, 1849 manifesto Principios y credo político del partido que hoy invoca el nombre del general Santa Anna (Principles and Political Creed of the Party that Today Invokes General Santa Anna’s Name), for instance, appealed to Mexico’s campesinos because it exhorted the government to “pass an agrarian law that may provide lands to the unfortunate indigenous peoples who are today up in arms because they are hungry and oppressed by so many hacendados [large landowners].”33 While conservatives and santanistas had differed in their previous incarnations given the santanistas’ disposition to link up with the puros and their ideological predecessors in 1832–1834 and 1846–1847, their shared defense of religion, law and order, centralism, and strong government (be that with a monarch or a dictator at the helm) in the late 1840s turned them into natural allies from the mid-1850 on. The liberal camp, in contrast, was bitterly divided between the more radical puros and the moderados. In general terms, the irony is that on paper they shared key values and beliefs. To a greater or lesser degree, they were federalist, republican, and constitutionalist, and favored freedom of the press, separating Church and State, and laissez-faire economics. Liberals blamed the failures of the early republican period, as well as the humiliating defeat at the hands of the U.S., on the continued existence of perceived colonial anachronisms that had blocked the path of progress and modernity, like the military and ecclesiastical fueros (legal privileges), or the fact that religious intolerance had been enshrined in every single constitution.34 They strongly disagreed, however, over the role of the lower classes in public affairs, and the pace of reform. The puros sought help from the urban poor to implement their agenda, while the moderados looked upon those ragged masses with apprehension, if not outright fear. Puro leaders would also have changed Mexico overnight, but moderado statesmen, fearing the conservative backlash such a confrontational approach might provoke, preferred a more pragmatic, measured tack. The well-known writer and politician

10  Will Fowler and Pedro Santoni Guillermo Prieto colorfully captured those differences by claiming that the moderados liked to travel at the pace of a tortoise while the puros preferred to gallop on a horse without reins.35 On another occasion he characterized the puros as aggressive and intolerant, prone to insulting priests, and determined to secure jobs for their party members at any cost, while labeling moderados as intelligent, honest, and of “tendencias conserveras” (a conservative—with a small c—disposition). 36 The differences between both groups, however, ran deep. Since 1844 moderados and puros not only had publicly plotted to overthrow each other when their liberal rivals had been in power, but to do so they had readily united with such unlikely allies as the conservatives or the santanistas. Prime examples of those partnerships include the failed June 7, 1845 rebellion where puros and santanistas joined forces against then head of state General Herrera; the moderado-conservative so-called revolt of the “polkos” of February 1847 that sought to unseat then acting president Gómez Farías; and moderado chief executive Ignacio Comonfort’s ill-judged coup of December 17, 1857 against his own radical liberal Congress.37 When General Herrera became president for the second time early in June 1848, however, the political climate was not quite so polarized, and early on in this term he moved to put Mexico’s affairs in order. Herrera, after all, was one of those rare politicians and army officers with a reputation for being honest, hard-working, fair, and virtuous. As U.S. envoy John Slidell would note in 1845, “he is universally admitted to be a man of probity [. . .] free from any stain of that corruption, which unfortunately is the almost invariable characteristic of public men in Mexico.”38 The new chief executive thus proposed a whole range of reforms in areas as varied and important as law enforcement, the establishment of schools and hospitals, the need to combat alcoholism, and the reorganization of the national guard. His regime also encouraged colonization of the northern provinces, tried to open up trade and free commerce, sought to safeguard freedom of the press in all political matters, and attempted to improve both the postal and penitentiary systems.39 Not even a year and a half into the Herrera presidency, his congressmen displayed a very honorable disposition to tighten their belts for the sake of the country by passing the law of November 24, 1849, whereby the government reduced its expenses to not more than six million pesos per year and cut the salaries of the state’s political class and employees by a third in some instances.40 Perhaps the most noteworthy adjustments implemented by Herrera’s regime were those it imposed upon the country’s politically restless, and inordinately large and expensive, regular army. By early 1849, then Minister of War Arista had reduced it to 273 officers and 9,999 troops from a force that at the beginning of the war with the U.S. boasted some 40,000 men as well as “more than two hundred generals, most of them without commands.”41 Herrera did not have the same success in controlling Mexico’s rural population he appeared to have with the army, as the repeated waves of agrarian

Setting the Scene  11 violence and bloodshed that had erupted in the Yucatán peninsula and the Sierra Gorda before he took power threatened to destroy “what was left of civilized society.”42 Hostilities in the former broke out on July 30, 1847, after Cecilio Chi’s Maya peasant forces stormed the town of Tepich, killing twenty-five of thirty criollo (creole) resident families together with anyone who was not visibly indigenous. A fast-growing army of rural and predominantly Mayan insurgents then rose up in arms against the white elite in the southern and eastern parts of Yucatán, and marched toward the city of Mérida, destroying everything along the way. The Caste War, as it became known because of its racial dimension, raged on throughout Herrera’s and Arista’s presidencies, and resulted in as many as 200,000 dead or dislocated people.43 Meanwhile, late in the summer of 1847, in the mining village of Xichú (in the northeastern part of Guanajuato state), national guard deserter Francisco Chaire started a popular rebellion that resonated with an indigenous uprising that had flared up in the main square of the city of Querétaro that January in response to the national government’s attempt to expropriate and auction Church lands to help fund the war effort against the U.S. Popular violence spread fast across Guanajuato and its neighboring states, and Herrera spent much time and energy between 1848 and 1851 attempting to quell the rebellions that surfaced throughout the Sierra Gorda as they fused into, were hijacked by, or became confused with four other very different national pronunciamiento cycles.44 The carnage that spread across southeastern and central Mexico, as well as the brutal repression the government meted out in response, represented an exceptionally eloquent expression of the despair that gripped the nation—and the Herrera regime—after the war with the U.S. As if the situation in the countryside were not explosive enough, even outwardly innocuous incidents alarmed journalists, who ascribed such instances to the spread of socialist ideas. Consider, for instance, what transpired in several places of worship during Holy Week observances in Mexico City in the spring of 1850. The editors of La Civilización were “disgusted by the arrogance displayed by groups of well-heeled young lads who, as they lingered outside churches on Good Thursday and Good Friday, laughed and made fun of those who attended the religious services.” While the churchgoers’ presence pleased these writers because it demonstrated the piety and willpower of Mexicans, they did not regard the adolescents’ actions as typical juvenile behavior. They instead argued that the youngters’ conduct indicated that the social fabric of the country was unravelling, and was symptomatic of a far greater potential danger—the growth of “the dissolving theories [embraced by] the new apostles of ‘Communism’ and ‘Socialism.’ ”45 Other events seemed to offer more tangible evidence that socialism was gaining ground in Mexico. In mid-October 1850 200 national guardsmen refused their commanders’ orders to take up arms against peasants who had invaded the hacienda of Santa Inés in Cuautla (Morelos state); Minister of War Arista attributed such comportment to the “spread of socialist

12  Will Fowler and Pedro Santoni ideas.” Next, some reporters suggested that socialist agitators, inspired by the 1848 revolutions in Europe, had radicalized agrarian upheavals in the state of Mexico, while one scholar characterized its chief executive, Mariano Arizcorreta, as a “radical democrat, imbued with the socialist doctrine of Europe.”46 Finally, in mid-May 1849 the editors of El Universal condemned the Mexico City-based Nueva Sociedad political club for defending the “anti-social and destructive principles of what in Europe is called socialism.”47 All these charges, as those levied against the Nueva Sociedad indicate, likely signified the reaction of elites fearful of a popular challenge to the established order. The Nueva Sociedad, which had fifteen branches scattered across the northern half of Mexico state (most in and around the town of Acambay), pledged to form a committee with the “most honest, illustrious, and successful individuals” from its ranks (day laborers and artisans) to “constantly propose all those measures that would promote the welfare of the indigenous peoples.” Bear in mind, furthermore, that when Antonio López de Portugal, the club’s founder, addressed the membership late in July 1848 he “contrasted the hard work of artisans, whom he characterized as the best ‘citizens’ and as individuals who ‘gave value to nations,’ with the comportment of those who protected their colonial privileges to ensure ‘the despotism of the privileged classes.’ ” In addition, upon joining the organization candidates took an oath of loyalty pledging to uphold, among other things, “communal sovereignty.” Members of the Nueva Sociedad also “vowed to turn their backs on state-centered politics,” denounced “corrupt clerics,” and when cholera broke out in early 1849 they “campaigned against church burials and alcoholism, and demanded that government officials improve the sanitation system, water supply, and housing of residents.” Nevertheless, regional authorities and a local priest responded to what they perceived as a socialist crusade with force that May. They mustered 4,000 residents from Azcapotzalco and 200 more from Acambay, denounced members of the Nueva Sociedad of heresy, and burnt their homes to the ground.48 Lawlessness and rising criminality were, however, more palpable signs of the problems that then afflicted Mexico. Banditry, which began to escalate during the late 1700s, flourished in the two decades that followed independence, intensified in the aftermath of the war with the U.S. as respect for government authority declined, and peaked during the 1860s. Brigandage had become so widespread by mid-century that “most travelers expected to be robbed at least once on a long journey,” and on one occasion Congress could not meet because lawmakers “feared traveling from their home districts to Mexico City on the nation’s bandit-infested roads.”49 Meanwhile, few could feel safe in the capital. As two scholars put it, “robbers, pickpockets, and other criminals were very active [in the city], and knife fights . . . were commonplace among the pulquerías [bars that served pulque, a fermented beverage made from the maguey cactus].” Such conditions

Setting the Scene  13 led the editors of El Siglo XIX to lament early in June 1848 that “evildoers, vagrants, and bored individuals were constantly attacking peaceful citizens and robbing them of everything through violence or tricks.”50 More than enough circumstantial evidence supports this assessment. In 1850 the Ministry of Justice noted that, out of the city’s 200,000 inhabitants, 24,000 delinquents were locked up in prison. In other words, a staggering 12 % of the capital’s population was under arrest, and these figures do not consider those criminals that were on the loose.51 To further underscore this point, one newspaper announced the February 1850 break-in of the home of wealthy Mexico City resident Mariano Cosío with the headline “SCANDALOUS ROBBERY.” Six masked men, perhaps his household servants, had stolen goods worth more than 2,000 pesos.52 As if these troubles were not enough, daily acts of violence that included political assassinations—so rare until then—became increasingly frequent and gave elite Mexicans yet more reason for concern. The diary of José Ramón Malo (1799–1879), a lifelong politician and intimate friend of twotime former chief executive General Anastasio Bustamante (1830–1832, and 1837–1841), is unsettlingly punctuated by references to brutal murders. He reported four such slayings in Mexico City between October 1849 and May 1850, with the most well-known victim being well-to-do Arista critic Juan de Dios Cañedo, who was stabbed thirty-one times on March 28, 1850.53 The fear of social dissolution greatly alarmed writers from El Universal, who two days later wrote: “This is appalling. Political assassinations are recurring in a truly alarming fashion.”54 Killings of this type were not limited to the nation’s capital. Early in November 1850 the editors of La Civilización lamented that General Joaquín Rea, an important guerrilla chieftain who fought against U.S. forces in 1847–1848, had been “infamously murdered” near the town of Ayutla in southwestern Mexico at the behest of one Felipe Delgado. They wondered why the press “no longer paid much attention to the most horrendous crimes,” as well as why “vile assassinations” of “respectable persons” like Rea had become so common.55 These apprehensions hardened the convictions of the political class, and gave way to the tit-for-tat cycles of violence of the next two decades. General Herrera also faced a dire economic situation upon taking office, and things did not get better by 1851. He had stressed in his speech to Congress at the beginning of his term that one of his main goals was to sort out the country’s dismal economy, yet it proved impossible to do so.56 The $15 million war indemnity paid by the U.S. vanished quickly due to the multiple expenses and debts his government inherited, particularly the astronomical amounts that previous administrations had borrowed from agiotistas to finance the war with the U.S. As an example, $600,000 of the first installment of $3 million from that indemnity went to pay the interest accrued on agiotista Ewen MacKintosh’s original war loan of $5 million, and a further $191,685 was disbursed to his Manning and MacKintosh Company to redeem pension credits.57 One initiative that may have

14  Will Fowler and Pedro Santoni addressed part of the problem, Treasury Minister Manuel Piña y Cuevas’ September 22, 1848 proposal to create a national bank focused on servicing the country’s debt, was never acted on.58 Another governmental attempt to raise revenue—ceding the rights to build a trans-oceanic canal/railway across the Isthmus of Tehuantepec in southwestern Mexico to a U.S. conglomerate on June 22, 1850—was savagely criticized in the press as unpatriotic. Constant turnover in the cabinet further hampered efforts to improve the Mexican economy; eight different individuals served as treasury ministers during Herrera’s presidency, with the post changing hands on sixteen separate occasions.59 Mexico, then, seemed to be unraveling politically, socially, and economically when General Mariano Arista, who in 1850 won the most open and competitive presidential election the country had yet experienced, succeeded Herrera as chief executive early the next year. Arista’s task as head of state was even more difficult because he, unlike Herrera, had quite the controversial reputation. During the 1820s and 1830s Arista had led a restless life full of political intrigue as a serial conspirator-pronunciado, while his military failures in 1846 as commander of Mexico’s Army of the North in the opening battles of the war with the U.S. led to his subsequent court-martial (in which he was acquitted). Rescued and redeemed by Herrera from political and military oblivion for reasons that remain unclear, Arista joined Herrera’s cabinet as minister of war in mid-1848 and turned into a particularly energetic reformer. For one who had so publicly defended the regular army’s position and privileges in the 1830s, he proved remarkably radical in the way he imposed draconian cuts on Mexico’s professional military establishment. It was almost purely on the strength of these actions that Arista managed to reinvent himself as a moderado presidential candidate. Nevertheless, he was not the only moderado contender or the one who gained the support of the longer-serving moderados, and, as noted earlier, Arista was both a political outsider and somewhat of a lonely figure. Arista, thus, secured his victory through a sophisticated network of spies, cross-party allies and clients, fraud, intimidation, patronage, and, according to certain sources, the assassination of several political adversaries that included the aforesaid Juan de Dios Cañedo.60 In December 1849 he also publicly used his position as minister of war to help bring down Lucas Alamán’s conservative-dominated Mexico City ayuntamiento (town council), elected five months earlier, thus depriving conservative presidential candidate General Nicolás Bravo of that assembly’s vital support.61 In the end, whether a cynical opportunist or a newborn moderado, Arista could not unite an increasingly divided and polarized country. However much Arista tried to bring together puros and moderados and inspire them to overcome their historical differences, as he did when he offered a toast at a banquet held in Mexico City’s prestigious Tívoli restaurant early in 1850— he hoped both groups would “have no other objective than to bring glory to the nation and inspire public happiness”62—neither side was prepared to

Setting the Scene  15 forget or forgive the constellations of pronunciamientos they had launched against each other throughout the 1840s. Finding himself at the head of a viscerally and acrimoniously divided liberal party, Arista had little chance of surviving as president, especially since conservatives and santanistas lost no time in launching daily attacks against him through the national press from the moment he became a presidential contender until he finally resigned in January 1853. They reminded readers of the debacles the army had suffered under his command at the Battles of Palo Alto and Resaca de la Palma in the war with the U.S., and also sought to capitalize on his extramarital affair with a married woman from Monterrey that he housed near the National Palace when he moved to Mexico City in 1848 to serve in Herrera’s cabinet.63 By the time Arista rose to power, furthermore, other powerful forces and developments were lining up against him. His reorganization of the military as Herrera’s minister of war (by early 1851 it had shrunk to 6,800 men) earned Arista the hatred of most army officers and the santanistas, and no one could govern in Mexico without the military’s support.64 As if this were not bad enough, by 1852 Arista was lamenting that the federal constitution, which he supported on so many levels because it had helped preserve “the most complete fraternity” across the republic, had proved economically disastrous given that many state governments consistently failed to make the necessary contributions to fund the federation’s many and most basic institutions.65 Up against a bankrupt treasury and with little choice but to find imaginative ways to raise funds, Arista fast became even more unpopular as he supported the approval of a whole battery of new taxes while further cutting the salaries of all public administration employees.66 Church-state relations also became somewhat more fraught during Arista’s regime. Herrera’s government had offered Pope Pius IX sanctuary in Mexico when the besieged pontiff, a victim of the 1848 European revolutions, was forced to flee to the city of Gaeta from Rome late that November having reneged on his reputed liberal views. The president also invited Pius IX to live in Mexico, and in mid-March 1849 legislators granted the runaway pope, despite the dire state of the national treasury, the not inconsiderable sum of 25,000 pesos in a much-trumpeted Catholic display of solidarity.67 Under Arista, notwithstanding his moderado credentials and his own personal profueros 1833 past, the Church publicly came under attack. For readers of the Arista-backing El Monitor Republicano, its editorials were evidence in themselves of the president’s new-found anticlericalism. At different junctures in 1851 that newspaper called for the expropriation and auction of Church properties, the abolition of the fueros, an end to remaining tithes and religious intolerance, and went as far as to propose that the priesthood come under state control; clergymen would become civil servants in all but name.68 One of Arista’s very first actions as president was, in fact, to ban the episcopal ordination of Clemente de Jesús Munguía after the Michoacán bishop-to-be refused point blank to give his oath of allegiance to the 1824

16  Will Fowler and Pedro Santoni constitution at his investiture on January 6, 1851. Although Arista later allowed Munguía to take up the bishopric, a decision that infuriated puro liberals, the government did little to contain the anticlerical proposals that started to abound, and which originated from the congressmen and state governors who served under Arista.69 While Arista himself may not have been as radical on ecclesiastical matters as El Monitor Republicano insinuated, he became linked, almost inevitably, by the conservatives of El Universal, to the political class’ drive to curtail the power of the Church and bring it under government control. Victim of the moderados’ curse of appearing too radical for the conservatives but not radical enough for the puros, Arista came across as either unable or unwilling to shake up the Church as he had done with the army. News of the tensions that afflicted the Church-state relationship filled newspapers and minds alike during Arista’s term in office. Among the headline-grabbing items was the relentless campaign puro Melchor Ocampo led against the Church in Morelia, first as an angry letter-writer and then as state governor after 1852, to protest the parochial fees it charged for religious services like baptisms and marriages.70 The spat followed the pope’s appointment of Monsignor Luigi Clementi as the first papal nuncio in Mexico (who clashed with his Mexican counterparts), and the relentless calls of the puros for ecclesiastical reform. In the end, and even though Arista may have allowed, if not encouraged, the circulation of increasingly aggressive anticlerical demands, the Church remained a mighty force unto itself. As evidenced in an 1852 guidebook for foreigners visiting Mexico, Church wealth remained “enormous [. . .] despite the great blows it is alleged to have suffered in recent years,”71 and not until the Reforma ran its course would that condition change. Other factors heightened the perception that Arista’s government, even though it had only been in power one year by early 1852, was ineffectual, and that the country was spiraling out of control. In northeastern Mexico (Camargo, Tamaulipas, to be precise), Texan federalist José María de Jesús Carvajal led a pronunciamiento in favor of the region separating from Mexico to forge the new and independent Republic of the Sierra Madre.72 His actions were emulated by French filibuster Gaston Raousset-Boulbon who, backed by the Arizona-based Compañía Restauradora de las Minas de Arizona, led an unlikely incursion of adventurers into Sonora to orchestrate its secession from Mexico. U.S. President Millard Fillmore, unsatisfied with the Mexican government’s handling of U.S. claims over transit rights across the Isthmus of Tehuantepec, even made threats of annexation. And the countryside witnessed a noticeable rise in indigenous attacks in Tamaulipas, Nuevo León, Sonora, and Chihuahua, led by nomadic Apache tribes displaced by the U.S. seizure of the former northern states of the republic.73 To add insult to injury, Arista became embroiled in several high-profile corruption scandals. First, both the pro-Santa Anna newspaper El Hurucán and puro partisan José Guadalupe Perdigón Garay accused the president of somehow being behind Cañedo’s horrendous assassination, a charge that

Setting the Scene  17 never quite went away.74 Arista’s forceful purchase of the Querétaro-based hacienda of Chichimequillas from the Carmelite religious order also became a contentious matter. The president engaged in shady deals with several Mexico City-based clerics who agreed to the sale, ignoring the views and legal rights of their queretano (as residents of that city/state were known) counterparts opposed to the transaction. Along with the damning publicity that went hand-in-hand with the legal dispute between the Mexico City and Querétaro Carmelite friars, it became public knowledge that Arista could not entirely say where he had obtained the 100,000 pesos he used to seal the deal.75 By late 1852 news spread over the manner in which the London bondholders’ 2,500,000 peso payment was settled, with the hostile conservative press reporting that Arista and a cluster of deputies had allegedly pocketed a total sum of £60,000 for having voted against a motion to block the payment on tax grounds. Arista, as British Minister Plenipotentiary Percy Doyle put it, “was supposed to have had a share of the booty.”76 Given Arista’s myriad difficulties, it should not come as a surprise that every faction that bore a grudge against the chief executive joined forces to bring him down once the pronunciamiento launched by José María Blancarte in July 1852 turned into a constellation of revolts that spread throughout the state of Jalisco.77 The president resigned on January 5, 1853 when it became evident that Congress was not prepared to grant him emergency powers to face the crisis, and Arista’s replacement, Juan Bautista Ceballos, stepped down just over a month later. It fell upon hardline santanista General Manuel María Lombardini to take over as interim president and ensure that Santa Anna returned from exile in Colombia, which he did in April 1853 after eighteen of twenty-three states voted on March 17 to make him president with extraordinary powers for a full year. The arrival of Quince Uñas (Fifteen Nails), the moniker Santa Anna’s enemies used to ridicule him after he lost his left leg fighting the French in the so-called Pastry War early in December 1838, brought the años olvidados to an end.78

Post-War Mexico and the 1848 European Revolutions The events that both shaped and defined Mexico between 1848 and 1853 did not take place in a vacuum. Mexico’s “forgotten years” were not isolated or detached from world developments, but were rather very much a part of them. The five years under analysis here proved critical in terms of how they defined the country’s unique struggle between tradition and modernity, between the lingering customs and traditions of its colonial ancien regime and the new liberal approaches that challenged them. Just as importantly, the 1848–1853 years reflected—or perhaps refracted—a Trans-Atlantic conflict between the remnants and legacies of absolutism that survived the 1789 French Revolution and Napoleon Bonaparte’s major shake-up of Europe’s nostalgic monarchies, and the impatient constitutionalist and class-consciously-aware demands of the new generation of liberals,

18  Will Fowler and Pedro Santoni socialists, and utopians who took to the barricades in the main urban centers of continental Europe in 1848–1849. The issues that divided Mexico’s political class, together with the violence that peasant and indigenous communities relied on to address their grievances, especially echoed those of their European counterparts. News of the 1848 European revolutions not only added fuel to the demands of radical elements in Mexico (and elsewhere in Latin America too, particularly Argentina, Bolivia, Brazil, Chile, Colombia, and Peru), gave them hope, and inspired them to action,79 but also resulted in the retrenchment of the more conservative elements of society. As Mexican Minister Plenipotentiary Fernando Mangino begged in a December 29, 1848 dispatch penned toward the end of his panic-stricken, year-long account of the uprisings in the city of Paris, “may Providence spare our fatherland from the upheaval we have here!”80 Given the violent and unruly events in the French capital, conservatives believed that what they perceived as Herrera and Arista’s “soft” approach to insurrection could only make chaos the order of the day. One particularly animated editorial in El Universal demanded “firm and secure” government as well as “energetic” action because the dithering moderados were letting themselves be “dragged and driven” by the revolutions that were spreading across the country. Their so-called politics of “conciliation and harmony” represented nothing but blatant “traits of weakness.”81 Equally worthy of note, however, is the fact that Mexico’s liberals stood for almost identical principles to those espoused by their angry European peers.82 Mike Rapport noted, in discussing József Irinyi’s Hungarian revolutionary “Twelve Points” program of March 1848, that it included “the standard demands of 1848—free speech, ‘responsible government’ (meaning a ministry answerable to parliament), regular parliaments, civil equality and religious freedom, a national guard, equality of taxation and trial by jury. They called for the release of all political prisoners and an end to all ‘feudal burdens’ for peasants. There was also some radically nationalist content.” Take away the “nationalist content” that in Rapport’s view represented “one of the tragedies of 1848” because of “its darker [. . .] impulses,”83 and there is little difference between what European and Mexican liberals believed in. Mexico’s liberals were also, sadly some might say, as viscerally divided as their European colleagues. The moderado-puro rift most definitely echoed the power struggle between moderate and radical liberals in Europe. In Mexico, it was precisely this intra-liberal conflict that allowed the conservatives to make a forceful comeback, first in 1853 with the return of a santanistaconservative-backed Santa Anna, subsequently in 1858 after moderado Ignacio Comonfort turned on his own liberal government, and later in 1862, this time benefitting from the French Intervention. In Europe, the moderate-radical divide found eloquent expression in the violent June Days and October Days of 1848 that residents of Paris and Vienna witnessed, and it likewise resulted in a major conservative reaction. A brief

Setting the Scene  19 glance at the politics of 1848 revolutionary Europe opens a panorama of mirror divisions and conflict between the liberal monarchists and republicans in Italy, the moderate Old Ireland and radical Young Ireland liberals, and the Belgian liberals and democrats, to name but three examples. Once the revolutions got underway and the fear of social upheaval and workingclass/peasant unrest became poignantly acute, the more moderate liberals found themselves reneging their past radical sympathies and, albeit uncomfortably, aligning themselves with the conservatives who led the backlash of 1849. The same, of course, would happen in Mexico, with many moderados supporting the imposition of Austrian Archduke Maximilian on the Mexican throne by 1864. At the root of the 1848 revolutions and Mexico’s own post-war turmoil was what started to be referred to as the “social question.” In Europe, the need to combat what for the young and restless generation who came of age in the 1840s amounted to a slow and insidious decades-long betrayal of the ideals of the 1789 French Revolution became mingled in 1848 with social grievances caused by the early impact of industrialization. The arrival of heavy industries in Belgium, certain regions of France, parts of the Hapsburg Empire, Silesia and the Rhineland changed patron-worker relations beyond recognition, dislocated important sections of the population, and adversely impacted the social and economic position of artisans and craft workers who found their livelihoods threatened by the rise of cheap manufactured goods. Europe’s liberals, whether moderate or radical, republican or monarchical, wanted constitutional representative governments, accountability, and equality before the law. Those who belonged to an emerging and aspiring middle class, such as the university students whose numbers had increased exponentially since the early nineteenth century, desired a greater say in the way their societies were run. They now found themselves joining forces uneasily with a growing politicized urban proletariat that, alongside significant numbers of landless and jobless peasants, wanted more than constitutional reform. This new partnership called for social justice, redistribution of wealth, and equality, or as Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels advocated in 1848, an end to a capitalist system that resulted in the upper classes and bourgeoisie repressing the proletariat.84 In Mexico, the absence of any notable process of industrialization meant that the “social question” remained very much an agrarian one, devoid of the grievances that rose to prominence in and around the fast-proliferating factories of 1848 Europe. This did not mean, however, that agrarian demands in Mexico were less radical than those in Europe, or that they somehow lacked a parallel egalitarian drive. The dramatic increase of rural-based rebellions after 1840, or “explosion of peasant discontent” as John Tutino put it,85 was precisely characterized by demands for land redistribution in reaction to the aggressive commercial tactics hacendados had employed as they capitalized on the weakness of governments during the early national period. Faced with two decades

20  Will Fowler and Pedro Santoni wherein rural campesino and indigenous communities witnessed the hacendado class seize an increasing number of their communal lands and take control of their water supplies while running roughshod over property deeds, titles, and agreements that dated back to the colonial period, it is not surprising that they snapped. With the added grievances that came with the war with the U.S., namely a noticeable increase in taxation and the enforcement of military conscription, many villages resorted to violence to protect their contested rights and interests. Mexico’s 1848 Sierra Gorda rebellion was, in this sense, a rural variation of the insurrectionary movements that spread across Europe in 1848–1849. And just as idealist middle-class liberals joined radical protesting workers in the barricades of Paris, Milan, Venice, Naples, Palermo, Vienna, Prague, Budapest, Kraków, and Berlin, some like-minded Mexicans rallied to the support of aggrieved campesinos as epitomized by Mariano Arizcorreta, the Mexico state chief executive who called upon hacendados to make voluntary concessions of land to their peons.86 Mexico’s rebellions differed significantly from those in Europe on two issues: The matter of the “national question” (unless one wants to argue that the revolt to forge the Republic of the Sierra Madre and the filibustering drive to bring about the secession of Sonora had nationalist overtones), and the so-called “Indian problem.” Nationalism and/or separatism played no meaningful part in Mexican events, but the “Indian problem,” obviously absent in Europe, did. The Caste War in Yucatán and the rise of Indian raids in the north of the country added an explosive racial and ethnic dimension to the political violence that enveloped significant swathes of Mexico at the time. To the fear of social dissolution, which in Europe ended up turning more than one moderate liberal into a reluctant conservative, in Mexico anxiety about the “barbarous Indians” became as, if not more, decisive in dissuading well-meaning liberals from persevering with their radical demands. Consequently, an individual like Andrés Quintana Roo (after whom an entire state was named in 1974), who could boast of a long and illustrious patriotic radical liberal past, was perfectly capable of using brutal force to repress peons on his hacienda. When they dared to protest about their abysmal work conditions, Quintana Roo, who called them “socialists” pejoratively, did everything he could to destroy the neighboring Indian communities that did not respect his property. He was determined not to give them an inch when rumor reached him in the summer of 1849 that 20,000 Indians were about to rise up in arms near Tula (state of Hidalgo).87 To quote Guy P.C. Thomson, “even progressive/radical liberals in Mexico [. . .], who were in search of popular support, did not include among ‘the people’ at this stage [. . .] Indians.”88 Much has been written about the 1848 revolutions in Europe, whether they had a major impact or changed anything at all, superseded as they were by a particularly heavy-handed conservative reaction across the continent. The outcome of the upheaval in France, to note but one especially notorious

Setting the Scene  21 and galling example, was the rise to power of none other than Napoleon’s nephew, Louis Napoleon Bonaparte, who by November 1852 had succeeded in having himself crowned Napoleon III, and ostensibly crushed all the achievements of the 1848 uprising. However, recent studies, in taking a long-term view, have compellingly argued that the events of 1848, while generally depicted as a “missed opportunity,” set the agenda for the forthcoming decades and determined the ideological battlegrounds that were then fought over throughout Europe. As Heinz-Gerhard Haupt and Dieter Langewiesche pointed out, the 1848 European revolution “failed everywhere, but in its successes and failures it defined the future of Europe.”89 Echoing their view, Kay Boardman and Christine Kinealy have more recently made the case that “although previous [conservative] governments [. . .] reasserted themselves by autumn of [1849], the forces unleashed in the previous eighteen months did not disappear.”90 Events in post-1848 Mexico would also resonate over the following two decades even though they failed, in themselves, to resolve the problems that they very visibly and painfully brought to the fore. As the different chapters that make up this book show, the moderado presidencies of Generals Herrera and Arista failed to establish a long-lasting stable constitutional government, kick-start the economy, resolve Church-state tensions, put an end to the laws and traditions dating back to the colonial period that remained in place, address indigenous and campesino social grievances, and successfully introduce meaningful and resilient liberal reforms. Nevertheless, in confronting these challenges both regimes helped define, through their successes and failures, the burning issues of the Mexican mid-century Reforma. Although the santanistas, in their more authoritarian version, would re-assert themselves by 1853, the forces that the años olvidados unleashed—including radicalized conservative and liberal political parties as well as indigenous-campesino revolutionary movements—would not disappear. Rather, they came to the fore between 1857 and 1867 and defined Mexico’s gran década nacional (to borrow the title of Miguel Galindo y Galindo’s book), culminating, after much bloodshed, in the triumph of an authoritarian-developmentalist brand of liberalism. Once Porfirio Díaz came to power in 1876 he ended up consolidating a stable, three-decade-long positivist government built precisely on the principles of order and progress that Mexico’s mid-century moderados had implicitly tried, but failed, to establish between 1848 and 1853.

Notes 1. Joseph and Buchenau, Mexico’s Once and Future Revolution, 15. 2. The following, in alphabetical order, are some authors who have contributed to this new historiographical wave: Timothy E. Anna, Brian Connaughton, Michael P. Costeloe, Will Fowler, Stanley C. Green, Peter F. Guardino, Cecilia Noriega Elío, Pedro Santoni, José Antonio Serrano Ortega, Reynaldo Sordo Cedeño, Donald F. Stevens, Josefina Zoraida Vázquez, and Richard A. Warren.

22  Will Fowler and Pedro Santoni 3. In choosing this moniker we are borrowing the label that two decades ago Josefina Zoraida Vázquez gave to the period from independence in 1821 to the end of Santa Anna’s last government in 1855, a time she argued the historiography had forgotten. See her “Los años olvidados.” 4. His political convictions are examined in Fowler, Mexico in the Age of Proposals, 101–128. 5. For Alamán, Tornel, and Suárez y Navarro see, respectively, Historia de Méjico; Breve reseña histórica; and Historia de México y el general Antonio López de Santa Anna. 6. Portilla, Historia de la revolución de México. 7. Galindo y Galindo, La gran década nacional; and Vigil, México a través de los siglos, in particular vol. 4. 8. The book, published in Mexico City by the FCE/SEP/Academia Mexicana de la Historia, was edited by Gisela von Wobeser, with then-President Felipe Calderón penning the introduction. 9. Meyer, Sherman, and Deeds, The Course of Mexican History, 263–264, 267, and 279; Wasserman, Everyday Life and Politics, 100–102; Vázquez, “War and Peace with the United States,” and Vanderwood, “Betterment for Whom? The Reform Period: 1855–1876,” both in Beezley and Meyer (eds.), The Oxford History of Mexico; Beezley, Mexico in World History, 60–61; and Russell, The Essential History of Mexico, 162. 10. González Navarro, Anatomía del poder. The quote is on page 1. 11. Rueda Smithers, El diablo de Semana Santa. 12. In chronological order, they are: La primera república; The Central Republic; “La historia de México de Lucas Alamán”; “Mariano Arizcorreta and Peasant Unrest”; “Mariano Arista and the 1850 Presidential Election”; “Mariano Arista y la élite de la Ciudad de México,” in Fowler and Morales Moreno (eds.), El conservadurismo mexicano; and “The Extraordinary Case of Mr. Falconnet.” 13. See his Bonds and Bondholders; William Bullock; and Bubbles and Bonanzas. 14. Fowler, “In Memoriam. Michael Costeloe (1939–2011).” 15. This, of course, is not an exhaustive list. For the topics addressed in the text, see, respectively, Arciniega, “Los palacios de Themis”; Timmons, “Seeds of Abolition,” in Sarat and Boulanger (eds.), The Cultural Lives of Capital Punishment; Bonilla Reyna, “El Telégrafo y la introducción de la caricatura francesa,” and “Joaquín Giménez y El Tío Nonilla”; Santoni, “ ‘Where Did the Other Heroes Go?’ ”; and Tapia, “Derrota de los monarquistas.” Antonio Aguilar, Edwin Alcántara Machuca, Othón Nava, Javier Rodríguez Piña, Arturo Soberón, and Ana Rosa Suárez Argüello have also examined other aspects of the años olvidados, and a selection of their works appears in the bibliography for this chapter. 16. See his The Military and Political Career, particularly 172–315. 17. Tenembaum, The Politics of Penury, especially 87–117. 18. Hale, Mexican Liberalism, 33, n. 52. 19. See his El liberalismo moderado. An initial attempt to define moderado politics appears in Fowler, “El pensamiento político de los moderados,” in Connaughton, Illades, and Pérez Toledo (eds.), Construcción de la legitimidad política. 20. Solares Robles, Una revolución pacífica; Pérez Rosales, Luis Gonzaga Cuevas; Cárdenas de la Peña, Tiempo y tarea; Suárez de la Torre, Luis de la Rosa Oteiza; Córdoba Ramírez, Manuel Payno; Boyd, “The Career and Ideology of Mariano Otero”; Sordo Cedeño, “José María Lafragua”; Galeana (comp.), José María Lafragua; and Quintana, Lafragua, político y romántico. 21. Several recent studies have focused on these groups. For Santa Anna and his propagandist José María Tornel, see, by Fowler, Santa Anna, and Tornel and Santa Anna; and Vázquez Mantecón, La palabra del poder. For Mexican conservatism, in chronological order (and not previously mentioned), see Noriega,

Setting the Scene  23 El pensamiento conservador; Pani (coord.), Conservadurismo y derechas, particularly vol. 1; Smith, The Roots of Conservatism; and Van Oosterhout, “Popular Conservatism.” These scholarly advances notwithstanding, there are few biographies of leading mid-century conservatives like Generals Miguel Miramón or Félix Zuloaga in contemporary historiography. 22. Krauze, Siglo de caudillos, 21. Additional details on Mexico’s “official history,” and its tendency to depict the past in terms of heroes and villains, can be found in pages 17–48 of Krauze’s volume. 23. Tornel, Discurso que pronunció el Escmo. Señor General D. José María Tornel y Mendívil, 5. The fourth phase (1847–1855) was a time of despair. Fowler’s Mexico in the Age of Proposals offers an in-depth explanation of the chronological breakdown. 24. In addition to the scholars listed in note 2, Christopher Conway, Donald S. Frazier, James M. McCaffrey, Douglas W. Richmond, and Jesús Velasco Márquez have written about these different historical junctures. 25. Otero, Consideraciones sobre la situación política y social, 42. 26. A synopsis of the evidence that Bustamante and Ramírez used to support their allegations can be found in Santoni, “The View from the Other Side,” in Frazier and Christ (eds.), Ready, Booted, and Spurred, 79–82. Bustamante’s remark and Ramírez’ quote appear in, respectively, Diario histórico, CD-2, entry for September 15, 1847; and Ramírez, Mexico during the War, 162. 27. Costeloe, “Mariano Arista and the 1850 Presidential Election,” 52. 28. Ripley, The War with Mexico, 2: 645; and Cotner, The Military and Political Career, 319. 29. Forment, Democracy in Latin America, 192. The newspapers that circulated in Mexico in 1850 included El Arco Iris (Veracruz), El Argos Potosino (San Luis Potosí), La Bandera Mexicana (Matamoros), El Clamor Público (Federal District), El Cócora (Oaxaca), La Convicción (Monterrey), El Crepúsculo (Veracruz), La Cucarda (Oaxaca), D. Juan Tenorio (Federal District), El Defensor (Tampico), El Demócrata (Federal District), El Duende (Saltillo), Eco del País (Yucatán), La Época (San Luis Potosí), El Federalista (Querétaro), El Guardia Nacional (Federal District), El Honor (Federal District), El Hurucán (Federal District), Independiente (Aguascalientes), El Juglar (Federal District), Linterna de Diógenes (Oaxaca), El Mensajero (Federal District), El Mensajero (Veracruz), El Monte-Cristo (Federal District), El Monitor Republicano (Federal District), El Noticioso (Puebla), El Noticioso del Pánuco (Tampico), La Oposición (Guanajuato), La Palanca (Federal District), Patriota (Oaxaca), El Siglo XIX (Federal District), El Temis y Deucalion (Toluca), El Tribuno del Pueblo (Querétaro), Trompeta del Juicio Final (Campeche), El Universal (Federal District), La Voz de Alianza (Guadalajara), and El Zempoalteca. (Jalapa). Costeloe, “Mariano Arista and the 1850 Presidential Election,” 61. 30. For Gutiérrez Estrada’s scheme, see his Carta dirigida al Excelentísimo Señor Presidente de la República. The monarchist plot of the mid-1840s is discussed in Soto, La conspiración monárquica; Delgado, La monarquía en México; and the recent multi-volume Correspondencia diplomática de Salvador Bermúdez de Castro, Figueroa Esquer (ed. and comp.). Pani’s Para mexicanizar el Segundo Imperio shows that Maximilian’s empire (1864–1867) was not an aberration, but rather a practical alternative given the context of Mexican politics. 31. Lucas Alamán to Antonio López de Santa Anna, March 23, 1853, in García Cantú (ed.), El pensamiento de la reacción mexicana, 314. 32. La Palanca, May 10 and 26, 1849. 33. La Palanca, June 19, 1849. For the santanistas, in addition to those works mentioned in note 21, see Fowler, Mexico in the Age of Proposals, 219–263.

24  Will Fowler and Pedro Santoni 34. Scholars who have studied the beliefs of the mid-century Mexican liberals include, in alphabetical order, Peter F. Guardino, Charles A. Hale, Brian Hamnett, Jesús Reyes Heroles, Guy P.C. Thomson (with David G. LaFrance), and Silvestre Villegas Revueltas. 35. Don Simplicio, January 30, 1847. Prieto was among the founders of this newspaper. Velasco Márquez, La guerra del 47, 21. 36. Guillermo Prieto to General Manuel Doblado, Mexico City, September 26, 1855, in García (ed.), Documentos inéditos, 26: 216. 37. The pronunciamientos of 1845, 1847, and 1857 are covered in Fowler, Independent Mexico, 197, 207, 209, 216, 221–222, 236–237, 240–242, and 302– 304, n.2, n.3, and n.5. 38. John Slidell to James Buchanan, Mexico City, December 27, 1845, quoted in Cotner, The Military and Political Career, 150. 39. Díaz, “El liberalismo militante,” in Cosío Villegas (ed.), Historia general de México, 585; González Navarro, Anatomía del poder, 212; and Dublán and Lozano, Legislación mexicana, 5: 387–454. 40. Francisco de Paula Arrangoiz included the following outlays in the public administration’s expenses per annum: army generals’ salaries, 88,000 pesos; redundant public officials, 308,681 pesos; and retired public officials, 648,572 pesos. See his México desde 1808, 403. 41. Arista, Memoria del secretario de estado y del despacho de guerra y marina. Also see Thompson, Recollections of Mexico, 168–169. 42. Fowler, Tornel and Santa Anna, 251. 43. See, by Rugeley, Yucatán’s Maya Peasantry, and Rebellion Now and Forever. One may also consult Reed, The Caste War; and Dumond, The Machete and the Cross. 44. Vázquez Mantecón, “Espacio social y crisis política.” Also see, by Reina, Las rebeliones campesinas, 291–324; and “The Sierra Gorda,” in Katz (ed.), Riot, Rebellion. Chapter five in this volume, authored by Will Fowler, offers a detailed explanation of the pronunciamientos mentioned in the text—which were led by Tomás Mejía, General Mariano Paredes y Arrillaga and Father Celedonio Domeco de Jarauta, General Leonardo Márquez, and Eleuterio Quiroz. 45. La Civilización, April 4, 1850. 46. Reina, Las rebeliones campesinas, 162–163; and Costeloe, “Mariano Arizcorreta and Peasant Unrest,” 67. The quoted phrase is from González Navarro, Anatomía del poder, 161. 47. El Universal, May 16, 1849. 48. The information (and quotes) on the Nueva Sociedad are in Falcón, “En medio del asedio bélico,” in her recent co-edited volume with Raymond Buve, El México profundo, 155–158; Sanders, The Vanguard of the Atlantic World, 117– 118; and Forment, Democracy in Latin America, 120. Despite the suggestive title of Buve’s and Falcón’s book, Falcón’s above-cited essay is the only piece in that monograph which pays close attention to the events and issues that shaped the años olvidados. 49. Vanderwood, Disorder and Progress, xvi–xviii, and 33; and Van Young, The Other Rebellion, 387. The quotes are in Haber, Industry and Underdevelopment, 22. For the efforts of General Herrera during his 1845 presidency to systematically deal with the problem of brigandage, as well as an initial scholarly attempt to construct a social profile of banditry in mid-nineteenth century Mexico, see Frazer, Bandit Nation, 37–43. Raymond Buve offers a snapshot of this issue in Tlaxcala during the same period. See his “Los pueblos tlaxcaltecas, los bandoleros y el ‘Señor Gobierno’,” in El México profundo, which he coedited with Falcón.

Setting the Scene  25 50. The quotes, in turn, can be found in Olivera and Crété, Life in Mexico, 56; and El Siglo XIX, June 1, 1848. 51. Memoria del Ministerio de Justicia y Negocios Eclesiásticos, 22. 52. La Civilización, February 28, 1850. For the suggestion that domestics were the crime’s culprits, see El Siglo XIX, February 26, 1850. In mid-to-late 1846 Cosío contributed 5,000 pesos to help finance the war effort against the U.S. His name appeared in a November 19, 1846 decree whereby the government ordered the Church to repay individuals like him the monies they had lent to support the conflict. Tenenbaum, The Politics of Penury, 80–81. 53. The other three slayings Malo referred to were those of Abraham de los Reyes, Trinidad Andrade, and José María Varela. The first two were assassinated, respectively, on October 5 and 27, 1849; Varela, slain on May 21, 1850, was stabbed four times in the chest, twice in the throat, and once in the face. Malo, Diario de sucesos notables, 1: 346, and 355–356. For a biographical sketch of Cañedo, see Rueda Smithers, El diablo de Semana Santa, 130–148. 54. El Universal, March 30, 1850. 55. La Civilización, November 7, 1850. 56. Cuevas, Historia de la nación, 686. 57. Tenenbaum, The Politics of Penury, 100; and Cuevas, Historia de la nación, 686. $2.5 million, or one-sixth of the total indemnity, would go towards paying off the London debt dating back to 1824–1825. 58. Cuevas, Historia de la nación, 688–689. 59. “Gobiernos de México,” in Diccionario Porrúa, 2: 1216–1217. Also see Dictamen de la Comisión Especial de Tehuantepec; Tornel, Voto particular del señor senador D. José María Tornel; Ramírez, Memorias, negociaciones y documentos; Suárez Argüello, “José Fernando Ramírez,” in Jáuregui and Serrano Ortega (eds.), Historia y nación. Vol. 2. Política y diplomacia; and Arrangoiz, México desde 1808, 407. 60. The most prominent candidates who opposed Arista were Luis de la Rosa, General Nicolás Bravo, Manuel Gómez Pedraza, Juan Nepomuceno Almonte and Santa Anna (albeit in exile); the other challengers were Ramón Adame, Francisco Berduzco, José Bernardo Couto, Gregorio Dávila, Valentín Gómez Farías, Domingo Ibarra, A.G. Iturbide, José Fernando Ramírez, and Ángel Trías. Costeloe, “Mariano Arista and the 1850 Presidential Election,” 52 and 56. For a detailed look at Cañedo’s assassination, see Rueda Smithers, El diablo de Semana Santa, 119–181. 61. Bravo Ugarte, Historia de México, 3: 201–202; Arrangoiz, México desde 1808, 405–406, and 410. 62. El Monitor Republicano, January 14, 1850. 63. Costeloe, “Mariano Arista and the 1850 Presidential Election,” 63–64; and “Mariano Arista y la élite,” in Fowler and Morales Moreno (eds.), El conservadurismo mexicano, 206–208. 64. Cuevas, Historia de la nación, 698. 65. Arista’s speech of January 1, 1852, is quoted in Bravo Ugarte, Historia de México, 3: 201. 66. The measures implemented by Arista’s government in this regard between January and October 1851 are in Dublán and Lozano, Legislación mexicana, 6: 12–16, 22–24, 44–46, 99–100, 110–115, 117, and 125–128. 67. Hale, Mexican Liberalism, 35–36; Cuevas, Historia de la nación, 690; Cotner, The Military and Political Career, 280–282; and Soldami, “Approaching Europe in the Name of the Nation,” in Dowe, Haupt, Langewiesche, and Sperber (eds.), Europe in 1848: Revolution and Reform. 68. See El Monitor Republicano, February 24, 1851, as well as subsequent issues through October of that year. For a recent analysis of this newspaper’s debate

26  Will Fowler and Pedro Santoni over ownership of ecclesiastical property with its conservative, Catholic counterpart La Voz de la Religión, see Fernández y Fernández, “Historia de una polémica,” in Pineda and Gantús (coords.), Miradas y acercamientos. Arista’s support of Church interests in 1833 is discussed in Fowler, Santa Anna, 147–151. 69. Mijangos y González, The Lawyer of the Church, 139, and 145. 70. Hale, Mexican Liberalism, 36–37; and Mijangos y González, The Lawyer of the Church, 140–141. 71. Almonte, Guía de forasteros, 529. 72. Chance, José María de Jesús Carvajal; and Arrangoiz, México desde 1808, 412. 73. González Navarro, Anatomía del poder, 48–67, and 86–87. 74. Costeloe, “Mariano Arista and the 1850 Presidential Election,” 63; and Perdigón Garay, Acusación que el C. José Guadalupe Perdigón Garay. 75. El Universal reported on this issue with much gusto on April 10, July 23, 24, and September 11, 1851, and on March 17, 1852. 76. Quoted in Costeloe, “The Extraordinary Case of Mr. Falconnet,” 285. 77. Doyle, “ ‘The Curious Manner. . . ’,” in Fowler (ed.), Forceful Negotiations; and González Navarro, Anatomía del poder, 277–327. 78. Zamora Plowes, Quince uñas y Casanova aventureros. 79. See Thomson (ed.), The European Revolutions of 1848 and the Americas. 80. The letter is in Valle (comp.), Un diplomático mexicano, 110. 81. El Universal, July 11, 1849. 82. Recent studies on the 1848 revolutions in Europe are, in chronological order: Dowe, Haupt, Langewiesche, and Sperber (eds.), Europe in 1848: Revolution and Reform; Sperber, The European Revolutions, 1848–1851; Rapport, 1848: Year of Revolution; and Boardman and Kinealy (eds.), 1848: The Year the World Turned? 83. The quotes are, respectively, in Rapport, 1848: Year of Revolution, 68, and 182. 84. Marx and Engels, The Communist Manifesto. 85. Tutino, “Agrarian Social Change,” in Katz (ed.), Riot, Rebellion, 111. 86. For agrarian discontent and rebellion in Mexico during the mid-1800s, in addition to the cited works by González Navarro, Katz, and Reina, see Meyer, Problemas campesinos; Tutino, From Insurrection to Revolution; and Mallon, Peasant and Nation. Arizcorreta’s agrarian demands are detailed in the Manifestación que hace al público; and Comunicación dirigida a los propietarios de fincas rústicas. 87. Rueda Smithers, El diablo de Semana Santa, 40–42; and González Navarro, Anatomía del poder, 162–163. 88. Thomson, “Introduction,” in his The European Revolutions of 1848 and the Americas, 8. 89. Haupt and Langewiesche, “The European Revolution of 1848,” in Dowe, Haupt, Langewiesche, and Sperber (eds.), Europe in 1848: Revolution and Reform, 1. 90. Boardman and Kinealy, “Introduction,” in their 1848: The Year the World Turned? 10.

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Setting the Scene  27 Alcántara Machuca, Edwin. “La fusión política de conservadores y liberales puros: Una polémica en la prensa de 1849.” Boletín del Instituto de Investigaciones Bibliográficas 20:1–2 (First and second semester 2015): 115–144. ———. “La elección presidencial de 1850: La dinámica de la construcción de candidaturas y la fragmentación política.” In Fausta Gantús (coord.), Elecciones en el México del siglo XIX. Las prácticas. 2 vols. Mexico City: Instituto Mora/TEDF, 2016. 1: 401–440. Almonte, Juan Nepomuceno. Guía de forasteros y repertorio de conocimientos útiles, por el general Juan Nepomuceno Almonte. Mexico City: Imprenta de Ignacio Cumplido, 1852. Arciniega, Hugo. “Los palacios de Themis.” Anales del Instituto de Investigaciones Estéticas 22:76 (Spring 2000): 143–178. Arista, Mariano. Memoria del secretario de estado y del despacho de guerra y marina leída en la cámara de diputados el día 9, y en la de senadores el 11 de enero de 1849. Mexico City: Imprenta de Vicente García Torres, 1849. Arrangoiz, Francisco de Paula. México desde 1808 hasta 1867. Mexico City: Porrúa, 1996. Beezley, William H. Mexico in World History. New York: Oxford University Press, 2011. Boardman, Kay, and Christine Kinealy. “Introduction.” In Kay Boardman, and Christine Kinealy (eds.), 1848: The Year the World Turned? Newcastle, UK: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2007. 1–21. Bonilla Reyna, Helia Emma. “Joaquín Giménez y El Tío Nonilla.” Anales del Instituto de Investigaciones Estéticas 22:76 (Spring 2000): 179–235. ———. “El Telégrafo y la introducción de la caricatura francesa en la prensa mexicana.” Anales del Instituto de Investigaciones Estéticas 24:81 (Fall 2002): 53–121. Boyd, Melissa. “The Career and Ideology of Mariano Otero, Mexican Politician (1817–1850).” PhD diss., University of St. Andrews, 2012. Bravo Ugarte, José. Historia de México. 4 vols. Mexico City: Jus, 1962. Bustamante, Carlos María de. Diario histórico de México, 1822–1848. 2 CDs. Edited by Josefina Zoraida Vázquez, and Cuauhtémoc Hernández Silva. Mexico City: CIESAS/El Colegio de México, 2003. Buve, Raymond. “Los pueblos tlaxcaltecas, los bandoleros y el ‘Señor Gobierno’ en la década de la desesperanza (1846–1857).” In Raymond Buve, and Romana Falcón (eds.), El México profundo en la gran década de desesperanza (1846–1856). Puebla & Mexico City: BUAP & Ediciones de Educación y Cultura, 2016. 93–122. Cárdenas de la Peña, Enrique. Tiempo y tarea de Luis Gonzaga Cuevas. Mexico City: Contabilidad Ruf Mexicana, 1982. Chance, Joseph E. José María de Jesús Carvajal: The Life and Times of a Mexican Revolutionary. San Antonio, TX: Trinity University Press, 2006. Comunicación dirigida a los propietarios de fincas rústicas del estado de México y acta de la junta celebrada el 6 de agosto con motivo de la circular de 18 de julio del gobierno de dicho estado. Mexico City: Imprenta de Ignacio Cumplido, 1849. Córdoba Ramírez, Irina. Manuel Payno. Los derroteros de un liberal moderado. Zamora: El Colegio de Michoacán, 2006. Correspondencia diplomática de Salvador Bermúdez de Castro, ministro de España en México. Edited and compiled by Raúl Figueroa Esquer. 5 vols. Mexico City: Instituto Tecnológico Autónomo de México/Instituto Nacional de Estudios Históricos de las Revoluciones de México, 2013.

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Setting the Scene  29 Buve, and Romana Falcón (eds.), El México profundo en la gran década de desesperanza (1846–1856). Puebla & Mexico City: BUAP & Ediciones de Educación y Cultura, 2016. 143–170. Fernández y Fernández, Iñigo. “Historia de una polémica: El Monitor Republicano, La Voz de la Religión y los bienes del clero (1851).” In Adriana Pineda, and Fausta Gantús (coords.), Miradas y acercamientos a la prensa decimonónica. Mexico: Universidad Michoacana de San Nicolás de Hidalgo, 2013. 199–218. Forment, Carlos A. Democracy in Latin America, 1760–1900. Volume 1, Civic Selfhood and Public Life in Mexico and Peru. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003. Fowler, Will. Mexico in the Age of Proposals, 1821–1853. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1998. ———. “El pensamiento político de los moderados, 1838–1850: El proyecto de Mariano Otero.” In Brian Connaughton, Carlos Illades, and Sonia Pérez Toledo (eds.), Construcción de la legitimidad política en México. Mexico City: El Colegio de Michoacán/UAM/UNAM/El Colegio de México, 1999. 275–300. ———. Tornel and Santa Anna: The Writer and the Caudillo, Mexico 1795–1853. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 2000. ———. Santa Anna of Mexico. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2007. ———. “In Memoriam. Michael Costeloe (1939–2011).” The Americas 68:4 (April 2012): 593–597. ———. Independent Mexico: The Pronunciamiento in the Age of Santa Anna, 1821–1858. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2016. Frazer, Chris. Bandit Nation: A History of Outlaws and Cultural Struggle in Mexico, 1810–1920. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2006. Galeana, Patricia (comp.). José María Lafragua. Mexico City: Senado de la República, 1987. Galindo y Galindo, Miguel. La gran década nacional o relación histórica de la Guerra de Reforma, intervención extranjera y gobierno del archiduque Maximiliano. 1857–1867. 3 vols. Mexico City: Oficina tipográfica de la Secretaría de Fomento, 1904. García, Genaro (ed.). Documentos inéditos o muy raros para la historia de México. Vol. 26. La revolución de Ayutla según el archivo del general Doblado. Mexico City: Librería de la Vda. De Ch. Bouret, 1909. García Cantú, Gastón (ed.). El pensamiento de la reacción mexicana: Historia documental. Vol. 1. Mexico City: UNAM, 1994. “Gobiernos de México.” In Diccionario Porrúa de historia, biografía y geografía de México. 5th revised and enlarged edition. 3 vols. Mexico City: Porrúa, 1986. González Navarro, Moisés. Anatomía del poder en México, 1848–1853. 2nd ed. Mexico City: El Colegio de México, 1983. Gutiérrez Estrada, José María. Carta dirigida al Excelentísimo Señor Presidente de la República sobre la necesidad de buscar en una convención el posible remedio de los males que aquejan a la república; y opiniones del autor acerca del mismo asunto. Mexico City: Imprenta de Ignacio Cumplido, 1840. Haber, Stephen H. Industry and Underdevelopment: The Industrialization of Mexico. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1989. Hale, Charles A. Mexican Liberalism in the Age of Mora, 1821–1853. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1968.

30  Will Fowler and Pedro Santoni Haupt, Heinz-Gerhard, and Dieter Langewiesche. “The European Revolution of 1848: Its Political and Social Reforms, Its Politics of Nationalism, and Its Shortand Long-Term Consequences.” In Dieter Dowe, Heinz-Gerhard Haupt, Dieter Langewiesche, and Jonathan Sperber (eds.), Europe in 1848: Revolution and Reform. New York & Oxford: Berghahn Books, 2001. 1–23. Joseph, Gilbert M., and Jürgen Buchenau. Mexico’s Once and Future Revolution: Social Upheaval and the Challenge of Rule since the Late Nineteenth Century. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2013. Krauze, Enrique. Siglo de caudillos. Barcelona: Tusquets Editores, 1994. Mallon, Florencia E. Peasant and Nation: The Making of Postcolonial Mexico and Peru. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995. Malo, José Ramón. Diario de sucesos notables de José Ramón Malo (1832–1853). Edited by Mariano Cuevas. 2 vols. Mexico City: Editorial Patria, 1948. Manifestación que hace al público el ciudadano licenciado Mariano Arizcorreta contra la comunicación dirigida a los propietarios de fincas rústicas del estado de México con motivo de la llamada circular de 18 de julio del gobierno del mismo. Toluca: n. p., 1849. Marx, Karl, and Friedrich Engels. The Communist Manifesto (with an introduction by A.J.P. Taylor). Harmondsworth, UK: Pelican Books, 1980. Memoria del Ministerio de Justicia y Negocios Eclesiásticos, presentada a las augustas cámaras del congreso general de los Estados Unidos Mexicanos por el secretario del ramo en el mes de enero de 1851. Mexico City: Imprenta de Ignacio Cumplido, 1851. Meyer, Jean. Problemas campesinos y revueltas agrarias en México, 1821–1910. Mexico City: SEP, 1973. Meyer, Michael C., William L. Sherman, and Susan M. Deeds. The Course of Mexican History. 11th ed. New York: Oxford University Press, 2018. Mijangos y González, Pablo. The Lawyer of the Church: Bishop Clemente de Jesús Munguía and the Clerical Response to the Mexican Liberal Reforma. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2015. Nava, Othón. “La propuesta cultural del grupo conservador a través de las páginas de las revistas católicas mexicanas, 1845–1852.” MA thesis, Instituto Mora, 2004. Noriega, Alfonso. El pensamiento conservador y el conservadurismo mexicano. 2 vols. Mexico City: UNAM, 1993. Olivera, Ruth R., and Liliane Crété. Life in Mexico under Santa Anna, 1822–1855. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1991. Otero, Mariano. Consideraciones sobre la situación política y social de la república mexicana en el año de 1847. Mexico City: Valdés y Redondas, 1848. Pani, Erika. Para mexicanizar el Segundo Imperio: El imaginario político de los imperialistas. Mexico City: El Colegio de México/Instituto Mora, 2001. Pani, Erika (coord.). Conservadurismo y derechas en la historia de México. 2 vols. Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 2009. Perdigón Garay, José Guadalupe. Acusación que el C. José Guadalupe Perdigón Garay ha elevado al Gran Jurado de la cámara de diputados contra el Sr. Ministro de la Guerra, general de división D. Mariano Arista. Mexico City: Imprenta de Ignacio Cumplido, 1850. Pérez Rosales, Laura. Luis Gonzaga Cuevas. Toluca: Patrimonio Cultural y Artístico del Estado de México, 1979.

Setting the Scene  31 Portilla, Anselmo de la. Historia de la revolución de México contra la dictadura del general Santa Anna, 1853–1855. Mexico City: Imprenta de Vicente García Torres, 1856. Quintana, José Miguel. Lafragua, político y romántico. Mexico City: Editorial Academia Literaria, 1958. Ramírez, José F. Memorias, negociaciones y documentos, para servir a la historia de las diferencias que han suscitado entre México y los Estados Unidos los tenedores del antiguo privilegio, concedido para la comunicación de los mares Atlántico y Pacífico, por el Istmo de Tehuantepec. Mexico City: Imprenta de Ignacio Cumplido, 1853. ———. Mexico during the War with the United States. Edited by Walter B. Scholes. Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 1950. Rapport, Mike. 1848: Year of Revolution. New York: Basic Books, 2008. Reed, Nelson. The Caste War of Yucatán. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1964. Reina, Leticia. Las rebeliones campesinas en México, 1819–1906. Mexico City: Siglo XXI, 1980. ———. “The Sierra Gorda Peasant Rebellion, 1847–50.” In Friedrich Katz (ed.), Riot, Rebellion, and Revolution: Rural Social Conflict in Mexico. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1988. 269–294. Ripley, Roswell S. The War with Mexico. 2 vols. New York: Burt Franklin, 1970. Rodríguez Piña, Javier. “El ayuntamiento conservador de 1849.” In María del Carmen Collado (coord.), Miradas recurrentes. La ciudad de México en los siglos xix y xx. 2 vols. Mexico City: Instituto Mora/UAM, 2004. 1: 208–225. Rueda Smithers, Salvador. El diablo de Semana Santa: El discurso político y el orden social en la ciudad de México en 1850. Mexico City: INAH, 1991. Rugeley, Terry. Yucatán’s Maya Peasantry and the Origins of the Caste War, 1800– 1847. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1996. ———. Rebellion Now and Forever: Mayas, Hispanics, and Caste War Violence in Yucatán, 1800–1880. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2009. Russell, Philip L. The Essential History of Mexico: From Pre-Conquest to Present. New York: Routledge, 2016. Sanders, James E. The Vanguard of the Atlantic World: Creating Modernity, Nation, and Democracy in Nineteenth-Century Latin America. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2014. Santoni, Pedro. “ ‘Where Did the Other Heroes Go?’ Exalting the ‘Polko’ National Guard Battalions in Nineteenth-Century Mexico.” Journal of Latin American Studies 34:4 (November 2002): 807–844. ———. “The View from the Other Side: Mexican Historiographical Perspectives on the 1846–1848 War with the United States.” In William A. Frazier, and Mark K. Christ (eds.), Ready, Booted, and Spurred: Arkansas in the U.S.–Mexican War. Little Rock, AK: Butler Center for Arkansas Studies, 2009. 74–101. Smith, Benjamin T. The Roots of Conservatism in Mexico: Catholicism, Society and Politics in the Mixteca Baja, 1750–1962. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2012. Soberón, Arturo. “Lucas Alamán y la presidencia del Ayuntamiento de la ciudad de México en 1849.” Historias 50 (September-December 2001): 33–45. Solares Robles, Laura. Una revolución pacífica: Biografía política de Manuel Gómez Pedraza, 1789–1851. Mexico City: Instituto Mora, 1996.

32  Will Fowler and Pedro Santoni Soldami, Simonetta. “Approaching Europe in the Name of the Nation: The Italian Revolution, 1846–1849.” In Dieter Dowe, Heinz-Gerhard Haupt, Dieter Langewiesche, and Jonathan Sperber (eds.), Europe in 1848: Revolution and Reform. New York & Oxford: Berghahn Books, 2001. 59–88. Sordo Cedeño, Reynaldo. “José María Lafragua: Un moderado en la época de las posiciones extremas.” Estudios 107 (Winter 2013): 27–45. Soto, Miguel. La conspiración monárquica en México, 1845–1846. Mexico City: Offset, 1988. Sperber, Jonathan. The European Revolutions, 1848–1851. 2nd ed. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005. Suárez Argüello, Ana Rosa. “Una punzante visión de los Estados Unidos (La prensa mexicana después del 47).” In Roberto Blancarte (coord.), Cultura e identidad nacional. Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1994. 73–106. ———. “José Fernando Ramírez: Su estrategia para defender la soberanía de Tehuantepec (1851–1852).” In Luis Jáuregui, and José Antonio Serrano Ortega (eds.), Historia y nación. Vol. 2. Política y diplomacia en el siglo XIX mexicano. Mexico City: El Colegio de México, 1998. 401–419. Suárez de la Torre, Laura. Luis de la Rosa Oteiza. Obra periodística y literaria. Mexico City: Instituto Mora, 1996. Suárez y Navarro, Juan. Historia de México y el general Antonio López de Santa Anna: Comprende los acontecimientos políticos que han tenido lugar en la nación, desde el año de 1821 hasta 1848. 2 vols. Mexico City: Imprenta de Ignacio Cumplido, 1850. Tapia, Regina. “Derrota de los monarquistas, o sean VERDADEROS ANARQUISTAS. La prensa y la suspensión de las elecciones del 2 de diciembre de 1849 en la ciudad de México.” Legajos. Boletín del Archivo General de la Nación 13 (JulySeptember 2012): 61–78. Tenembaum, Barbara A. The Politics of Penury: Debts and Taxes in Mexico, 1821– 1856. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1986. Thompson, Waddy. Recollections of Mexico. New York & London: Wiley and Putnam, 1847. Thomson, Guy P.C. “Introduction.” In Guy P.C. Thomson (ed.), The European Revolutions of 1848 and the Americas. London: ILAS, 2002. 1–18. Tornel, José María. Discurso que pronunció el Escmo. Señor General D. José María Tornel y Mendívil, individuo del Supremo Poder Conservador, en la Alameda de la Ciudad de México, en el solemne aniversario de la independencia. Mexico City: Imprenta de Ignacio Cumplido, 1840. ———. Breve reseña histórica de los acontecimientos más notables de la nación mexicana, desde el año de 1821 hasta nuestros días. Mexico City: Imprenta de Ignacio Cumplido, 1852. ———. Voto particular del señor senador D. José María Tornel, individuo de la comisión especial que entiende en los negocios relativos al Istmo de Tehuantepec, sobre privilegio de abrir la vía de comunicación. Mexico City: Imprenta de Vicente García Torres, 1852. Tutino, John. From Insurrection to Revolution in Mexico: Social Bases of Agrarian Violence, 1750–1940. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1986. ———. “Agrarian Social Change and Peasant Rebellion in Nineteenth-Century Mexico: The Example of Chalco.” In Friedrich Katz (ed.), Riot, Rebellion, and

Setting the Scene  33 Revolution: Rural Social Conflict in Mexico. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1988. 95–140. Valle, Rafael Heliodoro (comp.). Un diplomático mexicano en París (Don Fernando Mangino, 1848–1851). Mexico City: Secretaría de Relaciones Exteriores, 1948. Van Oosterhout, K. Aaron. “Popular Conservatism in Mexico: Religion, Land, and Popular Politics in Nayarit and Querétaro, 1750–1873.” PhD diss., Michigan State University, 2014. Van Young, Eric. The Other Rebellion: Popular Violence, Ideology, and the Mexican Struggle for Independence, 1810–1821. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2001. Vanderwood, Paul J. Disorder and Progress: Bandits, Police, and Mexican Development. Revised and enlarged edition. Wilmington, DE: Scholarly Resources, 1992. ———. “Betterment for Whom? The Reform Period: 1855–1876.” In William H. Beezley, and Michael C. Meyer (eds.), The Oxford History of Mexico. 2nd ed. New York: Oxford University Press, 2010. 349–372. Vázquez, Josefina Zoraida. “Los años olvidados.” Mexican Studies/Estudios Mexicanos 5:2 (Summer 1996): 313–326. ———. “War and Peace with the United States.” In William H. Beezley, and Michael C. Meyer (eds.), The Oxford History of Mexico. 2nd ed. New York: Oxford University Press, 2010. 319–348. Vázquez Mantecón, Carmen. “Espacio social y crisis política: La Sierra Gorda 1850– 1855.” Mexican Studies/Estudios Mexicanos 9:1 (Winter 1993): 47–70. ———. La palabra del poder: Vida pública de José María Tornel (1795–1853). 2nd revised edition. Mexico City: UNAM, 2008. Velasco Márquez, Jesús. La guerra del 47 y la opinión pública (1845–1848). Mexico City: Secretaría de Educación Pública, 1975. Vigil, José María. México a través de los siglos. 5 vols. Mexico City: Ballesca y Comp. Editores, 1884. Villegas Revueltas, Silvestre. El liberalismo moderado en México, 1852–1864. Mexico City: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, 1997. von Wobeser, Gisela (ed.). Historia de México. Mexico City: FCE/SEP/Academia Mexicana de la Historia, 2010. Wasserman, Mark. Everyday Life and Politics in Nineteenth Century Mexico: Men, Women, and War. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2000. Zamora Plowes, Leopoldo. Quince uñas y Casanova aventureros. Mexico City: Editorial Patria, 1984.

2 The Will of the People Representaciones and Political Riots in Mid-Nineteenth-Century Mexico City Regina Tapia Given its status as the seat of national power since the early 1520s, midnineteenth-century Mexico City held a privileged position in public affairs. It was home both to its own municipal administration as well as to the executive, legislative, and judicial branches of the Mexican government. Interaction between national officials, local authorities, and city residents not only determined political and bureaucratic practices and customs, but also played a key role in shaping the way the capital’s residents collectively engaged with national and local politics.1 To express their opinion about such matters, in addition to voting in elections, elites and common folk utilized two mechanisms with roots in the colonial era—representaciones (a written petition of sorts), and political riots. Both practices provided denizens of the capital with a clear, straightforward voice that intermediary figures could not dilute or reshape. Between the sixteenth and early nineteenth centuries representaciones allowed for direct contact between the Spanish crown and its vassals.2 The king’s subjects used them to inform government officials about their concerns, suggestions, and sometimes even their disagreements with royal policy. The right to file a representación was then exercised individually as well as collectively by cities and local councils, corporations like the Catholic Church or the army, members of the powerful merchant or mining guilds, or rural indigenous communities. Petitioners demanded, as in the case of the latter two groups, protection for their commercial endeavors or resolution of land disputes.3 Representaciones underwent one significant modification following Mexican independence from Spain in 1821; prior to that date the right to file a representación compelled signatories to render their services to the monarch, but in early republican Mexico representaciones were prepared under the premise that citizens had the right to do so.4 Political riots in Mexico City, in which crowds mobilized and took to the streets against an authority figure, were not a unique nineteenth-century phenomenon either. Some scholars have argued that a tradition of political uprisings has long existed in the Mexican capital, while others have suggested that riots became part of Mexico City’s political culture.5 Perhaps the best-known colonial era mutiny with clear political overtones occurred in June 1692 when a mob of rioters, prompted by a corn shortage and

The Will of the People  35 an ensuing food crisis, stormed the viceregal palace and other government buildings representative of Spanish power.6 Similar motivations underlay other disturbances that rocked the capital in the early nineteenth century, of which the best known is the December 1828 Parián riot. On that occasion, a crowd of approximately 5,000 pillaged shops and stores in Mexico City’s central square to overturn the results of a recent presidential election, the first held in the country since the advent of independence.7 This chapter surveys two incidents in mid-nineteenth-century Mexico City that combined these expressions of political culture. It first examines the riot of December 1, 1849, which was triggered by a representación requesting that Congress suspend the upcoming elections for a new ayuntamiento (city council). Fraud was imminent, so argued the petitioners, because the existing ayuntamiento had organized the balloting.8 The chapter next analyzes the representación of October 11, 1850, in which sixty-five individuals asked the Chamber of Deputies to reinstate the ayuntamiento that ruled Mexico City on December 1, 1849; members of that council resigned because of the events which had marked that evening, and left the capital without a functioning government. Both episodes shed much light on the manner nineteenth-century Mexicans understood, and sometimes manipulated, the collective actor commonly referred to as el pueblo (the people). The term sometimes denoted hard-working individuals as well as an entity within which the nation’s sovereignty lay, but it could also refer to vagabonds, bums, as well as to a group of individuals who acted in an uncontrollable, impassioned manner.9 The riot of December 1849 and the October 1850 representación are also significant because they clearly influenced legislation about popular sovereignty that emerged during Mexico’s mid-nineteenthcentury Liberal Revolution, the Reforma. Finally, the two events showcase the agency of Mexico City’s inhabitants. Denizens of the capital were not just spectators, but rather active participants who left their mark in national and local political affairs.

Political Rivalries in 1849 Mexico City Mexico’s 1846–1848 war with the United States provoked a profound crisis among the nation’s intellectuals. Not only had a foreign invading army captured the country’s capital and forced the national government to relocate some 115 miles away to the city of Querétaro, but the peace treaty signed in February 1848 resulted in the loss of nearly half its territory. The ensuing sense of despair and demoralization found expression in the work of prominent thinkers like José María Iglesias, Manuel Payno, Guillermo Prieto, and Ignacio Ramírez, all of whom contributed essays to the somber Apuntes para la historia de la guerra entre México y los Estados Unidos, published in 1848.10 These men sought to explain how and why such a catastrophe had occurred at a time when factional rivalries should have been put aside to save the nation. Other individuals, including the standard-bearer of the

36  Regina Tapia conservadores (conservatives), Lucas Alamán, used that moment of national introspection to reject the principle of popular sovereignty as the foundation of the republican government then in place. Alamán suggested that Mexico would have been better off had it adopted a monarchical regime, and challenged as well conventional wisdom about the movement for independence and the men who forged it, particularly creole priest Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla. He characterized the insurgency Hidalgo had led in 1810 not as a heroic quest against an oppressive Spanish monarchy, but rather as the “rising of the proletarian class against property and civilization.”11 The predicament that Mexico’s intelligentsia faced in the aftermath of the war with the U.S. coincided with a bitter struggle between two of the country’s most important political factions. Late in 1849 both moderados (moderates) and conservadores attempted to utilize the concept of el pueblo to legitimate their efforts to wield power. Although the former had controlled national affairs since the spring of 1847, after the war with the U.S. they faced much stronger opposition and thus their authority remained tenuous.12 By late 1848 conservadores in Mexico, like their European counterparts who had experienced a resurgence after the revolutions that over the course of the year had spread across the continent,13 had established their own political party and a newspaper, El Universal, as a vehicle to disseminate their ideas. Conservadores subsequently won important electoral victories in July and September 1849; the former gave them control of the Mexico City ayuntamiento (over which Alamán presided), and the latter insured they would have a majority in the national Congress starting in January 1850.14 The conservative ascendancy in the Mexican capital, according to monarchist sympathizer Niceto de Zamacois, turned the summer and autumn of 1849 into a golden era. The ayuntamiento launched “an annual exhibit of national products” to “promote industriousness and good work habits,” and thus abet the development of “such a beautiful and wretched republic.”15 The council also balanced the city’s budget and initiated numerous urban improvement projects; these included the creation of blueprints for Mexico City, the establishment of police regulations, improving water pumps to prevent epidemics and minimize the danger from fires, promoting employment among jail inmates, developing more parks, and paving city streets. Such plans, as one scholar recently put it, showed Alamán’s party was “at its best” between July and November 1849.16 The growing preeminence of the conservadores, however, greatly concerned moderado General José Joaquín Herrera, who had assumed the presidency in early June 1848. To derail their influence, the chief executive offered a high-level government post to Alamán “as an elegant way of demanding his resignation” from the ayuntamiento, but Alamán declined the proposal.17 Pro-moderado newspapers then began to hint of their displeasure with the continued dominance of the conservadores in the city council. El Monitor Republicano published an article titled “Don Lucas

The Will of the People  37 Alamán and the Sovereign People”—supposedly authored by one Pedro Castañeda—that alluded to Alamán’s possible involvement in the 1831 execution of former insurgent hero and president, General Vicente Guerrero. Other essays, like “Death to Don Lucas Alamán,” left no doubt as to the authors’ political views. The moderados also sought to discredit him by criticizing his historical studies and El Universal, and their anti-Alamán, anti-conservative campaign culminated with the “assault” on the ayuntamiento elections scheduled for December 1, 1849.18 The December balloting had been a byproduct of the effort launched by moderado authorities in late May to secure control of political affairs in Mexico City. It was necessary, as Federal District Governor Pedro Jorrín argued at the time, to regularize electoral processes in the capital. The war with the U.S. had disrupted them, and they had since lacked all continuity. To remedy this situation, elections would be held in July.19 Jorrín’s rhetoric hid the fact that current council members (who were moderado sympathizers) hoped to stay in power,20 but in the end the moderados’ plan backfired. Not only did the July 1849 city council elections, which appeared to have run smoothly, bring Alamán and his fellow conservadores to power, but henceforth—per a May 19, 1849 decree—voting would be held every December to replace half the ayuntamiento members, with new councilmen taking office the following January 1.21 Specific arrangements for the December voting began on November 13. On that day moderado Interior Minister José María Lacunza, his ideological colleague and then Federal District Governor General Pedro María Anaya, and ayuntamiento president Alamán exchanged letters concerning whether another round of elections was needed. Alamán wanted to keep the same board that had been chosen in July, but Lacunza and Anaya, with President Herrera’s support, opted to repeat the primary phase of the elections (at the time elections in Mexico were indirect). There, common citizens openly voted for an elector to represent them in the following phase where other primary electors, organized by district, met to elect yet another representative. That individual would then form part of the final electoral junta chosen to appoint the new members of the ayuntamiento.22 The dispute between moderado national government officials and conservadores in the city council relative to the merits of keeping the existing conservative-dominated board might be explained by the complicated nature of primary-level elections. To properly manage such proceedings local authorities had to register voters, distribute ballots, set up voting venues (all difficult, not to say time-consuming tasks), as well as collect and count the votes. The council, however, wanted to avoid repeating the initial (or primary) electoral step to insure the appointment of a conservative-led ayuntamiento, while moderado authorities wanted to use the elections to remove the conservative council so they could control public affairs in the nation’s capital. The latter thus decided that elections would be held on December 2, 1849.23

38  Regina Tapia

The Curious Riot of December 1849 As government leaders and ayuntamiento officials discussed how to organize the municipal elections, other incidents heightened political tensions in Mexico City. Federal congressional elections were held in September 1849 amidst suspicions of fraud, while a powerful earthquake shook the capital that same month and further unsettled city residents. In addition, rumors of a forthcoming uprising by santanistas (as supporters of General Antonio López de Santa Anna, Mexico’s preeminent political and military figure, were known) in nearby Toluca, the capital city of Mexico state, added to the uneasiness.24 Finally, it appears that puro (radical liberal) supporters, the moderados’ erstwhile rivals, were working behind the scenes to ensure that balloting for the new city council would favor the latter. According to one chronicler, on December 1 “the representative [José María del] Río”—a well-known puro—“and others had been setting up posters employing seditious terms to call the people [to action] so that at twelve [a.m., e.g. midnight] they would gather in the Chamber of Deputies to discuss a matter of great importance against the monarchists.”25 This sort of maneuvering did not go unnoticed by Alamán, who immediately informed Governor Anaya that fliers inciting “the people” to assemble at that location could be seen on many street corners since the early morning. Given that their content could easily “incite popular passions” against the conservadores and thus affect the next day’s elections, Alamán demanded that the government observe the law and guarantee public order so the council could properly organize the voting. Anaya reassured the ayuntamiento he would take care of things,26 but what happened that evening was something altogether very different. One version of what then transpired came from the editors of El Universal. December 1, as they put it, “brought joy to the troublemakers and malicious ones who are tired of so many peaceful days, and want to give the capital a spectacle of new riots.” The journalists went on to explain that “various individuals” had gone to the Chamber of Deputies with a “statement” that some legislators had abided by, and which demanded that elections be suspended. While El Universal maintained that the motives for the representación remained unknown (inferring that no one had seen the text),27 Zamacois intimated that the moderado national government had conceived the petition so its partisans would win the ayuntamiento seats that were up for grabs. In any case, the ensuing debate became contentious; the representatives who endorsed the document did so “enthusiastically and energetically,” while those who opposed it claimed the representación went against “the spirit of liberty” and would bring evil to society. The behavior of spectators added to the turmoil, as from “various points in the galleries [one could hear] the shouts [of] ‘Long live the Republic!’ ‘Death to the monarchists!’ ” In the end, the unusual timing of the discussion (it took place at midnight) insured that moderado deputies were a majority among attendees, and thus the Chamber of Deputies suspended the elections. In

The Will of the People  39 Zamacois’ opinion, “the thirty-five individuals who signed [the representación] found echo in the government and the chambers; they took over the voice of the people, [and in so doing] ignored and violated the rights of the people themselves.”28 Newspapers sympathetic to the moderados offered a different perspective about the events of December 1. El Siglo XIX argued that “various citizens” used their “unqualified right to representation” to deliver a document to Congress that greatly interested many legislators, while El Monitor Republicano reported that a “considerable number of citizens” had signed the representación.29 The editors of El Monitor subsequently offered another take on the individuals who, perhaps influenced by the posters that had appeared throughout Mexico City that morning, filled the galleries of Congress to support the representación. They characterized attendees “not [as members of] the masses, but [rather of] the people,”30 thus endowing them with an aura of respectability, an important distinction given the contradictory meanings then in vogue about the term pueblo. In the end, the terms of the representación became law on December 3. That decree postponed ayuntamiento elections until 1850, and stated that henceforth a six-person board headed by the governor of the Federal District (national government officials would choose or appoint all members, three of whom were to belong to the ayuntamiento) was to organize the balloting.31 Moderado supporters then mobilized the populace and took to the streets to celebrate their victory. Sometime before midnight, as Zamacois put it, the authors of the representación pressured “various groups of peoples” to venture across Mexico City playing music, “yelling death to the conservatives and monarchists!” and loudly shouting the names of the editors of El Universal and members of the ayuntamiento. The crowd also vandalized the home of one councilman, Manuel Diez de Bonilla, throwing a “hail of stones against the balconies of the house that destroyed windows and filled the family with dismay.” Authorities did not try to halt these disturbances, “giving reason to believe, as was suspected, that they agreed with the demonstration.” More specifically, according to Zamacois, members of the ayuntamiento believed moderado stalwarts General Anaya and Minister of War General Mariano Arista had promoted the ruckus.32 Despite Zamacois’ inherent conservative bias, as well as the possibility that he did not witness the events of December 1,33 his version of that episode appears to be quite reliable. First, it seems that influential moderados like Payno and Prieto steered the process that turned the representación into law. Both men, according to El Monitor Republicano, “laid claim” to the petition, and their efforts insured that legislators would discuss it.34 In addition, key members of General Herrera’s regime, such as Arista, Lacunza, and other prominent figures plotted the riot that Eligio Romero carried out. Much like deputy del Río, who put up posters on the morning of December 1, Romero was another prominent puro partisan who actively promoted his party’s interests in Mexico City after the war with the U.S. He

40  Regina Tapia is said to have offered two reales and a glass of pulque (an alcoholic beverage made from the maguey cactus) to one hundred léperos so they would stone the homes of the councilmen and break into the printing house of El Universal.35 The moderados were clearly relying on their erstwhile rivals to attain some much-needed political influence, especially since the newlyelected, conservative-dominated Congress was scheduled to take office in early 1850. Pro-moderado newspapers, nevertheless, went on to argue that justice, as well as the will of the Mexican people, had prevailed on the evening of December 1. El Monitor Republicano placed all responsibility for that night’s episode on the people. It was the people, not a group of legislators or federal government officials, who had objected to what the newspaper derisively characterized as the ayuntamiento Loreto.36 What had then transpired represented the triumph of “most of the nation, of the national representation,” a victory that completely displeased the “monarchist faction.” If the Mexican people backed the ayuntamiento, why had they not expressed their support? It was clear, therefore, that conservadores had been “solemnly condemned by the national sovereignty represented by Congress.”37 El Monitor Republicano also endeavored to bestow these individuals with a sense of decorum. Many of those who assembled in the galleries of Congress to vilify Alamán, and who later walked through the streets of Mexico City, were “decent individuals who belonged to the people.”38 Moderado journalists also moved to mock the conservatives’ claim that the events of December 1 had been a popular riot. The editors of El Siglo XIX condemned the “passionate events” that had taken place that night. They further noted that it was “well known we hate all riots, of whatever kind they might be,” and added that those occurrences had been “extraordinarily distorted.”39 El Monitor Republicano did the same but in a more creative fashion via an article that simulated the conversation between a catrín (a well-dressed dandy) who tried to pass himself off as a scholar (a monarchist) and a “simpleton” with a “good head on his shoulders.” The catrín argued that the people had “trampled on the authorities” on the evening of December 1. When the simpleton tried to disprove that position he got confused, and only when the stoning of Diez de Bonilla’s house came up in the conversation did he finally realize that the “windows of the house of a former alderman represented both the authorities and the council.”40 Starting on December 3, however, moderado newspapers began to strike a more cautionary tone in their assessment of the disturbances that had occurred two nights earlier, particularly as news spread about the attack on Diez de Bonilla’s residence. According to El Monitor Republicano, the group that had been happy and civil the day before [December 1] turned into “a gathering of people” that, with music and fireworks, committed disturbances by throwing stones . . . at the home of Diez de Bonilla.” The marchers broke windows and screamed insults before finally dispersing at dawn. Then, to prevent further troubles, an army corps

The Will of the People  41 helped close a wine shop on the corner of Sepulcros Street. The saloon, which was near such high-profile downtown locales like the cathedral and the Colegio de San Ildenfonso (one of the capital’s preeminent educational institution), had remained open that night although doing so subjected its proprietors to a fine, and six men and six women had been arrested for “excessive intoxication.”41 It is clear, then, that the moderado-leaning press sought to minimize the importance of the events of December 1— almost to the point of making them disappear. At the same time, such newspapers also recounted, in painstaking detail, the multiple legal irregularities committed by the ayuntamiento presided by Alamán on the eve of the election to argue that the people’s will had led to its downfall.42

Representing City Neighbors The events of December 1, 1849 had a profound impact on municipal government in Mexico City. The next day, every member of the Alamán-led ayuntamiento quit their post because, so they argued, the events of December 1 were illegal.43 Governor Anaya then summoned back members of the previous ayuntamiento to hold office, but on December 4 they refused to obey Anaya’s order. This council, presided by Miguel González de Cosío, had been appointed by moderado officials in 1848, but the ex-councilmen, having witnessed the occurrences that prompted Alamán’s council to resign, reasoned they did not know if “higher authorities” would support them. More specifically, these men claimed to “lack the guarantees that matter to all public officials, the universal compliance with the law,” and that neither their principles nor their character would allow them to serve as “instruments to any party.”44 Their decision meant that Mexico City would not have any kind of local administration for one year. To remedy this situation, on October 11, 1850, sixty-five self-termed “neighbors from the capital” moved to exercise their right to representation; unlike 1849, these individuals asked Congress to empower the ayuntamiento to again organize local elections. The language used by the authors of this representación was truly pressing, even dramatic. They implored for a “timely and opportune” remedy to their current circumstances, which they characterized as full of “true conflict, calamity, mistrust, and public anxiety.” The writers did not elaborate on why they felt this way, but the lack of local administration, not to say their perception of the events of December 1, 1849 as nothing short of scandalous, likely influenced their outlook. These sixty-five men believed the “hard lesson” learned by all Mexicans due to the “occupation and loss of great part of our territory” in the conflict with the U.S. would have henceforth insured that political affairs ran “in good form,” and quell as well the “frequent revolts” produced by the “greedy interests” of each faction. Post-war national politics, however, had “painfully disappointed” them, and consequently the much-anticipated “new era of happiness” had yet to materialize. Given that partisan skirmishes

42  Regina Tapia had instigated the tumultuous events of early December 1849 in Mexico City, and would surely lead to similar incidents in the future, they asked for the repeal of the December 3, 1849 decree and the reinstatement of the previous order.45 I emphasize this idea about the representación because one key commonality between the events of December 1849 and October 1850 was that all concerned parties relied on the argument of legality to make their case. First, those who in 1849 requested the suspension of elections—be they citizens, congressmen, or federal officials, but all likely moderado supporters— argued that the ayuntamiento had not made the necessary arrangements for the balloting during the month prior, as stipulated in the 1830 electoral law decree. Indeed, at that time members of Alamán’s ayuntamiento not only had explored the possibility of avoiding the primary round of elections, but they also cited another piece of legislation (this law, issued on April 24, 1837, stipulated that electoral colleges chosen in the primary phase would hold their posts for two years) in an attempt to skip the primary round.46 Conservative newspapers in 1849 also appealed to the legality of the council presided by Alamán, arguing it was unlawful to strip the ayuntamiento of the ability to organize elections as specified in the decree of December 3 of that year.47 Ten months later, the sixty-five signatories of the 1850 representación made the same contention. In their opinion, the current order was born from an attack on “liberties” by an act that responded to “the partisan stamp against public benefit, the intolerance of opinions, [and which also stood as] a symptom of tyranny and ignorance about good service.” To them, legality meant going back to a previous good law, not the current illegitimate one. The December 3, 1849 decree was unlawful not only because it was a product of the factional disputes which they repudiated, but also because the ability to intervene in “popular elections” had been taken away from the “most popular” government body. Meanwhile, the authority now charged with these functions—a six-person board presided by the governor of the Federal District, all of whom were presidential appointees—“was obliged to take care of interests that are on another order.”48 Their argument depended on a legality based on the definition of functions: To organize an election was an administrative task, not a political one. In the end, the signatories achieved their goal some seven months later. On December 13 deputy Beltrán Ortigosa Villaseñor, as Payno and Cumplido had done the year before, claimed the representación as his, and the Senate did the same on January 3, 1851. These endorsements, not to say the privileged lineage of the document’s signatories, likely influenced the government to make the demands of the representación a reality. On May 23, 1851, a new administration headed by General Arista (who had succeeded Herrera that January) approved a decree that gave the Mexico City ayuntamiento the authority to organize the balloting as it had done so prior to the ruckus of December 1849.49

The Will of the People  43

Final Thoughts In early republican Mexico elites and commoners actively participated in public affairs to make their voices heard and help shape the destinies of the new nation. Yet, as the representaciones and political protests that engulfed Mexico City in late 1849 and 1850 demonstrate, the mobilization of the populace called into question whether such actions were truly legitimate and represented the will of the people. In December 1849 the moderados argued that the Mexican people had every right to present legislators with a representación to publicly, and peacefully, manifest their opinion about the upcoming municipal elections in Mexico City. These actions were further justified because, according to El Monitor Republicano, the authors of that document had been accompanied by “the people,” and not the rabble; as El Siglo XIX explained, they were citizens making use of their right to represent. Hardly any of the articles published in these two newspapers highlighted the subsequent popular, carnival-like festivities with music and fireworks; their editors also paid little attention to the damages that private property had suffered, drunkenness, and unruly behavior. Conservadores, on the other hand, saw things quite differently. Zamacois claimed that the thirty-five men who met in Congress on the night of December 1, 1849 had distorted, and did not represent, the people’s will. He further noted that afterwards the moderados mobilized a mob of coarse lowlifes who, fueled with alcohol, engaged in passionate, destructive behavior against the homes of men like Councilman Diez de Bonilla, and one doctor Nájera, a reputed monarchist sympathizer.50 Nearly one year later, to avoid the conundrum of who or what represented the popular voice, the signatories of the October 1850 representación— which demanded that the ability to organize municipal elections be returned to the city council—used a less problematic term than “the people” to identify and define themselves: “Neighbors.” That fine distinction notwithstanding, this document hardly qualified as one that truly embodied a popular voice. Its signatories included Juan Velasco, Ignacio Baz, Angel María del Puerto y Vicario, Manuel de la Cadena, Jesús Inclán, José María Barreda, Juan García Luna, José María Tamariz, and Gabriel de Yermo, all members of families long associated with elite interests throughout the history of Mexico City.51 Their representación, furthermore, had little political content. It did not refer to the golden era that the capital supposedly lived through when Alamán presided over the ayuntamiento, nor to the members of that council. The document also ignored the popular mobilization of December 1849, and did not chastise the moderados who wanted to suspend the municipal elections. Instead, the October 1850 representación referred to a decaying nation fraught with factional disputes that had driven the population to exhaustion as well as deprived the capital of a functioning government. It spoke of the search for a “just measure,” the need for social peace, and to the ideal that the 1854 Revolution of Ayutla, which toppled

44  Regina Tapia Santa Anna’s 1853–1855 dictatorship and paved the way for the Reforma, adopted as a slogan—“liberty with order.” While the 1850 representación stands out as an example of citizen discourse elaborated under extreme duress, the concerns it manifested about the prerogatives that government leaders should possess to properly administer the country first began to resonate a decade earlier. Three pamphlets published between 1842 and 1849—Mariano Otero’s Ensayo sobre el verdadero estado de la cuestión social y política que se agita en la República Mexicana, Varios mexicanos’ Consideraciones sobre la situación política y social de la República Mexicana en el año de 1847, and Nicolás Pizarro Suárez’ La libertad en el orden: Ensayo sobre derecho público, en que se resuelven algunas de las más vitales cuestiones que se agitan en México desde su independencia—all wrestled with the question of how to create an effective, viable, and stable nation-state. This was a crucial matter given that Mexico, having cast off its colonial ties to Spain just two decades earlier, faced complex social and economic problems, not to say ethnic and racial differences among its inhabitants, which hindered domestic stability as well as the development of a sense of nationhood.52 To deal with these matters their authors mulled over the Spanish administrative heritage, the mechanisms used to craft legislation, and the lessons that could be gleaned from other countries that had instituted a constitutional system to turn Mexico— much like the authors of the October 1850 representación hoped—into an organized, lawful nation where respect for civil liberties prevailed. The ideas made evident by the events of late 1849 and 1850 in Mexico City further resonated in Mexico’s 1857 constitution, perhaps the most important document to emerge during the Reforma. Article 39 of that charter stated, for the first time in the country’s history, that sovereignty resided in the people. The proviso noted that “all public power originates in the people and is instituted for their benefit. The people at all times have the inalienable right to alter or modify their form of government.”53 The 1857 constitution also detailed the way the people could exercise their sovereignty. Article 8 enshrined the right to representation as it sanctioned the “inviolable right to petition” for all Mexican citizens.54 That clause gave legal continuity to this long-standing colonial tradition, and afforded citizens with a peaceful mechanism to address public affairs, a rather different means than the long-standing custom of pronunciamiento writing that had often led to violence.55 The impact of representaciones again become evident late in 1856 when the framers of Mexico’s new charter received many such petitions opposed to the idea of religious freedom; these appeals helped insure that those congressmen would not include this principle in the constitution.56 Finally, Article 9 of the 1857 charter also regulated the right to protest. Legislators considered the free expression of ideas as one of the “rights of man” so long as public order remained undisturbed, but only Mexican citizens had the right to assemble to “take part in the country’s political affairs.”57

The Will of the People  45 Although the representaciones of December 1849 and October 1850—and the political demonstration that followed the former—are best understood within the specific historic context that framed them (e.g., a country that had recently suffered the trauma of a foreign invasion and the ensuing loss of nearly half its territory), they resonate more broadly as integral elements of mid-nineteenth-century Mexico’s political culture. The representación and the political riot then gradually diminished in importance during the regime of Porfirio Díaz (1876–1911), and both barely survived the 1910 Revolution. For much of the twentieth century Mexicans largely stopped writing to Congress, preferring instead to appeal directly to the president. Meanwhile, public protests did not attempt to transform national or local politics, or the structures of power, but rather sought to address the needs and demands of specific groups like labor unions or university students. By the late 1900s, however, the one-party state that emerged from the 1910 Revolution had begun to lose hegemony, and Mexicans, as they capitalized on that opportunity to press forth their claims, appeared to turn back the clock to the mid1800s. In 2005 citizens demanded that Congress represent their interests by blocking a process known as desafuero (the removal of a public official’s immunity from prosecution) that some legislators brought against the popular left-wing politician and then Mexico City mayor Andrés López Obrador. One year later thousands of the city’s residents demanded peace, justice, and honesty from authorities when they took to the streets to dispute the results of the presidential election supposedly won by right-wing National Action Party candidate Felipe Calderón.58 In both instances the people of Mexico City, as in the late 1840s and early 1850s, showed themselves to be deeply committed to their status as individuals where sovereignty truly resided.

Acknowledgments A Spanish language version of this chapter was first presented at a Seminar for Political History held at the Instituto Mora in Mexico City on July 7, 2016. I would like to thank its members for their valuable (and always welcome) feedback and suggestions. Ariadna Méndez translated that first version into English, and I would like to thank her as well. Finally, I appreciate the efforts of Eric Lowe, one of Pedro Santoni’s students at California State University, San Bernardino, who helped smooth out a few rough edges in a subsequent draft of the essay.

Notes 1. On this topic, see, by Pérez Toledo, “Formas de gobierno local,” in Rodríguez Kuri (coord.), Historia política de la ciudad de México, and “Consideraciones sobre la ciudad,” in Connaughton (coord.), 1750–1850: La Independencia de México. The work of Rodríguez Kuri is also relevant. See his La experiencia olvidada; and “Política e institucionalidad,” in Hernández Franyuti (comp.), La ciudad de México en la primera mitad del siglo XIX.

46  Regina Tapia 2. Chiaramonte, “Modificaciones del pacto imperial,” in Annino and Guerra (coords.), Inventando la nación, 99; and Guerra, “El soberano y su reino,” in Sabato (coord.), Ciudadanía política y formación de las naciones, 38. 3. Arroyo García, La arquitectura del Estado mexicano, 401. For rural petitions, and the continuities in both their language and the concerns of their authors from colonial times through the 1800s, see Falcón, “El arte de la petición”; and Marino, “«Ahora que Dios nos ha dado Padre [. . .] ».” 4. In a forthcoming monograph based on my doctoral dissertation, I examine numerous representaciones written in Mexico City during the mid-1800s that show citizens felt entitled to the right to participate in national and local politics. 5. On the first point, see Rodríguez Kuri, “Los primeros días”; for the latter assertion, see Silva Prada, La política de una rebelión; and Arrom and Ortoll (coords.), Revuelta en las ciudades. 6. Silva Prada, La política de una rebelión, 189–190. Cope’s The Limits of Racial Domination highlights the political content inherent in the 1692 disturbance that made it vastly different from a 1624 mutiny promoted by elites. The most recent analysis of the 1692 rebellion also characterizes it as a genuine political movement. See Exbalin, “Riot in Mexico City.” 7. Arrom, “Popular Politics in Mexico City.” Less known, but quite important given the focus of this essay, was the riot that broke out on the morning of March 11, 1837 because copper coinage was being discounted and losing its value. As one scholar put it, “large crowds took to the streets outside the congressional chambers, and demanded entry. Others ran through the streets, shouted slogans, traded insults with the military, threw rocks, and threatened local businesses.” The unrest gave way to a “universally noted quiescence the following morning.” Warren, Vagrants and Citizens, 145–152; the quoted phrases are in 147 and 149. A comprehensive examination of the 1837 tumult is in Cacho Torres, “Coyuntura y crisis.” 8. I have not found an original of this representación (which I know about thanks to comments from contemporary observers and newspapers), so specific details about it and the number of signatories remain unknown. 9. Tapia, “El pueblo y el poder,” 45–85. Many nineteenth-century chroniclers, such as Carlos María de Bustamante, referred to the common people in pejorative terms. He labeled participants in the 1837 copper currency riot, as well as in the so-called December 6, 1844 “glorious revolution” against General Antonio López de Santa Anna’s 1841–1844 regime, as léperos (persons of low economic and social standing). Bustamante’s quotes are in Warren, Vagrants and Citizens, 148; and his own Apuntes para la historia, 364. For additional analysis of how pundits both used and abused the concept of the “will of the people,” see Fowler, Independent Mexico. 10. To further explore how this and other works sought to explain Mexico’s military fiasco, see Hale, Mexican Liberalism, 11–38; and Matute Aguirre, “Conciencia histórica temprana,” in Herrera Serna (coord.), México en guerra, 1846–1848. 11. Palti, La invención de una legitimidad, 215–217; and Pani, “Entre la espada y la pared,” in Ávila and Salmerón (coords.), Partidos, facciones y otras calamidades, 76. Alamán’s quote is in Hale, Mexican Liberalism, 20. 12. Vázquez, Dos décadas, 140–143. 13. Rudé, The Face of the Crowd, 55. 14. Pani, “Entre la espada y la pared,” in Ávila and Salmerón (coords.), Partidos, facciones y otras calamidades, 4–5; and Rodríguez Piña, “Rafael de Rafael y Vilá,” in Suárez de la Torre (coord.), Empresa y cultura en tinta y papel, 162. The other members of the city council are listed in Zamacois, Historia de Méjico, 13: 314.

The Will of the People  47 15. Zamacois, Historia de Méjico, 13: 302. 16. González Navarro, Anatomía del poder, 223; Krauze, Siglo de caudillos, 182; the quote is from Palti, La invención, 255. 17. Palti, La invención, 254–255. 18. The essays referred to in the text appeared, respectively, in El Monitor Republicano, November 1, and December 4, 1849. For a detailed examination of the attacks against Alamán, and his response, see Tapia, “Derrota de los monarquistas.” 19. Pedro Jorrín to the inhabitants of Mexico City, May 29, 1849, in Archivo Histórico del Distrito Federal (hereafter cited as AHDF), Fondo Ayuntamiento y Gobierno del Distrito Federal, Sección Elecciones y Ayuntamiento, vol. 863, exp. 44, doc. 2. 20. El Siglo XIX, July 1, 1849. 21. AHDF, Fondo Ayuntamiento y Gobierno del Distrito Federal, Sección Elecciones y Ayuntamiento, vol. 863, exp. 45, doc. 2. 22. AHDF, Fondo Ayuntamiento y Gobierno del Distrito Federal, Sección Elecciones y Ayuntamiento, vol. 863, exp. 44 (no document was listed); and Tapia, “El pueblo y el poder,” 32. Anaya took over that post on July 10. Malo, Diario de sucesos notables, 1: 343. 23. AHDF, Fondo Ayuntamiento y Gobierno del Distrito Federal, Sección Elecciones y Ayuntamiento, vol. 863, exp. 44, doc. 7. 24. Malo, Diario de sucesos notables, 1: 344–345. For details about the disputed nature of the congressional elections, see Alcántara Machuca, “Paradojas políticas.” Although Santa Anna was living in exile at the time (many of his enemies had accused him of losing the war with the U.S. on purpose), by 1849 his supporters had begun to suggest that only a dictatorship, headed by Santa Anna, could insure Mexico’s long-term stability. Fowler, Santa Anna, 284, and 292. 25. Malo, Diario de sucesos notables, 1: 347. For the puro-moderado struggles in the mid-1840s, and del Río’s activities on the puros’ behalf, see Santoni, Mexicans at Arms. 26. El Universal, December 2, 1849. 27. El Universal, December 2, 1849. 28. Zamacois, Historia de Méjico, 13: 313 (the italics are mine). 29. El Siglo XIX, December 5, 1849; and El Monitor Republicano, December 2, 1849. 30. El Monitor Republicano, December 8, 1849. 31. El Siglo XIX, December 2, 1849; and Dublán and Lozano, Legislación mexicana, 5: 649. 32. Zamacois, Historia de Méjico, 13: 313–314. 33. Although he had lived in Mexico City since 1840, recent research suggests that Zamacois’ Historia, written between 1876 and 1882, relied on reports from El Universal and on documents authored by Francisco de Paula Arrangoiz, another conservative ayuntamiento councilman. Alcántara Machuca, “Paradojas políticas,” 342. 34. El Monitor Republicano, December 8, 1849. 35. González Navarro, Anatomía del poder, 224. Romero’s strategy was not unusual. During a September 9, 1849 meeting held to organize the primary federal elections for Congress, Alamán’s detractors created a ruckus when they brought in “a bunch of drunk léperos” who were “armed with clubs.” Malo, Diario de sucesos notables, 1: 344–345. Chapter four in this volume, authored by Pedro Santoni, offers insight into Romero’s efforts on the puros’ behalf in 1848. 36. In the late 1200s, according to Catholic lore, angels carried the home where Jesus was born to Loreto, Italy. The use of the term illustrated El Monitor’s disdain toward the ayuntamiento presided by Alamán—it was an ultra-Catholic

48  Regina Tapia and reactionary entity. Diccionario Enciclopédico de Biblia y Teología Biblia. Work (www.biblia.work/diccionarios/loreto), accessed April 5, 2017. 37. El Monitor Republicano, December 8, 1849 (the italics are in the original). 38. El Monitor Republicano, December 2, 1849. 39. El Siglo XIX, December 2, 1849. 40. El Monitor Republicano, December 8, 1849. In the original the simpleton stated that he barely understood that “las vidrinas de un ex capitular son autoridades y ayuntamiento.” I rewrote the sentence to make it accessible for modern readers. 41. El Monitor Republicano, December 3, 1849. 42. El Monitor Republicano, December 8, 1849. 43. The letter can be found in Zamacois, Historia de Méjico, 13: 317. Moderado journalists then embarked on a smear campaign against the councilmen. One editorial characterized them as “poor devils,” and predicted it would not be odd if “tomorrow they show[ed] up with news that their master, General Santa Anna,” was president of Mexico, with Alamán and Diez de Bonilla respectively as ministers of foreign relations and treasury. El Monitor Republicano, December 8, 1849. This hypothetical projection became reality in the spring of 1853 when Alamán invited Santa Anna to return to Mexico from foreign exile and lead the government (that regime eventually became a military dictatorship). Fowler, Santa Anna, 291–292. 44. Anaya’s December 3 letter, and the councilmen’s response, are in Comunicaciones entre el señor gobernador del Distrito y los individuos que formaron el ayuntamiento hasta 22 del último Julio, in El Siglo XIX, December 6, 1849. 45. Archivo Histórico del Senado y Memoria Legislativa (hereafter cited as AHSML), Fondo Crédito público, especial Distrito y territorios y Relaciones, t. LXIII, 1850. 46. Dublán and Lozano, Legislación mexicana, 3: 385–386. The Alamán ayuntamiento was not the first to use the 1837 decree to avoid organizing the primary round of elections. See Tapia, “No más Dios y Libertad,” in Gantús (coord.), Elecciones en el México del siglo XIX. 47. El Universal, December 2, 1849. 48. AHSML, Fondo Crédito público, especial Distrito y territorios y Relaciones, t. LXIII, 1850. 49. Dublán and Lozano, Legislación mexicana, 6: 78–79. I suspect this representación was never made public because I have not found any comments about it from journalists or pundits. 50. Zamacois, Historia de Méjico, 13: 314. 51. Perhaps the most recognizable of these family names was Yermo. In September 1808 it was his ancestor, a wealthy Basque merchant also called Gabriel de Yermo (1757–1813), who led a coup d’état against viceroy José Iturrigaray that neutralized autonomist aspirations. Warren, Vagrants and Citizens, 24–30. 52. Additional insights into the ideas put forth in the first two of these essays are in Hale, Mexican Liberalism, 13–14, and 183–187. I mention Pizarro Suárez’ treatise (which remains largely under-analyzed) in my “El pueblo y el poder,” 15, n. 8. 53. Dublán and Lozano, Legislación mexicana, 8: 389. 54. Dublán and Lozano, Legislación mexicana, 8: 385. 55. Fowler, Independent Mexico. 56. The quantitative analysis about representaciones between 1848 and 1857 in chapter II of my “El pueblo y el poder” shows their production increased dramatically in 1849, and again in 1856. For a brief look at the debate on religious toleration, see Sinkin, The Mexican Reform, 128–131. 57. Dublán and Lozano, Legislación mexicana, 8: 384. That proviso also prohibited the right to assemble with weapons. 58. Brief sketches of these two events appear in Grayson, Andrés Manuel López Obrador, 1–2, and 7–9; and Castañeda, Mañana Forever? 90–91.

The Will of the People  49

Bibliography Alcántara Machuca, Edwin. “Paradojas políticas y combates del conservadurismo. Polémicas periodísticas de Lucas Alamán y los conservadores en torno a las elecciones en 1849.” MA thesis, Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, 2010. Arrom, Silvia M. “Popular Politics in Mexico City: The Parián Riot, 1828.” Hispanic American Historical Review 68:2 (May 1988): 245–268. Arrom, Silvia M., and Servando Ortoll (coords.). Revuelta en las ciudades. Políticas populares en América Latina. Mexico City: UAM Iztapalapa-El Colegio de Sonora-Miguel Ángel Porrúa, 2004. Arroyo García, Israel. La arquitectura del Estado mexicano: Formas de gobierno, representación política y ciudadanía, 1821–1857. Mexico City: Instituto MoraBenemérita Universidad Autónoma de Puebla, 2011. Bustamante, Carlos María de. Apuntes para la historia del gobierno del General D. Antonio López de Santa Anna desde principios de octubre de 1841 hasta 6 de diciembre de 1844. Mexico City: Imprenta de J.M. Lara, 1845. Cacho Torres, Angélica María. “Coyuntura y crisis: El motín popular por la moneda de cobre en la ciudad de México, 11 de marzo de 1837.” MA thesis, Universidad Autónoma Metropolitana Iztapalapa, 2005. Castañeda, Jorge G. Mañana Forever? Mexico and the Mexicans. New York: Alfred W. Knopf, 2011. Chiaramonte, José Carlos. “Modificaciones del pacto imperial.” In Antonio Annino, and François Xavier Guerra (coords.), Inventando la nación. Iberoamérica. Siglo XIX. Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 2003. 85–113. Cope, R. Douglas. The Limits of Racial Domination: Plebeian Society in Colonial Mexico City, 1660–1720. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1994. Dublán, Manuel, and José María Lozano (eds.). Legislación mexicana, o colección completa de las disposiciones legislativas expedidas desde la independencia de la república. 42 vols. Mexico City: Imprenta del Comercio, 1876–1904. Exbalin, Arnaud. “Riot in Mexico City: A Challenge to the Colonial Order?” Urban History 43:2 (May 2016): 215–231. Falcón, Romana. “El arte de la petición: Rituales de obediencia y negociación, México, segunda mitad del siglo XIX.” Hispanic American Historical Review 86:3 (August 2006): 467–500. Fowler, Will. Santa Anna of Mexico. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2007. ———. Independent Mexico: The Pronunciamiento in the Age of Santa Anna, 1821–1858. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2016. González Navarro, Moisés. Anatomía del poder en México, 1848–1853. 2nd ed. Mexico City: El Colegio de México, 1983. Grayson, George W. Andrés Manuel López Obrador: Mexican Messiah. University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2007. Guerra, François-Xavier. “El soberano y su reino. Reflexiones sobre la génesis del ciudadano en América Latina.” In Hilda Sabato (coord.), Ciudadanía política y formación de las naciones: Perspectivas históricas de América Latina. Mexico City: El Colegio de México-Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1999. 33–61. Hale, Charles A. Mexican Liberalism in the Age of Mora, 1821–1853. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1968. Krauze, Enrique. Siglo de caudillos. Biografía política de México (1810–1910). Mexico City: Editorial Patria, 1994.

50  Regina Tapia Malo, José Ramón. Diario de sucesos notables, arreglados y anotados por el P. Mariano Cuevas. 2 vols. Mexico City: Editorial Patria, 1948. Marino, Daniela. “«Ahora que Dios nos ha dado Padre [. . .] » El segundo imperio y la cultura jurídico-política campesina en el centro de México.” Historia Mexicana 55:4 (April-June 2006): 1353–1410. Matute Aguirre, Alvaro. “Conciencia histórica temprana. Cuatro ejemplos.” In Laura Herrera Serna (coord.), México en guerra, 1846–1848: Perspectivas regionales. Mexico City: Consejo Nacional para la Cultura y las Artes, 1997. 41–54. Palti, Elías José. La invención de una legitimidad: Razón y retórica en el pensamiento mexicano del siglo XIX. (Un estudio sobre las formas del discurso político). Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 2005. Pani, Erika. “Entre la espada y la pared: El partido conservador (1848–1853).” In Alfredo Ávila, and Alicia Salmerón (coords.), Partidos, facciones y otras calamidades. Debates y propuestas acerca de los partidos políticos en México, siglo XIX. Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, Conaculta, Instituto de Investigaciones Históricas-UNAM, 2012. 76–105. Pérez Toledo, Sonia. “Consideraciones sobre la ciudad y la política: La emergencia popular en la Ciudad de México en los conflictos de las elites.” In Brian F. Connaughton (coord.), 1750–1850: La Independencia de México a la luz de cien años. Problemáticas y desenlaces de una larga transición. Mexico City: Universidad Autónoma Metropolitana Iztapalapa-Ediciones del Lirio, 2010. 449–487. ———. “Formas de gobierno local, modelos constitucionales y cuerpo electoral, 1824–1867.” In Ariel Rodríguez Kuri (coord.), Historia política de la ciudad de México (desde su fundación hasta el año 2000). Mexico City: El Colegio de México, 2012. 221–285. Rodríguez Kuri, Ariel. “Política e institucionalidad: El ayuntamiento de México y la evolución del conflicto jurisdiccional, 1808–1850.” In Regina Hernández Franyuti (comp.), La ciudad de México en la primera mitad del siglo XIX. 2 vols. Mexico City: Instituto Mora, 1994. 2: 51–94. ———. La experiencia olvidada. El Ayuntamiento de México: Política y gobierno, 1876–1912. Mexico City: Universidad Autónoma Metropolitana Azcapotzalco/El Colegio de México, 1996. ———. “Los primeros días. Una explicación de los orígenes inmediatos del movimiento estudiantil de 1968.” Historia Mexicana 53:1 (July–September 2003): 179–228. Rodríguez Piña, Javier. “Rafael de Rafael y Vilá: Impresor, empresario y político conservador.” In Laura Suárez de la Torre (coord.), Empresa y cultura en tinta y papel (1800–1860). Mexico City: Instituto de Investigaciones Dr. José María Luis Mora/Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, 2001. 157–167. Rudé, George. The Face of the Crowd. Studies in Revolution, Ideology, and Popular Protest: Selected Essays of George Rudé. Edited by Harvey J. Kaye. New York and London: Harvester/Wheatsheaf, 1988. Santoni, Pedro. Mexicans at Arms: Puro Federalists and the Politics of War, 1845– 1848. Fort Worth: Texas Christian University Press, 1996. Silva Prada, Natalia. La política de una rebelión. Los indígenas frente al tumulto de 1692 en la ciudad de México. Mexico City: El Colegio de México, 2007. Sinkin, Richard N. The Mexican Reform, 1855–1876: A Study in Nation-Building. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1979.

The Will of the People  51 Tapia, Regina. “Derrota de los monarquistas, o sean VERDADEROS ANARQUISTAS. La prensa y la suspensión de las elecciones del 2 de diciembre de 1849 en la ciudad de México.” Legajos. Boletín del Archivo General de la Nación 13 (JulySeptember 2012): 61–78. ———. “El pueblo y el poder: Los comportamientos políticos de los capitalinos a mediados del siglo XIX.” PhD diss., El Colegio de México, 2014. ———. “No más Dios y Libertad. ¿Cómo elegir nuevo Ayuntamiento con la capital ocupada? Ciudad de México, 1847.” In Fausta Gantús (coord.), Elecciones en el México del siglo XIX. Las fuentes. Mexico City: Instituto Mora, 2015. 293–312. Vázquez, Josefina Zoraida. Dos décadas de desilusiones: En busca de una fórmula adecuada de gobierno, 1832–1854. Mexico City: El Colegio de México-Instituto Mora, 2009. Warren, Richard A. Vagrants and Citizens: Politics and the Masses in Mexico City from Colony to Republic. Wilmington, DE: Scholarly Resources, 2001. Zamacois, Niceto de. Historia de Méjico: Desde sus tiempos más remotos hasta nuestros días, escrita en vista de todo lo que de irrecusable han dado a luz los más caracterizados historiadores. 18 vols. Barcelona: J. F. Parres, 1876–1882.

3 Winds of a Coming Storm The Failure of Vatican Diplomacy and the Rise of an Intransigent Leadership in the Mexican Church Pablo Mijangos y González The conflict between Church and state was one of the central issues of the mid-nineteenth-century Mexican Liberal Revolution commonly known as the Reforma. Beginning with the suppression of ecclesiastical legal immunities late in 1855 and reaching its peak with the decrees that established religious freedom while nationalizing clerical wealth in 1859–1861, the Reforma put an abrupt end to the long debate about state power over the clergy in a nation that had defined itself as Catholic since the achievement of independence from Spain in 1821.1 This debate was by no means exclusive to Mexico, as Church-state conflicts were common in post-colonial Spanish America, but nowhere else were they as destructive or intense.2 Against the opposition of a particularly intransigent hierarchy, Reforma liberals solved the religious conflict in a bold and radical fashion, and in so doing precluded other, more balanced, settlements adopted before and after by the rest of the Spanish American republics. From a continental perspective, Mexico’s trajectory remains unique and puzzling indeed: Why did the country that then had the largest Catholic population in the Americas endure a bitter civil war over Church-state disagreements? Why did other alternatives fail? Church-state separation in Mexico resulted from the conjunction of many different factors. At a local level, conflicts between priests, parishioners, and secular authorities had beset community life since colonial times, and reached unbearable levels when popularly elected officers, in the name of national sovereignty, attempted to intervene in the management of religious services while also denouncing clerical influence in society.3 At the state and national levels, decades of tension over clerical appointments and the administration of ecclesiastical wealth preceded the final rupture between the Church and the government.4 Scholars, however, have paid scant attention to another crucial element that largely accounts for the differences in this regard between Mexico and the other Spanish American nations: The failure of each and every Mexican attempt at negotiating with the Holy See a definitive and mutually satisfying status for the Catholic Church in the new republic. Although most historians rightly present the 1857 constitution and the aforesaid 1859–1861 legislation (known as the “Reform Laws”) as unilateral decisions by the Mexican state, few mention that both were issued after almost four decades of Mexican diplomatic setbacks in

Winds of a Coming Storm  53 the Roman court. That omission is surprising given that both parties desperately wanted to find a solution for the many problems of Church governance created by the end of Spanish royal patronage in 1821. The history of Mexican-Vatican relations in the post-independence decades is long and complex, but one of its major turning points coincided with the 1848–1853 period. If during these years the Holy See experienced its most difficult moment since the Napoleonic Wars because of the 1848 revolution in the Papal States, it also then made its most audacious effort yet to settle unfinished business in Mexico. In 1851 the pope broke decades of diplomatic stalemate and sent his first apostolic delegate to Mexico, Monsignor Luigi Clementi, who was charged with giving new impetus to the pending negotiation of a concordat (agreement) between the Holy See and the Mexican state. As this chapter shows, this well-intentioned move by the Vatican was not adequately planned, had an unfortunate beginning, and, in the end, only allowed the Mexican bishops to get involved in a diplomatic chess game from which they had been initially excluded. This turn of events later proved crucial given that the early 1850s also saw the rise of a new generation of bishops as uncompromising as their liberal peers. Thus, despite the relative calm and optimism that seemed to characterize Churchstate relations between 1848 and 1853, developments during those years worsened an already conflictive relationship and so prepared the setting for the Reforma storm that erupted shortly thereafter. This chapter is divided in two main sections. The first explains the relevance of the concordat negotiations within the context of the Church-state conflict in post-independence Mexico, and recounts how the Roman Curia finally dared to send an envoy to the Mexican republic when Pius IX began his pontificate in the mid-1840s. This part is primarily centered in Rome, an important detail to consider because the Vatican’s policy for Mexico was drafted not only in response to Mexican demands and circumstances, but also due to the internal politics of the Holy See and the simultaneous challenges to the Catholic Church in other parts of the world. The second section begins with the arrival of Monsignor Clementi in Mexico and narrates his early disputes with the country’s archbishop and the radical wing of Congress, both of whom resented the sudden presence of a foreign prelate with broad powers over the Mexican Church. These clashes set the stage for the intervention of other members of the Mexican episcopacy, who from then on prevailed over the archbishop and enjoyed an unprecedented influence in Rome—and not necessarily for the better. The section ends by pondering how much these developments conditioned later negotiations and made it more difficult to find alternatives to the final separation of Church and state.

Preparing the Mission It is well known that the Catholic Church in Spanish America did not enjoy true autonomy during three centuries of colonial rule, as it was governed through the “Royal Patronage” granted by the popes to the Spanish Crown

54  Pablo Mijangos y González early in the sixteenth century. Thanks to this institution, the Crown exercised broad powers of intervention in the ecclesiastical realm: It controlled the appointment of bishops and the upper clergy, collected and administered the tithe, drew diocesan boundaries on a case-by-case basis, decided when to convoke provincial councils, delimited the jurisdiction of ecclesiastical courts, revised their decisions through recursos de fuerza,5 and even vetoed communications between Rome and the Americas.6 Royal intervention in Church affairs reached its peak under Bourbon rule during the second half of the eighteenth century, and most historians attribute the participation of some members of the lower clergy in the insurgency of 1810 to the resentments and disruptions created by the so-called Bourbon reforms in the ecclesiastical realm.7 Despite these tensions, open disagreement between the higher clergy and secular authorities in Mexico only began in November 1821, when, in response to an inquiry from Colonel Agustín de Iturbide, then in charge of the new nation’s provisional government (he was crowned Emperor Agustín I in July 1822), Mexico City’s archbishop and his advisers categorically declared that the broad rights of Church patronage formerly exercised by the Spanish Crown had ended with independence.8 The debate about the continuity of Church patronage quickly became heated because it involved vital questions for both the clergy and the nascent Mexican nation. For the former, the end of patronage meant legal autonomy and thus a safe barrier against state power, which in the Bourbon era had been used to expropriate the clergy’s wealth and curtail its social influence. For the state, in contrast, patronage was both a necessary instrument to ensure clerical loyalty—something indispensable in an overwhelmingly Catholic country—and for freely tapping into Church assets whenever the treasury so required. This is the reason why liberals, drawing on the Bourbon “regalist” tradition, always affirmed that Church patronage did not depend on papal concessions but was rather a regalía, that is, a prerogative inherent in state sovereignty. To this doctrine the clergy opposed, in turn, the notion of the Church as a “perfect,” and therefore independent, society according to natural law.9 Given that these views were at an impasse, by the time Mexicans enacted the 1824 federal constitution both sides had agreed that this debate would only be settled when Mexico and the Holy See signed a concordat defining their respective rights over the local Church. As mentioned before, the patronage debate was not exclusive to Mexico; with small variations, it took place in all the new nations created from the disintegration of the Iberian empires in the New World around the same time.10 The Roman Curia, accordingly, found itself in the difficult position of separately negotiating this issue with each nation and, at the same time, risking the possibility of setting dangerous precedents that could be invoked by all countries in the region. To complicate things further, Spain refused to recognize the independence of its former colonies until Ferdinand VII’s death in 1833, and therefore threatened to reduce its traditional support to the Papal States if the Holy See agreed to the demands of recognition and ecclesiastical

Winds of a Coming Storm  55 patronage from the new republics. Faced with this conundrum, the Holy See acted cautiously and did not immediately engage in concordat negotiations with the Spanish American nations. It opted instead to create informal bonds of friendship through diplomatic means exclusively, and then gave priority to the appointment of new bishops after years or even decades of episcopal vacancies. In the case of Mexico, it was only in 1831—ten years after independence—that Pope Gregory XVI finally gave his approval to the candidates for bishoprics jointly proposed by the national government and the cathedral chapters of each diocese.11 The unilateral assumption of Church patronage by puro (radical liberal) federalists in Congress during Vice-President Valentín Gómez Farías’ failed “Reform” of 1833–1834 temporarily delegitimized liberal anticlericalism but nonetheless gave a sense of urgency to the beginning of formal concordat negotiations between Mexico and the Holy See.12 By the time these discussions actually started in 1837, however, a successful outcome was hardly likely because the Vatican Secretary of State remained in the hands of the zelanti, a party of ultra-conservative clerics suspicious of the political regimes born from the recent revolutions in Europe and the Americas.13 Thus, when in 1837 and 1843 representatives of the Mexican government submitted concordat proposals centered on the recognition of Church patronage as a state right and in the reduction of the tithe in half (to tax only 5% of the income instead of the traditional 10%), papal officers courteously replied that the pontiff preferred to negotiate separately each item of the proposal and that, in any case, his main concern was to preserve the canonical rights of the Church.14 Be that as it may, Gregory XVI only agreed to sign four treaties on specific topics with neighboring Naples (1834), Modena and Sardinia (both in 1841), and with the Swiss canton of St. Gallen (1845).15 Like its sister Hispanic republics, Mexico never became trustworthy enough in his eyes. The death of Pope Gregory and the subsequent election of Cardinal Giovanni Mastai-Ferretti as Pope Pius IX in the summer of 1846 finally provided an opportunity to break the impasse in the Mexican concordat negotiations. Despite his later reputation as an arch-reactionary, when Pius IX rose to the papal throne he was widely regarded as the liberals’ hope; everyone expected him to remove the zelanti from power and to introduce moderate reforms in the government of the Papal States. And so he did, for during the first two years of his pontificate Pius IX granted amnesty to political prisoners, issued a law establishing freedom of the press, arranged the introduction of railways and telegraph lines, and sanctioned a new constitution for his dominions.16 His initial foreign policy also announced change, as he approved a concordat with czarist Russia (1847), started relations with the Ottoman Empire, and (unsuccessfully) invited the Orthodox churches to reunite with Rome.17 In these and other measures Pius IX followed the advice of Giovanni Corboli-Bussi, a young but brilliant priest of moderate political leanings who henceforth would assume control of the Spanish

56  Pablo Mijangos y González American negotiations as the new head of the Congregation of Extraordinary Ecclesiastical Affairs, the most important office in the State Secretary.18 The first Mexican to realize the possibilities opened by the changing political tides in Rome was José María Gutiérrez de Estrada, a former diplomat and politician who had abruptly left Mexico after the publication in 1840 of an inflammatory manifesto that called for a European prince as the remedy for the country’s ills. Although Gutiérrez de Estrada had turned to private life during his first years of self-exile in Paris, the news about an imminent United States invasion of his homeland moved him to devote all his resources to lobby European courts for a saving intervention in Mexico.19 Early in 1846, a few months before the papal election, he asked the Roman court to contribute to these efforts by seriously considering the appointment of a pontifical representative in Mexico, entrusted with the task of gathering information about the real situation of the Catholic Church in the country, particularly in regards to the availability of good candidates for bishoprics and the actual conditions for creating new dioceses. Gutiérrez de Estrada emphasized that Catholicism remained the only foundation for national unity, and that conditions were ripe for such a diplomatic mission since the government needed to reinforce its international credentials to counteract the ever-greater threats from the U.S. He added, though, that sending a representative would have to be a unilateral decision from the Holy See. His fellow countrymen did not know “the means for consolidating social order,” and thus would never dare to make a formal request in those terms.20 Unlike his predecessor, Pius IX wanted to normalize relations with the Church in Spanish America and so instructed Corboli-Bussi to put in motion Gutiérrez de Estrada’s plan, but presenting it as a rather generous initiative from the Holy See itself. Corboli-Bussi had doubts about the actual status, powers, and resources that the pope’s envoy would enjoy, but after some deliberation the Holy See informed the Mexican government that its representative would have the appointment of internuncio; that is, he would be a temporary representative with limited powers over the local Church and his central mission was to pave the road for restarting the pending concordat negotiations.21 This point is crucial because the Mexican government would have shown less enthusiasm for the Vatican’s decision if the envoy had been originally presented as a nuncio; traditionally, nuncios had the mission of watching over the Church in the territory assigned to them, enjoyed full diplomatic status, and possessed a broad canonical jurisdiction that placed them at the same level or, depending on the subject, even above the local episcopate.22 Only by an explicit agreement would Mexico have accepted such a possibility. In the spring of 1848 the apostolic mission in Mexico was almost ready to begin, but the simultaneous outbreak of a series of popular revolutions across continental Europe and the Italian peninsula forced the Holy See to suspend its diplomatic dealings. It is worth summarizing here the tragic story of the revolution in the Papal States because that uprising, unintentionally,

Winds of a Coming Storm  57 had important consequences in the Mexican mission’s design. Although Pius IX had sincerely tried to fulfill the expectations raised by his election, his refusal to join the war to end the Austrian presence in Italy in April 1848 rapidly turned him from the “liberator” into the “traitor” pope. Events spiraled out of control that November 16 after the assassination of the papal prime minister and the storming of the Quirinal Palace by an armed mob led by radical democratic clubs; the throng demanded that the pope support the war and install a new government. Eight days after this attack, which resulted in the death of his personal secretary, Pius IX fled in disguise to Gaeta in the kingdom of Naples. He remained there until a joint military intervention by Spain, Austria, Naples, and France restored him to his throne in April 1850.23 From that moment on, Pius IX would leave his previous political moderation aside and engage in a long and bitter battle with liberalism, the doctrine that he blamed for the revolution in the Papal States. The zelanti would soon be back in business. As if it were an ominous sign of the times to come, on July 30, 1850 Corboli-Bussi passed away.24 His sudden absence and the instability of the previous two years allowed for the rise of a hard-liner as Secretary of State, Cardinal Giacomo Antonelli, who dictated the pope’s domestic and international policy until his death in 1878. Now following Antonelli’s advice, Pius IX abrogated his earlier constitutional reforms in the Papal States, fired many of his lay officers, condemned the works of prominent Italian liberal Catholics, and encouraged a renewed devotion to the Holy See, justifying it with the argument that “the successor of Peter, the Roman pontiff, holds a primacy over the whole world and is the true Vicar of Christ.”25 It was a true program of restoration that soon set off an unprecedented process of centralization in the worldwide Catholic Church. In foreign affairs, the new papal priorities did not imply a suspension of concordat negotiations, which became more frequent throughout the decade, but they did mean that Rome would privilege the affirmation of papal primacy over the mere normalization of Church-state relations. The concession of patronage rights was not ruled out, but Rome would ask more for them. Cardinal Antonelli finally issued formal diplomatic instructions for the apostolic delegation in Mexico in August 1851. The archival record does not allow one to follow the revisions to the first drafts written by CorboliBussi, but the final version of this document makes it clear that Antonelli intended the delegate to be far more than a simple internuncio. As expected, the instructions began by entrusting the envoy with the mission of collecting as much information as possible about the real situation of the Catholic Church in Mexico. The document, however, then commanded the delegate to inform the Mexican government that the Holy See was open to granting the right to appoint bishops, but on the condition that the state eliminate all other instruments of Church control and provide effective guarantees for the protection of the Catholic faith, such as a regular monetary endowment for the clergy. At the same time, the instructions conferred the apostolic

58  Pablo Mijangos y González delegate twenty-nine broad powers over the Mexican Church, such as the authority to supervise clerical training and the choice of textbooks for diocesan seminaries (which in most states of the republic provided laymen with the only available opportunity to earn a professional degree), the right to approve past and future sales of Church real estate, and the power to revise all ecclesiastical judicial rulings as a court of last appeal.26 Although he never used that word, it seems Antonelli really wanted to establish a nunciature in Mexico, one with the sufficient power to discipline an immense Church that had been practically exempt from Vatican control for almost three centuries. Upon realizing the cardinal’s intentions, the Mexican charge d’affaires at the Roman court, José María Montoya, warned Antonelli that any envoy with such broad authority would not be officially recognized by the Mexican government because his powers would conflict with those of the bishops. The cardinal, however, replied that his decision had been taken in good faith, and that the Mexican state, by principle of reciprocity, could not “refuse to admit the representative of a friendly government.”27 By that point Antonelli’s plan was already in motion, as he had appointed Monsignor Luigi Clementi, a fifty-seven yearold bishop from the Papal States with no previous diplomatic experience, as the first apostolic delegate in Mexico.28 To assure that he would have the same hierarchy as the highest prelate in his new jurisdiction, Clementi was consecrated as archbishop in partibus of Damascus, a traditional practice for nuncios.29 On August 14 Pius IX signed his letter of presentation and a few weeks later Clementi departed Rome, confident of a happy welcome in his new post.

A Sour Reception and Its Consequences The new apostolic delegate arrived in Mexico City on November 11, 1851, following several warm popular receptions along the road from Veracruz. Though he entered the capital late at night, he was solemnly received at the magnificent church of the Profesa by a commission of clerics from the cathedral chapter and the basilica of Guadalupe, the most important religious shrine in the republic.30 The next morning Archbishop Lázaro de la Garza y Ballesteros (hereafter referred to as de la Garza) paid a welcome visit to Clementi, and asked him for a copy of the document containing his formal instructions and powers. Clementi only gave him his letter of presentation, which he assumed would suffice to ensure the archbishop’s cooperation. Five weeks later the apostolic delegate sent the archbishop a questionnaire about the current situation of the archdiocesan seminary, to which de la Garza replied that he could not give him any information until the government recognized the delegate’s diplomatic status in accordance with the provisions of Mexican law.31 Clementi felt deeply offended by this reply but nevertheless submitted his papal appointment to the government. The latter, in turn, sent Clementi’s diplomatic credentials to the Chamber of Deputies, which put the approval on hold.

Winds of a Coming Storm  59 When Clementi arrived in Mexico he found a country and a Church far less manageable than Cardinal Antonelli had imagined. The young republic was immersed in a deep political crisis. Not only had Mexico recently lost almost half of its territory during its costly and disastrous 1846–1848 war with the U.S., but also elites could not even agree on the causes of the nation’s problems or their possible solutions.32 Ideological polarization was the order of the day, and the old quarrel between Church and state was becoming ever more intractable. Liberals insisted on the need to reform the clergy, which they saw as the main agent of social corruption, while conservatives maintained the capital importance of protecting Catholicism as the last bond that kept Mexicans together. Trapped between two extremes, the national government aimed to maintain a difficult equilibrium and reiterated its friendly disposition toward the Church and the Holy See, to which it had sent a gift of 25,000 pesos during the pope’s exile in Gaeta.33 The gesture, though, seemed insufficient because liberal deputies, suspecting a Vatican plot behind Clementi’s powers, convinced a majority to vote against his recognition, arguing that the Roman Curia had no right to intervene in Mexican affairs.34 As for the Mexican Catholic Church, by 1851 it had mostly recovered from the institutional divisions and physical destruction it had suffered during the wars of independence. The bishops appointed after 1831 had managed to reestablish a reasonable degree of clerical discipline in their dioceses, seminaries were back in operation, and the numbers of secular clergy kept increasing despite the deaths provoked by recent cholera epidemics.35 There were three ecclesiastical issues, however, that remained unresolved and desperately required an agreement between Mexico and the Holy See as to the best way of dealing with them: The notorious fall of clerical income after the elimination of the civil enforcement of tithes in 1833, the urgent need for new dioceses, and the visible decay of religious orders. In different ways, each of these issues threatened the gains achieved by the Church until that moment. Whereas the decrease in tithe income lessened diocesan budgets that were expected to cover the multiple needs of a Church in expansion, the enormity of the existing diocesan territories meant that the secular clergy was unable to regularly minister hundreds of small rural villages, and the regular clergy’s decline in numbers and reputation slowed missionary efforts and frequently helped create a fertile ground for popular anticlericalism. To further complicate things, the higher clergy was experiencing a process of generational replacement that had the potential to upend the tense, yet cordial, relationship between Church and state. Old bishops and canons that had been trained under the Bourbon tradition of clerical deference to secular power, or who had taken an active part in the creation of the Mexican republic, were passing away, and their place was being taken by younger clerics who had only witnessed the 1833–1834 aborted radical reform, the country’s chronic instability, and the constant state pressure on Church wealth. Whereas the older generation favored accommodation over

60  Pablo Mijangos y González conflict, the younger one shared a greater distrust of secular authorities and believed that institutional autonomy was the most important condition for preserving the Catholic faith in Mexico. More inclined to see themselves as members of a universal rather than a “Spanish” Church (as had been the case in colonial times), these younger clerics considered that the liberal struggle against the Church was one and the same in Mexico, Italy, and elsewhere. Thus, they interpreted any attempt of government interference in clerical affairs as the local equivalent of the Italian nationalists’ war against the pope; from their fortress mentality, both seemed parallel expressions of revolutionary impiety. Table 3.1  Bishops appointed between 1848 and 185536 Year

Diocese

Name

Year of priestly ordination

1850

Archdiocese of Mexico

1815

1850

Michoacán

1852 1852 1853 1853 1854 1854 1854 1855

Puebla Sonora Jalisco Linares (Nuevo León) Chiapas Antequera (Oaxaca) San Luis Potosí Puebla

Lázaro de la Garza y Ballesteros Clemente de Jesús Munguía José María Becerra Pedro Loza y Pardavé Pedro Espinosa y Dávalos Francisco de Paula Verea Carlos María Colina José Agustín Domínguez Pedro Barajas Pelagio Antonio Labastida y Dávalos

1841 Unknown 1838 1816 1837 1837 1814 1824 1838

Oddly enough, when the most important seat in Mexico’s ecclesiastical hierarchy, the archbishopric of Mexico, went vacant after the death of Archbishop Manuel Posada y Garduño in 1846, the prelate chosen to occupy it was in fact a distinguished member of the old guard—the then Bishop Lázaro de la Garza, who from 1837 until 1850 headed the Sonora diocese, one of the less developed in the country. His experiences there help explain his rather notorious zeal in requesting Clementi to have his mission authorized by the government. As bishop of a huge and relatively new diocese in the remote northwestern part of the country, deprived of economic resources and sufficient clergy, practically isolated from Mexico’s central core, and in perpetual fear of attacks by so-called “barbaric” Indians and foreign filibusters, de la Garza had to work hand in hand with local authorities, from whom he requested protection and all kinds of support.37 He believed in the long-standing constitutional principle that Mexico was a Catholic nation, but he did not infer from this belief the superiority of the Church over national law. Rather, Bishop de la Garza thought that, except for flagrant

Winds of a Coming Storm  61 violations of Church doctrine, secular mandates had to be respected or, if necessary and at all possible, negotiated.38 Clearly, then, he was not going to support a Vatican mission about which he had not even been consulted. Outmaneuvered and unprepared for such an uncomfortable situation, Monsignor Clementi spent much of 1852 hearing and forwarding complaints—mainly from anonymous correspondents—about the archbishop’s scandalous behavior. The reports he and others sent to Rome included many letters that portrayed de la Garza as an “indio de los cuatro costados” (a full Indian), as a stubborn and uneducated spirit “fed with miserable envy,” or as a puritan man of hard character who hated the Jesuits and the religious orders, and who would lend himself to the “despoilment of Church wealth, which undoubtedly has been planned by the government.”39 The archbishop’s critics could not believe he had preferred to obey secular law instead of cooperating with the Holy See’s envoy, and complained that clerics who dared to visit the apostolic delegate were later reprimanded and silenced. Such conduct, de la Garza’s censors emphasized, had set a pernicious example for the people: If Mexico’s highest ecclesiastical authority defended anticlerical laws with more zeal than the government itself, what would lower priests and their parishioners do in a similar situation?40 Not all reports from Mexico depicted the archbishop in those terms, of course. A July 2, 1852 anonymous letter presented de la Garza as a man bound by a solemn oath of obedience to the national constitution, and who had opted to follow secular law to protect the Church from further evils. The author further noted that, very recently, the archbishop had come into conflict with the government because he had published—without previous congressional authorization—Pius IX’s decree forbidding Catholics to read the latest work by Peruvian canonist Francisco de Paula Vigil, Defensa de la autoridad de los gobiernos contra las pretensiones de la curia romana (1849), which strongly argued for state sovereignty over the Church. Regalist ideas, he added, were prevalent in the country, and thus the poor archbishop bore the weight of standing in the thin line separating “the opposing doctrines of Rome and the Government.” The letter concluded by suggesting that Rome itself had provoked this situation because the powers given to the delegate unwisely destroyed a legal order “well-adapted to the peculiar circumstances of the country.” By converting Clementi into a court of last appeal, Antonelli’s bold maneuver had established an “absolutely unknown” tribunal in Mexico, subject to no existing regulation, and headed by a person in whose election no Mexican had taken part. Considering the broad jurisdiction of ecclesiastical courts and the amount of clerical wealth they adjudicated, this was a true recipe for disaster.41 Unfortunately for de la Garza, officials in Rome did not listen to the few pleas in his favor. His reputation sank irreversibly because of the clash with Clementi; he remained in charge of the largest diocese in Mexico but never became a trusted point of reference for the Vatican. In lieu of the archbishop, the role of local confidant for the apostolic delegate was readily assumed

62  Pablo Mijangos y González by the bishops and clerical notables who in 1852 lobbied the government and Congress to secure the approval of Clementi’s mission without further delay. Those who acted in this manner included the canons of Mexico City’s cathedral chapter, the rector of the National and Pontifical University, Jesuit priest Basilio Arrillaga, as well as the bishops of Guadalajara, Durango, and Michoacán; all authored formal petitions to Congress emphasizing that Mexico, a Catholic nation, had to prove its respect for the pope’s authority by extending formal recognition to his first envoy.42 According to the bishop of Michoacán, Clemente de Jesús Munguía, the apostolic delegate’s recognition by the state was not only a matter of deference and diplomatic reciprocity, but also of convenience for the Church. He would facilitate communications with the Holy See as well as help remedy “many spiritual needs of the faithful” (like difficult marriage dispensations) that could not be met by the bishops’ ordinary jurisdiction. Clementi, in sum, deserved to be treated with “veneration, respect, and obedience.”43 In many ways, Bishop Munguía incarnated the spirit of clerical independence and fierce ultramontanism that prevailed among the younger generations of the Mexican clergy.44 Born in 1810, that is, twenty-five years after the archbishop, Munguía had been the protégé and right-hand man of Bishop Cayetano Gómez de Portugal, one of the leading opponents of both the 1833–1834 reform and the 1847 puro attempt to expropriate 15 million pesos from the clergy in order to support the war effort against the U.S. He had spent most of his career teaching at the Morelia diocesan seminary, where he wrote and published El derecho natural en sus principios comunes y sus diversas ramificaciones (1849), the most elaborate defense of ecclesiastical autonomy within the constitutional framework of a liberal yet Catholic republic, and a reference book for the generation of priests who later opposed the Reforma. Named bishop of Michoacán in 1850, he rose to the status of national celebrity after his refusal to swear the bishops’ traditional oath of allegiance to the constitution on grounds that the official oath formula compromised “the rights and liberties of the Church.”45 Not surprisingly, Munguía became one of Clementi’s closest advisors in Mexico. The deadlock in the Clementi affair made it impossible to even begin discussions about a concordat between Mexico and the Holy See. Pressed by the increasing polarization of domestic politics, the government needed to show some progress by starting these negotiations or at least by communicating to Rome that Clementi had been officially recognized, but liberal deputies refused to reconsider their initial position. Thus, on December 30, 1852, then moderado (moderate) president General Mariano Arista wrote Pius IX begging him to modify the instructions and powers given to the apostolic delegate.46 Arista reminded the pope that the Mexican constitution did not give him the authority to sanction Clementi’s mission by himself: He had to obtain Congress’ approval first, and the Chamber of Deputies, the one “elected by the people,” was controlled by some young liberals who “wrongly believed” that the delegate’s powers lessened those of the bishops.

Winds of a Coming Storm  63 The only viable solution, then, consisted in giving Clementi the title and powers of a mere internuncio or charge d’affaires. This was what the Holy See had originally announced and what Mexico would accept. By the time Arista sent this letter, however, his government was about to fall due to the quick transformation of a local pronunciamiento (revolt) into a full-fledged, nationwide movement troubled by the seeming paralysis of his regime. On October 20, 1852, following the uprising of national guard colonel José María Blancarte in Jalisco state a few months before, a council of notables from the city of Guadalajara issued a plan asking for the formation of a new constituent congress, while also inviting General Antonio López de Santa Anna to return to the republic from foreign exile in Colombia to cooperate with the reestablishment of “order and peace.” The Guadalajara rebellion steadily gained momentum, leaving Arista with no choice but to submit his resignation on January 5, 1853. Congress was dissolved shortly thereafter, and in February the military imposed General Manuel María Lombardini as interim president until the arrival of Santa Anna (which took place in April).47 Predictably, one of the first actions of the new executive was to form a special committee of three distinguished lawyers—Bernardo Couto, José H. Elguero, and José Joaquín Pesado—charged with finding a solution to the Clementi affair. Since congressional obstacles had been removed at last, the Vatican presumed that Lombardini would decree a full authorization of the apostolic delegate in no time. Contrary to these expectations, though, the committee recommended a solution that closely resembled the one Arista had proposed in December. The three lawyers basically suggested that a compromise could be reached if the government recognized Clementi as the pope’s diplomatic envoy, but without authorizing him to exercise all his powers. According to the committee, the pontiff was not a “foreign sovereign” from whom Mexico had to protect itself; all Mexicans professed the Catholic faith and therefore owed their deepest “respect and consideration” to the Church’s supreme head in Rome. This duty of obedience, however, did not mean that Mexico should approve well-intentioned measures that, in fact, were not suited to the “peculiar circumstances” of the country.48 Specifically, the committee advised the president to deny recognition to the following powers of the delegate—the authority to suspend religious services, the right to hear cases as a court of last appeal, the right to make any clerical appointments, the power to approve sales of clerical real estate, and the right to grant nobiliary distinctions.49 In other words, Monsignor Clementi had to be addressed as an internuncio. On March 30, 1853, President Lombardini finally approved Clementi’s appointment in the exact terms suggested by the lawyers’ committee. The government welcomed him as the official representative from the Holy See and recognized his authority to deal with the special “spiritual needs” that Bishop Munguía had mentioned, but did not allow him to intervene in the actual management of the Mexican Church. Thus, after an impasse of

64  Pablo Mijangos y González almost sixteen months, Clementi was free to begin his mission, but deprived of the instruments that Antonelli had given him to assert the pope’s primacy. To make matters worse, his inability to tame Archbishop de la Garza and impose Antonelli’s will against the liberal opposition in Congress revealed that Clementi, despite his titles, was a weak figure, an envoy entrusted with channeling sensitive information but with no real power. Throughout his difficult tenure in Mexico, then, the apostolic delegate would have to rely on the advice provided by the people who dared to support him, particularly the bishops who assumed the government of Mexico’s dioceses during first years of his mission. In this way, even more than the liberals who stopped Antonelli’s plan in Congress, the true beneficiaries of the Clementi affair were the bishops— with the obvious exception of Archbishop de la Garza, who in 1854 published an explanation of his conduct in order to clear his name, but to no avail.50 Up until that moment, the bishops had been deliberately marginalized from the negotiations with Rome, mostly because the concordat was to be an agreement between the government and the Holy See, not between the government and the Mexican Church. Politically speaking, such exclusion makes sense if one considers that a concordat, like the one signed between France’s First Consul, Napoleon Bonaparte, and Pope Pius VII in 1801, could potentially affect the bishops’ jurisdiction and income, or allow for a dangerous degree of state intervention in diocesan affairs. The Mexican bishops clearly understood these dangers. Therefore, during the following years they would take advantage of Clementi’s weakness to influence the Vatican’s reading of local politics and prevent the pope from signing any agreement that could possibly threaten the Mexican Church’s autonomy and its social standing. The true extent of the bishops’ newly gained influence in Rome became visible when President Santa Anna, between April 1853 and May 1855, attempted to consummate the concordat negotiations with the support of Monsignor Clementi. It was no secret that the apostolic delegate enthusiastically favored Santa Anna’s efforts, as he believed that the Mexican Church should interact with the state in accordance with an explicit legal framework, not upon mere “abstract principles” of clerical independence.51 To help him in this task, however, Clementi privately consulted the bishops for their opinion as to the “opportunity, need, and benefits” of an eventual agreement with Mexico; he also asked them to express their views about each of the issues that the concordat would deal with, namely, the appointment of bishops, the provision of vacant parishes, the collection and distribution of tithes, the scope of clerical immunities, the election of vicar capitulars, and the bishops’ authority to oversee public education.52 He had only been in Mexico two years and desperately needed reliable information about the Church’s real situation. Soon after Monsignor Clementi made this request, the bishops of Guadalajara, Michoacán, Puebla, Chiapas, Sonora, Durango, and Nuevo León—that

Winds of a Coming Storm  65 is, seven of the republic’s ten prelates—began to write each other to draft a common plan of action. The bishop of Puebla, José María Becerra, suggested first meeting in Mexico City with Archbishop de la Garza, but his brothers rejected this proposal because the archbishop had proven excessively deferential to civil authorities; it was better to keep him out of the loop and avoid raising Santa Anna’s suspicions.53 The abundant correspondence between them clearly reveals their skepticism about the convenience of the concordat and their awareness of the interests at stake in the negotiations. As early as April 1854, in fact, some bishops even suggested that they had to “multiply the obstacles” in the path to an agreement. Munguía, for instance, wrote to Pedro Espinosa, his counterpart in Guadalajara, that requesting the restoration of the civil enforcement of tithes would be sufficient to “frustrate” the concordat.54 Espinosa did not go as far as Munguía pretended, but he did try to cool Clementi’s enthusiasm by showing him how complex each item under negotiation was. Given that in 1852 Bishop Munguía had been one of Clementi’s staunchest supporters, and also had demonstrated his ultramontane credentials by publishing a long sermon in defense of Pius IX’s temporal power in the Papal States, the Vatican rewarded him with the appointment of plenipotentiary Visitor of the Regular Clergy in Mexico in September 1854.55 He could not succeed in that task for a variety of reasons, but nonetheless decided to use his remarkable prestige in Rome to inflict a mortal wound to Santa Anna’s concordat project. Thus, on May 1, 1855, having examined the official proposal submitted by the Mexican government, Munguía wrote a confidential letter to Cardinal Antonelli, recommending that he not celebrate a concordat with Santa Anna. According to the bishop, the Mexican Church, the most “precious pearl” of Catholicism in the New World, had been in danger for decades because of the “radical uncertainty” and “incessant revolutions” that had characterized national life since independence. Amid these dreadful circumstances, Munguía observed, the Mexican Church had only remained “triumphant” due to its autonomy from temporal governments and “its exclusive dependence on Rome.”56 In Munguía’s view, the different attempts at restoring the patronage in Mexico ultimately responded to the purpose of “separating the daughters from the common Mother, that is, our Churches from the Church of Rome, so as to devastate and ruin them.” It was thus a matter of “life or death” that the “anarchical governments” of Mexico never regain that right. If experience taught anything, it was that Mexican regimes “usually take much more than what is granted to them.” Besides, he asked, what benefits would the Church accrue from a concordat? As Munguía stressed, the government did not even propose to reestablish the civil enforcement of tithes, without which, he said, tithe income had fallen to a fifth of what it had been.57 Interestingly, the bishop did not mention the apostolic delegate, nor did he argue against his efforts to deepen the relations between Rome and Santa Anna’s by-then feeble government. He did not need to do such a

66  Pablo Mijangos y González thing because, during the critical juncture of 1852, he had already proven his deep loyalty the Holy See. Antonelli had a formal envoy in Mexico, but in Munguía he had found a tougher and better-informed advisor. At the end of June 1855 the Mexican government complained about the Roman court’s reluctance to speed up the concordat’s negotiations, arguing there could hardly be “more favorable” conditions for a Church-state agreement.58 Despite this protest, however, the talks did not move forward, and the project had to be suspended when Santa Anna, whose regime “entered a terminal crisis” when the Revolution of Ayutla had erupted some fifteen months earlier, resigned the presidency early in August. From that moment on, the Mexican Church would have to deal with a liberal government that did not share the previous administrations’ deference toward the Holy See. During the following two years Clementi would inform, almost on a weekly basis, about the rapidly deteriorating situation of the Church in Mexico. By the time a new liberal constitution was promulgated in February 1857, though, diplomacy could do very little. Advised by Bishop Pelagio Labastida, who had been exiled from Mexico after a conservative uprising in Puebla in the first months of 1856, Pope Pius IX had already condemned the constitution on the ground of its incompatibility with the fundamental rights and liberties of the Church.59 Both sides of the political divide realized that the time for a concordat had passed, and the looming winds of civil war also announced a radical and unprecedented solution to a conflict that by that point had lasted for too long.

Conclusion The so-called forgotten years of 1848–1853 are particularly relevant for understanding why relations between the Catholic Church and the Mexican state broke out in open hostility during the Reforma. Traditionally, historians have emphasized that the post-war crisis worsened existing tensions between Church and state because it allowed for the reemergence of liberal anticlericalism, which had suffered a strong setback after the fall of Valentín Gómez Farías’ short-lived 1833–1834 government. While this assessment rings true, this chapter has argued that two parallel developments similarly affected Church-state relations. First was the troubled arrival of the first papal delegate in Mexico, Monsignor Luigi Clementi, who failed to obtain immediate recognition from the Mexican government and the Archbishop of Mexico, thus hindering Vatican plans to rely on high-level diplomatic channels to solve the old debate about the continuity of ecclesiastical patronage in republican Mexico. The second development was the gradual emergence of a particularly intransigent generation of Mexican bishops who resisted any government attempt to negotiate a compromise about what they regarded as the clergy’s exclusive jurisdiction. The rise of an uncompromising hierarchy in the Mexican Church was certainly a process that took more than five years. However, the unprecedented influence that some bishops enjoyed during the Reforma cannot

Winds of a Coming Storm  67 be understood without considering the unfortunate failure of Vatican diplomatic efforts in Mexico during the years that followed that country’s war with the U.S. It must not be forgotten that one of Clementi’s main tasks was to prepare the ground for revitalizing a crucial negotiation that had been frozen for years, not to empower bishops who had a rather somber view of a formal alliance between the Church and the unstable Mexican republic. Was Vatican diplomacy doomed to fail in the most important Catholic stronghold of the Americas? If the growing ideological polarization of Mexico after 1848 may lead one to believe that high-level negotiations had little chance to succeed, the contemporary signature of concordats between the Holy See and Costa Rica and Guatemala (1852), Haiti (1860), Honduras and Nicaragua (1861), El Salvador, Venezuela, and Ecuador (1862), in addition to a non-ratified agreement with Bolivia (1851), also serve as a reminder that Mexico’s religious conflict did not necessarily have to end in a bloody civil war.60 A truly comparative and transnational history of Vatican diplomacy in the Americas may further enrich our understanding of the differences between the historical path of Mexico and those of other Latin American countries regarding Church-state relations. In the meantime, one can safely argue that the Vatican’s diplomatic mistakes in post-war Mexico stemmed not only from its evident ignorance about the actual political and clerical realities of the country, but also from the negative effects of the contemporary revolutionary turmoil in Italy. Counterfactual history does not prove anything, but I cannot help but wonder whether Mexico’s dramatic Church-state rupture during the Reforma could have taken place without the Roman revolution of 1848–1849, or had a moderate clergyman like Giovanni Corboli-Bussi remained in charge of designing Pope Pius IX’s foreign policy. Since Mexico formed part of a larger Catholic world, historians should include this vaster context when exploring why this country followed an exceptionally painful path in the road to the creation of a modern, fully secular nation-state. The Reforma, as most historical processes, resulted from the intersection of local realities with global trends.

Acknowledgments I appreciate the comments and suggestions of Pedro Santoni, Will Fowler, and Heather Peterson, which significantly helped improve a first draft of this chapter.

Notes 1. Following the precedent of the 1812 Spanish constitution, the Mexican charters of 1824, 1836, 1843, and 1847 explicitly stated that Roman Catholicism was the national religion, without tolerance of any other. 2. Lynch, “The Catholic Church in Latin America,” in Bethell (ed.), The Cambridge History of Latin America, vol. 4. 3. Taylor, Magistrates of the Sacred; and Bravo, La gestión episcopal de Manuel Posada y Garduño.

68  Pablo Mijangos y González 4. Costeloe, Church and State in Independent Mexico; Connaughton, Clerical Ideology in a Revolutionary Age; and García Ugarte, Poder político y religioso, particularly vol. 1. 5. There is no precise English translation for recursos de fuerza. Anglophone canon law manuals often refer to them by their French name, appel comme d’abus, which means an appeal to override abusive decisions of ecclesiastical courts. 6. Hera, “El gobierno de la Iglesia indiana,” in Sánchez Bella, de la Hera, and Díaz Rementería, Historia del derecho indiano. 7. Taylor, Magistrates of the Sacred; and Brading, Church and State in Bourbon Mexico. 8. Costeloe, Church and State in Independent Mexico, 44–45. 9. Costeloe, Church and State in Independent Mexico; Rosas Salas, La Iglesia mexicana en tiempos de la impiedad; and Mijangos y González, The Lawyer of the Church. 10. Mecham, Church and State in Latin America; and Leturia, Relaciones entre la Santa Sede e Hispanoamérica. 11. García Ugarte, Poder político y religioso, 1: 87–89. 12. In addition, Gómez Farías then “sought to remove public education from the control of the Church, to end the official sanction of religious duties, to retrieve the state’s right to appoint the members of the ecclesiastical hierarchy, and to amortize the national debt through the disentailment of clerical properties.” Mijangos y González, The Lawyer of the Church, 15. 13. Atkin and Tallett, Priests, Prelates, and People, 89–92. 14. Archivio della Congregazione degli Affari Ecclesiastici Straordinari, Vatican City (hereafter AES), Messico, 1845, pos. 113, fasc. 595, ff. 70–85. 15. Mercati, Raccolta di concordati, 1: xix. 16. Coppa, The Modern Papacy, 84–89. 17. Martina, “Pio IX,” 1192–1194. 18. Martina, “Corboli Bussi, Giovanni.” 19. Valadés, Luces políticas y cultura universal, 293–295. 20. AES, Messico, 1846–1847, pos. 116, fasc. 596, ff. 44–48. 21. Memoria del Ministerio de Justicia y Negocios Eclesiásticos . . . 1850, 41. 22. Graham, Vatican Diplomacy, 125–126. 23. Coppa, The Modern Papacy, 92–96; and Chadwick, A History of the Popes, 82–94. 24. Martina, “Corboli Bussi, Giovanni.” 25. Coppa, The Modern Papacy, 94–96. 26. AES, Messico, 1851–1861, pos. 165, fasc. 614, ff. 4–43. 27. García Ugarte, Poder político y religioso, 1: 418–419. 28. On Clementi, see Martina, Pio IX, 2: 459. 29. In partibus infidelium literally means “in the lands of unbelievers.” Traditionally, the title of “bishop in partibus” was used to designate a bishop who could not reside in the diocesan see whose title he bore (usually an ancient church that had fallen into the hands of unbelievers, like Damascus). Since nuncios were not intended to perform pastoral duties yet needed archiepiscopal status to be recognized as equals by the higher ecclesiastical authorities in their country of destination, they were usually consecrated as archbishops in partibus before their first diplomatic mission. See Boudinhon, “In Partibus Infidelium.” 30. Garza y Ballesteros, Opúsculo sobre los enviados de la Silla Apostólica, 22. 31. Garza y Ballesteros, Opúsculo sobre los enviados de la Silla Apostólica, 23–25. 32. On this crisis, see Hale, Mexican Liberalism, 11–38; and Aguilar Rivera, Ausentes del universo, 276–320. 33. García Ugarte, Poder político y religioso, 1: 377.

Winds of a Coming Storm  69 34. Medina Ascensio, México y el Vaticano, 115. 35. Memoria del Ministerio de Justicia y Negocios Eclesiásticos . . . 1851, 35–36. 36. Elaborated with information from Valverde Téllez, Bio-Bibliografía Eclesiástica Mexicana. 37. Enríquez Licón, Pocas flores, muchas espinas, 31–54. 38. Connaughton, “Una ruptura anunciada,” in Olveda (ed.), Los obispados de México, 27–56. 39. AES, Messico, 1851–1861, pos. 165, fasc. 612, ff. 61, 66, 86. 40. AES, Messico, 1851–1861, pos. 165, fasc. 612, ff. 67–68. 41. AES, Messico, 1851–1861, pos. 165, fasc. 622, ff. 26–30. 42. García Ugarte, Poder político y religioso, 1: 422–427. 43. AES, Messico, 1851–1861, pos. 165, fasc. 623, f. 45. 44. On Munguía, see Mijangos y González, The Lawyer of the Church. 45. Mijangos y González, The Lawyer of the Church, 138–145. 46. AES, Messico, 1851–1861, pos. 165, fasc. 623, ff. 51–54. 47. Fowler, Santa Anna, 293–294; and Vázquez, Dos décadas, 141–146. 48. Decreto del Supremo Gobierno, 24–26. 49. Decreto del Supremo Gobierno, 27–33. 50. Garza y Ballesteros, Opúsculo sobre los enviados de la Silla Apostólica. 51. AES, Messico, 1851–1861, pos. 165, fasc. 619, f. 91. 52. Archivo Histórico de la Arquidiócesis de Guadalajara (hereafter AHAG), Sección: Gobierno, Serie: Obispos, Pedro Espinosa y Dávalos. 1826–1862. Caja 1. Año 1854. 53. AHAG, Sección: Gobierno, Serie: Obispos, Pedro Espinosa y Dávalos. 1826– 1862. Caja 1. Año 1854. 54. AHAG, Sección: Gobierno, Serie: Obispos, Pedro Espinosa y Dávalos. 1826– 1862. Caja 1. Año 1854. 55. Mijangos y González, The Lawyer of the Church, 197–200. 56. AES, Messico, 1851–1861, pos. 165, fasc. 644, ff. 98–102. 57. AES, Messico, 1851–1861, pos. 165, fasc. 644, ff. 101–102. 58. Archivo General de la Nación, Justicia/Eclesiástico, vol. 64, ff. 424, 430. 59. Mijangos y González, The Lawyer of the Church, 154–178. The quote is in Fowler, Santa Anna, 310. 60. On nineteenth-century Latin American concordats, see Salinas Araneda, “Los concordatos.”

Bibliography Aguilar Rivera, José Antonio. Ausentes del universo. Reflexiones sobre el pensamiento político hispanoamericano en la era de la construcción nacional, 1821– 1850. Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 2012. Atkin, Nicholas, and Frank Tallet. Priests, Prelates, and People: A History of European Catholicism since 1750. New York: Oxford University Press, 2003. Boudinhon, Auguste. “In Partibus Infidelium.” In The Catholic Encyclopedia— Volume 8 (1910). http://www.newadvent.org/cathen/08025a.htm (accessed July 3, 2016). Brading, David A. Church and State in Bourbon Mexico: The Diocese of Michoacán, 1749–1810. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994. Bravo Rubio, Berenise. La gestión episcopal de Manuel Posada y Garduño. República católica y arzobispado de México, 1840–1846. Mexico City: Porrúa Print, 2013. Chadwick, Owen. A History of the Popes, 1830–1914. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003.

70  Pablo Mijangos y González Connaughton, Brian F. Clerical Ideology in a Revolutionary Age: The Guadalajara Church and the Idea of the Mexican Nation (1788–1853). Calgary: University of Calgary Press, 2003. ———. “Una ruptura anunciada: Los catolicismos encontrados del gobierno liberal y el arzobispo Garza y Ballesteros.” In Jaime Olveda (ed.), Los obispados de México frente a la Reforma liberal. Guadalajara: El Colegio de Jalisco/Universidad Autónoma Metropolitana/Universidad Autónoma Benito Juárez de Oaxaca, 2007. 27–56. Coppa, Frank J. The Modern Papacy since 1789. New York: Longman, 1998. Costeloe, Michael P. Church and State in Independent Mexico: A Study of the Patronage Debate, 1821–1857. London: Royal Historical Society, 1978. Decreto del Supremo Gobierno concediendo el pase al breve en que nuestro Santísimo Padre el señor Pío IX, nombra Su delegado apostólico en la República Mexicana a monseñor Luis Clementi, Arzobispo de Damasco, y dictamen de una comisión especial, nombrada por el gobierno, para consultar sobre la admisión del mismo breve. Mexico City: Imprenta de Cumplido, 1853. Enríquez Licón, Dora Elvia. Pocas flores, muchas espinas. Iglesia católica y sociedad en Sonora (1779–1912). Hermosillo: Universidad de Sonora/Pearson, 2012. Fowler, Will. Santa Anna of Mexico. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2007. García Ugarte, Marta Eugenia. Poder político y religioso. México, siglo XIX. 2 vols. Mexico City: UNAM/Miguel Ángel Porrúa, 2010. Garza y Ballesteros, Lázaro de la. Opúsculo sobre los enviados de la Silla Apostólica. Mexico City: Imprenta de José Mariano Lara, 1854. Graham, Robert A. Vatican Diplomacy: A Study of Church and State on the International Plane. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1959. Hale, Charles A. Mexican Liberalism in the Age of Mora, 1821–1853. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1968. Hera, Alberto de la. “El gobierno de la Iglesia indiana.” In Ismael Sánchez Bella, Alberto de la Hera, and Carlos Díaz Rementería (eds.), Historia del derecho indiano. Madrid: Editorial Mapfre, 1992. 253–296. Leturia, Pedro. Relaciones entre la Santa Sede e Hispanoamérica. 2. Época de Bolívar, 1800–1835. Caracas: Sociedad Bolivariana de Venezuela, 1959. Lynch, John. “The Catholic Church in Latin America, 1830–1930.” In Leslie Bethell (ed.), The Cambridge History of Latin America. Vol. 4. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984. 527–595. Martina, Giacomo. “Corboli Bussi, Giovanni.” In Dizionario Biografico degli Italiani—Volume 28 (1983). www.treccani.it/enciclopedia/giovanni-corbolibussi_%28Dizionario_Biografico%29/ (accessed March 30, 2016). ———. Pio IX, t. II. Roma: Università Gregoriana Editrice, 1986. ———. “Pio IX.” In Philippe Levillain (ed.), The Papacy: An Encyclopedia. Vol. 2. New York: Routledge, 2002. Mecham, J. Lloyd. Church and State in Latin America. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1966. Medina Ascensio, Luis. México y el Vaticano. Tomo II. La Iglesia y el Estado Liberal, 1836–1867. Mexico City: Editorial Jus, 1984. Memoria del Ministerio de Justicia y Negocios Eclesiásticos, presentada a las augustas cámaras del Congreso General de los Estados-Unidos Mejicanos, por el secretario del ramo, en febrero de 1850. Mexico City: Tipografía de Vicente García Torres, 1850.

Winds of a Coming Storm  71 Memoria del Ministerio de Justicia y Negocios Eclesiásticos, presentada a las augustas cámaras del Congreso general de los Estados-Unidos mexicanos por el secretario del ramo, en el mes de Enero de 1851. Mexico City: Imprenta de Ignacio Cumplido, 1851. Mercati, Angelo. Raccolta di concordati su materia ecclesiastiche tra la Santa Sede e le autorità civili, vol. I: 1098–1914. Roma: Tipografia Poliglotta Vaticana, 1954. Mijangos y González, Pablo. The Lawyer of the Church: Bishop Clemente de Jesús Munguía and the Clerical Response to the Mexican Liberal Reforma. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2015. Rosas Salas, Sergio. La Iglesia mexicana en tiempos de la impiedad: Francisco Pablo Vázquez, 1769–1847. Puebla: Benemérita Universidad Autónoma de Puebla/Ediciones E y C /El Colegio de Michoacán, 2015. Salinas Araneda, Carlos. “Los concordatos celebrados entre la Santa Sede y los países latinoamericanos durante el siglo XIX.” Revista de Estudios HistóricoJurídicos 35 (November 2013): 215–254. Taylor, William. Magistrates of the Sacred: Priests and Parishioners in Eighteenth Century Mexico. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1996. Valadés, José C. Luces políticas y cultura universal. Biografías de Alamán, Gutiérrez de Estrada, Comonfort, Ocampo. Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 2014. Valverde Téllez, Emeterio. Bio-Bibliografía Eclesiástica Mexicana (1821–1943). 2 vols. Mexico City: Editorial Jus, 1949. Vázquez, Josefina Zoraida. Dos décadas de desilusiones: En busca de una fórmula adecuada de gobierno (1832–1854). Mexico City: El Colegio de México/Instituto Mora, 2009.

4 “The Powerful Element That Would Certainly Have Saved Us” Debating the Revitalization of the National Guard in Post-War Mexico Pedro Santoni On September 16, 1869 Ignacio Altamirano, one of the most illustrious essayists and politicians of Mexico’s modernizing Liberal Revolution known as the Reforma (1855–1876), joined other luminaries for the inaugural run of the Mexico City–Puebla railway line. The ride was the most important event organized by government officials to commemorate the anniversary of the cry that in 1810 had ignited the movement for Mexican independence, Father Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla’s Grito de Dolores. When the locomotive approached the village of Santa Ana Chiautempan shortly after entering Tlaxcala state, passengers saw members of the state’s national guard deployed alongside the roadway. Those individuals, wrote Altamirano, “did not earn a salary nor serve in the regular army, and only wore their everyday clothes as their uniform; but we were still pleased to see the people’s guard, a modest guard truth be told, but one deserving of our respect and appreciation given that it stands as the guarantor of the law.”1 Altamirano’s description of Tlaxcala’s citizen-soldiers conforms to the prevalent scholarly judgement about one of nineteenth-century Mexico’s most important yet least-known military institutions, the national guard. Several historians (referenced in endnotes 4 and 6 of this chapter) now hold that in some regions between the 1820s and the 1860s this militia evolved from a poorly organized force into a bastion of popular liberalism; the term, simply put, refers to the way indigenous peasant communities made use of elite liberal ideology to defend their interests. Villagers who mustered in locally commanded national guard units drew on that experience to protect municipal autonomy, pursue political goals, and demand citizenship rights from governments.2 Such a dramatic transformation had distinct roots. According to Guy P.C. Thomson, Mexico’s inability to respond to the challenge of self-defense during the 1846–1848 war with the United States prompted the country’s leaders to create a system of military service that agreed with the liberal idea of citizenship. Their deliberations resulted in the July 15, 1848 Ley Orgánica (Organic Law) of the National Guard, a decree which sought to balance the duties of guardsmen with their rights as citizens, to promote democratic internal organization of national guard units, and to make sure it remained

Revitalization of the National Guard  73 immune to the flaws of the regular army. Coupled with subsequent ordinances, the Ley Orgánica transformed the national guard into the quintessential expression of local, regional, and state power during the next four decades, a time that extends beyond that of the Reforma.3 Other scholars have asserted that the cultural and social changes that Mexican society underwent during the three decades or so that followed independence from Spain in 1821 helped cement the guard in its newer, more prominent role as a nationwide popular icon.4 Devices like calendarios (calendars) spread notions of political democracy among the populace. One such 1850 publication included a questionnaire that characterized the national guard as “the basis of the democratic system” and “the bulwark of public liberty.” Likewise, a mid-nineteenth-century pamphlet aimed at popular audiences authored by liberal novelist Nicolás Pizarro Suárez defined that military force as the “gathering of armed citizens who defend domestic order, and if necessary the nation’s respectability against foreign enemies, under the direction of officers they themselves have elected.”5 The viewpoint of these historians, however, is not entirely correct. They rely on the findings of several monographs about this military force published since the mid-1990s that are grounded on narrow temporal and regional contexts. These works pay little, if any, attention to the years that followed the U.S.–Mexican War, and concentrate on the guard’s development from the mid-1850s onward; moreover, they examine peasant communities in specific rural locales like the Puebla Sierra, the state of Morelos, and the district of Ixtlán in Oaxaca that lies within the Sierra Zapoteca.6 Other recent publications provide few details about the guardsmen—who they were, what they did, and when.7 Finally, historians have demonstrated that the national guard did not always embody the ideals of popular liberalism, and that it could, as in the state of Guanajuato, “advance the centralization of power at the cost of municipal autonomy and individual rights.”8 On the other hand, scholarship that predates the 1990s has underanalyzed Mexico’s citizen-soldiers in the aftermath of the war with the U.S. José Manuel César Villalpando disregarded the broader historic context while casting sole blame for the national guard’s temporary disbandment in the early spring of 1853 on General Antonio López de Santa Anna, who made that decision shortly after returning to Mexico from exile in Colombia for his final stint as chief executive. Jesús Reyes Heroles surveyed the guard’s development in 1847–1848 through a narrow lens—the writing of moderado (moderate) statesman Mariano Otero—while Moisés González Navarro’s in-depth study of the 1848–1853 era did not contextualize the fragmentary evidence it amassed on that military force into an overarching whole. The latter two appraisals, nonetheless, differ from recent evaluations of the national guard. According to Reyes Heroles, government efforts to establish that institution had “failed” as 1848 came to an end, while González Navarro asserted that Mexico’s citizen militia “inevitably declined” in the years prior to the Reforma.9

74  Pedro Santoni The assessments of Reyes Heroles and González Navarro, furthermore, correspond with the judgment of several contemporary observers. José Agustín de Escudero, a renowned politician from northern Mexico, noted that by late 1849 Durango’s national guard had not been “organized as the country’s circumstances required.” Two years later moderado Minister of Foreign Relations José María Lacunza lamented that Mexico’s citizen militia had “continued to decline,” while his counterpart Luis de la Rosa pointed to “the very nature of [Mexican] society” as the source of the country’s “nearly insuperable difficulties . . . to organize the national guard.” Only when Mexico’s most illustrious men had established a “numerous and prosperous middle class,” so wrote the moderado statesman, would the nation possess “the necessary base for the establishment of the militias.” Prominent santanista (as Santa Anna’s supporters were known) Juan Suárez y Navarro held a similar opinion about that military force in 1860s Yucatán. “The continuous oscillations and frequent political changes” in that state, he observed, had systematized “oppression and illicit trade” within the national guard.10 The contradiction between many modern scholars, who have glossed over analysis of the national guard during the immediate post-1848 period en route to typifying it as a mainstay of popular liberalism, and nineteenthcentury pundits, who dismissed that military force as a failed attempt to mobilize the public, obscures a more important point—the contested terrain of Mexican nationhood. Mexico’s defeat in the war with the U.S. provided the moderado governments of Generals José Joaquín de Herrera and Mariano Arista with the opportunity and rationale to experiment with various instruments to forge a coherent nation-state. These men and their close advisors envisioned a well-organized national guard manned by respectable elements of the population as a key element of that process. Such a militia, moderado policymakers hoped, would build social cohesion, and safeguard both public order and middle-class material interests.11 By early 1853, however, the moderados had failed on both accounts, and the final blow to their project came late that April when then-president Santa Anna dispersed the national guard. This chapter examines the moderados’ buoyant rhetoric and ambitious efforts to establish their citizen-soldier ideal between 1848 and 1853. It first scrutinizes their endeavors to shape public discourse about the national guard after the cessation of hostilities with the U.S., a particularly anxious time for Mexicans because that conflict had fostered grave anxieties about the country’s survival as a sovereign nation. The article next discusses how that debate played out at ground level by analyzing the tumultuous reorganization of the national guard in Mexico City as U.S. troops prepared to depart the capital in early June 1848. The final section of this chapter explores how moderado authorities tried to reinvigorate the citizen militia throughout the republic in accordance with the 1848 Ley Orgánica, as well as the reasons why such exertions failed. Although ineffective, the moderado

Revitalization of the National Guard  75 project to craft a citizenry via reform of the national guard sheds light on an underappreciated aspect of the post-war years—the continuing quest by Mexico’s political class to forge a viable nation-state. Men like Benito Juárez and his generation of puro (radical) liberals pursued the same goal in the coming decades, but their efforts came on the heels of those made by moderado statesman between 1848 and 1853.

Pre-1848 Deliberations about the National Guard Mexican leaders had tried to organize the national guard to offset the regular army’s role as arbiter in national politics and protect state autonomy since the early 1820s, but fiscal insolvency, regional divisions, political strife, and class hatreds—elements that contributed to Mexico’s post-independence instability—made that undertaking all but impossible. These issues resurfaced in July 1845 and September 1846 to wreck legislation that intended to turn the national guard into a non-partisan military force capable of contributing to the country’s defense during the war with the U.S.12 The socalled rebellion of the “polkos,” which broke out in Mexico City on February 27, 1847 in response to a decree issued that January 11 empowering the government to mortgage or sell ecclesiastical property to help finance that conflict, further illustrated the difficulties of developing an impartial citizen militia. For nearly one month, while U.S. forces besieged the port city of Veracruz on Mexico’s eastern coast, a bloody civil war engulfed the country’s capital as the moderado-led Independencia, Bravos, Mina, Hidalgo, and Victoria middle-class militia battalions tried to oust then acting chief executive, puro Valentín Gómez Farías, who had the support of plebeian national guard units. The fighting finally ended in late March when the moderados, thanks to Santa Anna’s support, drove Gómez Farías and his cohorts from power and seized the reins of government.13 Strategic imperatives—the fall of Veracruz and the impeding march of the U.S. army inland—then prompted Mexican officials to make further attempts to put the national guard on solid footing. On April 9 lawmakers voted 70–2 in favor of a decree that called on all arms-bearing males to defend the country’s independence against the U.S.; Article 2 of that statute empowered the government to issue any necessary bylaws to properly structure its citizen militia.14 Congressmen did not write these guidelines (the historical record remains silent as to why), but four days earlier they had discussed one bill—which came to be known as the Acta de Reformas— that impacted the national guard’s subsequent development. The project sought to amend the 1824 federal constitution that had been restored in August 1846. On that occasion Mariano Otero delivered a voto particular, an opinion separate from the report of the committee charged with modifying that charter, where he forcefully argued that Mexico’s constitution needed to “consign” membership in the national guard as one of the rights of citizenship. That military force “was the most solid guarantor of

76  Pedro Santoni all republics,” and none of Mexico’s previous charters had included such an assurance. Otero’s line of reasoning carried the day, and Article 2 of the Acta, which was sanctioned as law shortly after mid-May 1847, stated that every citizen had the right to belong to the national guard.15 Members of Mexico’s political class, in the meantime, had taken other steps to mobilize national guard units throughout the country. In mid-April, the Diario del Gobierno de la República Mexicana published two editorials concerning that military force; one exhorted citizens to enroll in the national guard, while the other stressed the need to collect the monies that individuals exempt from militia service had to contribute to help maintain that force in accordance with the September 11, 1846 national guard decree.16 On April 14, moreover, federal authorities instructed governors in Guanajuato, Jalisco, Mexico, Michoacán, Puebla, Querétaro, and Zacatecas to place the national guard at the orders of the state’s military commandant general.17 Officials in these states, as well as in Aguascalientes, Morelia, Tamaulipas, San Luis Potosí, and Sinaloa, also enacted militia legislation during the spring of 1847.18 Reorganization of the national guard in Mexico City, on the other hand, proved divisive and far more difficult as well. First, the process took on strong political overtones as Santa Anna and the moderados demobilized the battalions loyal to the puros. Officials subsequently encountered numerous problems as they tried to raise militia forces, including a civilian population ambivalent toward military service, if not the war itself.19 These troubles were put aside, however, when the U.S. army reached the outskirts of the capital in mid-August 1847, and at that time some 8,000 guardsmen from all social classes and political groups assembled to engage enemy troops.20 Between August 20 and September 13 militia units fiercely defended their homeland against the Americans at the Battles of Churubusco and Molino del Rey, and in the combats for the San Cosme and Belén garitas (sentry boxes). Then, and even though they were under no obligation to fight given that a council of war held in the evening of September 13 ordered the army to withdraw from the capital and dissolved the city’s national guard corps (thus releasing their members from martial duties), an estimated 2,000 to 4,000 citizen-soldiers joined poor residents of Mexico City during the threeday riot that broke out after U.S. troops marched into the capital’s main plaza early in the morning of September 14.21 The battlefield comportment of Mexico’s militiamen profoundly impressed public-spirited Mexicans and foreign observers. As one unidentified correspondent noted a few days after the fall of Mexico City, “if there were no examples of what the [national] guard is, one could doubt it would not correspond to our wishes; but as we have witnessed, [the guard] fights and [the army] runs . . . at Churubusco, Independencia and Bravos; at Molino del Rey, Mina; in all parts the guard and nowhere the accursed army.”22 Then, on September 21, an optimistic Otero wrote that “an honest and energetic government,” if it mustered “high-quality” national guard units,

Revitalization of the National Guard  77 might force the U.S. “to sign an honorable peace treaty” and save the country.23 Finally, late that October U.S. emissary Nicholas P. Trist informed his superiors that “by far the best fighting done in this valley, on the Mexican side, was done by the newly formed corps of militia.” Trist’s message also underscored a more prescient concern—the possibility of a protracted conflict should the U.S. fail to quickly negotiate peace with Mexico. If a “feeling of national desperation” awakened, he warned, things would present a very different aspect from any they have heretofore borne. This country cannot effectively resist our power; but such resistance as she is still capable of—partial as this may be, and ineffective as it may prove—will be of a new complexion due to the military advantages that Mexico might accrue from a revitalized national guard.24 Otero’s hopes, not to say Trist’s worries, nearly came true thanks to the efforts of puro lawmaker José Guadalupe Perdigón Garay. A former colonel in the national guard who fought at Churubusco (he had been captured near the town’s fortified bridgehead by U.S. forces, and subsequently released) and the Belén garita, Perdigón Garay was also well-known for his bellicose stance. Early in November 1847 he accused the minister of war of high treason for failing to vigorously prosecute war with the U.S., and on December 1 he pressed his fellow legislators to promptly reorganize the national guard so that hostilities would continue.25 Lawmakers by then had convened some 115 miles away from the capital in the city of Querétaro (where they remained through mid-June 1848), and gave every indication of endorsing Perdigón Garay’s request. They waived a preliminary reading of the bill and unanimously admitted it for discussion, greeted with “extraordinary enthusiasm” the speech that supported the proposal, and agreed to include these snippets of information in the minutes of the meeting. Despite the public displays of support, the moderado-controlled Congress did not embrace the proposed law, most likely because legislators desired peace with the U.S.26 By that time, and in the months ahead, the pro-moderado viewpoint about the national guard’s future role and makeup dominated public discourse. A letter written late in November 1847 by an individual who identified himself as K vividly illustrates this reality. If Mexico had mustered a national guard “with persons who inspired confidence to all classes”—and those individuals were “the merchants, artisans, and hard-working people” from the Independencia, Bravos, and Mina battalions who had bravely defended the nation’s capital—that force could have served as the “firmest bulwark of the government’s liberty, independence, [and] security, and for the conservation of public tranquility.” K, moreover, did not hold Mexico City’s other national guard regiments in high regard. He claimed they consisted of “undisciplined peoples [who had been] violently forced to take up arms. Their colonels were unskilled [in the art of war], and many were plebeians

78  Pedro Santoni from that ill-omened party [the puros] who had lost their citizenship rights because of their notorious gambling. . . . These presumptuous and ignorant men erroneously believed that war was a mechanical act, like the scuffles that occurred in taverns or pulquerías (bars), and that the only requirements to be a good soldier were boldness and insolence.”27 The Daily American Star echoed K’s sentiments late in May 1848 when it published an article that refuted puro deputy Manuel Crescencio Rejón’s mid-April position paper that forcefully opposed both the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo—the pact that had ended the conflict with the U.S. that February—as well as the way Mexican negotiators had arrived at its terms. This anonymous writer reminded readers that the war with the U.S. had made clear to Mexico that a citizen militia “composed not by vagabonds” as it had “been heretofore, but [rather] by men who have families and known interests to maintain and defend, is the best kind of a military force that a republic can have, either to preserve domestic tranquility or resist foreign aggression.”28 Public-spirited Mexicans had reiterated the need for a national guard whose interests harmonized with those of the gente decente (well-to-do) in two other venues early in 1848. On January 1 moderado Manuel Payno (a former major in the Bravos battalion) told the assembled crowd at the inaugural session of the Sociedad Filantrópica de México (Philantropic Society of Mexico) that the club intended to “create the moral force” that operated as the country’s sole remaining “means of salvation.” Payno subsequently became a member of a three-person committee charged with determining specific goals for the Sociedad, one of which entailed establishing “a national guard [manned] by honest people who had [economic interests] to lose.”29 In addition, open debate about the citizen militia was part of the agenda of a public meeting scheduled for 10 a.m. on February 20 at the University of Mexico. The unknown organizers invited individuals “of all political persuasions” to discuss several key questions at that assembly, including the capacity of the national guard to provide order and security in the post-war era. Attendees, however, did not deliberate about this matter because a long, inconclusive discussion about one of those issues (the question of which government body should determine it behooved residents of Mexico City for the Federal District to become a state) went on for most of the meeting before it adjourned.30 It was, however, the more prominent moderado-leaning newspapers who led the discussion in early 1848 as to the best way to restructure the national guard. El Eco del Comercio, the apparent beneficiary of financial support from moderado officials, fired several such publicity salvoes. Edited by Payno and Anselmo de la Portilla, El Eco printed at least one laudatory poem about the guard and its members, and kept readers appraised about efforts underway in Oaxaca to honor the guardsmen from that state who had bravely fought at Molino del Rey, including their commander and fallen native son, General Antonio León.31 That paper also made various recommendations that it believed would turn the national guard into an institution

Revitalization of the National Guard  79 capable of preserving public liberties and maintaining order. Officials, they argued, could not grant any service exemptions or pay militiamen a salary. The national guard, furthermore, had to be organized in units other than battalions or regiments, while its officers and chiefs could not hold their positions in perpetuity. Finally, according to El Eco, only those men able to earn a living could bear arms in the force.32 El Monitor Republicano, edited by Vicente García Torres, complemented El Eco’s endeavors to enhance the national guard’s public profile with a concerted effort to dispel the stereotype of Mexico’s gente decente as “spoiled and self-indulgent.” The recent war with the U.S., it wrote, had demonstrated that the gente decente were as capable as mercenaries or veteran troops—if not more so—of fulfilling their “military responsibilities and acting as true soldiers of the fatherland.”33 The February 1847 “polkos” rebellion had illustrated the same point, El Monitor argued in another editorial, and thus arming the gente decente was the best way to ensure domestic tranquility. That piece also pointed out that while Mexico’s artisans might not be as educated as the gente decente, their battlefield exploits in the conflict with the U.S. (a not-so-veiled reference to the deeds of Mina’s guardsmen at Molino del Rey) had shown they were as brave, honorable, and resolute as the well-to-do. The government, consequently, had to muster a national militia made up of “honest citizens” whose “security might be endangered by revolution” to discourage rebellious men from staging pronunciamientos (revolts) in the future.34 Political circumstances in early May 1848—legislators then met to discuss whether to sanction the terms of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo— provided moderado officials with a highly visible platform to make bold declarations about the national guard’s role in the conflict with the U.S. Such proclamations intended to remind public-spirited Mexicans that a revitalized citizen militia would surely uphold their peacetime interests. At the opening session of Congress, President Manuel de la Peña y Peña stated “that the war’s outcome would have been different if . . . the National Guard had received a more convenient organization.” Luis de la Rosa, who at the time served as minister of foreign relations, subsequently informed lawmakers that Mexico’s lack of a national guard had deprived the republic of a necessary element to sustain a prolonged defensive war against the U.S.35 Moderado politicians combined these assertions with a concerted effort to restructure the national guard. On May 11 Otero introduced a bill in Congress that clamored for the “immediate organization” of that military force; legislators dispensed with standard procedures and immediately admitted it for discussion.36 Then, on June 4, one day after replacing de la Rosa in the cabinet, Otero issued a circular letter that set forth the program of General Herrera’s newly-installed administration. All Mexicans had to help the regime organize “the fundamental basis of the [social] edifice”—the country’s armed forces. Mexico’s institutions, he noted, gave “every citizen the right to defend his country,” while “the law [an allusion to the Acta de

80  Pedro Santoni Reformas] called on all those interested in preserving order [to serve in] the national guard.” President Herrera, added Otero, “needed everyone to comply with that duty.”37 Two weeks later, the Ministry of Foreign Relations issued another circular letter to ensure that a reorganized national guard had sufficient men under arms. According to the directive, the “most effective means” of “cementing domestic tranquility to heal the ills that a long series of revolutions, and lately foreign war, had spread in [Mexico’s] bosom . . . was to arm the entire nation.” The government, therefore, required the “unwavering cooperation” of each state to get the national guard off the ground; “small groups of armed citizens in isolated locales” did not comprise a true citizen militia, and this military force had to be firmly established, at the very least, in Mexico’s most important towns so the country could derive the immense benefits it proffered. State governors were thus enjoined to muster, within fifteen days of receiving the document, at least 3% of their capital city’s population into the national guard.38 The moderados’ efforts came to fruition on July 15 with the enactment of the Ley Orgánica, a decree that required all able-bodied citizens between the ages of eighteen and fifty-five to register for and, if called upon, serve in the national guard. Given the zest with which moderado enthusiasts had pursued reorganization of that military force through 1848, their reaction to the law seemed rather subdued. Officials in some states (Nuevo León, for instance) greeted the decree enthusiastically, but government leaders in Mexico City kept quiet. El Siglo XIX, meanwhile, merely noted that the Ley Orgánica filled the gaps evident in prior legislation, and that those individuals who had failed to fulfill their commitments to the national guard would henceforth have to render such services. The militia, according to its editors, could be “characterized as [a] redeeming [institution]” if properly structured.39 The moderados’ muted response is even more surprising given the bitter partisan strife that flared up in Mexico City between early May and mid-July 1848, a dissonance that nearly derailed reestablishment of the national guard along the lines they had envisioned.

Institutional Anomie and Controversy in Mexico City Although the moderados had gained control of Mexico’s political destinies early in April 1847, their grasp on power remained tenuous as the U.S. occupation of the Mexican capital ended some fifteen months later. The chief threat to their authority came from their long-time puro rivals, who wanted to capitalize on the impending June 1848 departure of U.S. troops by staging a coup, seizing power, and renewing hostilities. According to a British diplomat, for several months puro advocates had been purchasing weapons to distribute among “a certain number of the American Camp followers” they hoped to convince to remain in Mexico City. These individuals

Revitalization of the National Guard  81 would then “head the rabble” and help the puros take over the capital before the arrival of moderado officials from Querétaro. “A general pillage,” he added, “was of course amongst the advantages offered” to the masses.40 The prospect of a wider-ranging, and far more damaging, social conflagration further troubled moderado authorities. On May 11 an alarmed Juan María Flores y Terán, who had been appointed governor of the Federal District some two months earlier to reassert moderado control over affairs in Mexico City (the puros had governed there since late December 1847), sent a confidential letter to his superiors in Querétaro.41 Members of the Mexico City ayuntamiento (town council), he wrote, had noticed residents of nearby indigenous villages holding large gatherings, and some of those individuals had traveled to the capital to ask for “weapons and protection from U.S. troops in order to organize a conspiracy that . . . sought to exterminate all races in the Mexican Nation that are not aboriginal.”42 The governor believed as well that many lower-class residents of the capital possessed firearms discarded by the Mexican army when it evacuated the city in mid-September 1847, and that those individuals counted on the assistance of numerous delinquents as well as recent migrants to the city. A caste war would likely ensue if the directors of the mutiny seized even a portion of the weapons stored in the Ciudadela, Mexico City’s armory.43 Given the possibility that an urban mob and the indigenous masses might rebel at any moment and endanger moderado rule, government leaders quickly moved to reorganize the national guard in the Mexican capital. The authority to do so emanated from a February 29 agreement between U.S. and Mexican officials that suspended hostilities pending ratification of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, and allowed the latter to organize a small national guard in the Federal District.44 Such efforts got underway two months later when the president of Mexico City’s ayuntamiento, Miguel González de Cosío, proposed the “immediate assemblage” of the “polko” national guard battalions.45 Then, on the same day Otero unveiled his national guard bill (May 11), authorities in Querétaro ordered their counterparts in the nation’s capital to reestablish that military force.46 Although one contemporary observer doubted the effectiveness of the newlyorganized citizen militia—this individual noticed a “great deal of indolence among the so-called honest people” who were supposed to join the force—47 such misgivings proved unwarranted. Another eyewitness, Miguel Atristain, reported that “few men registered on the first day, but thereafter the number of persons who wanted to enlist was such that in several locales there was not enough time to sign up everyone.” He “was pleased to see [on June 4] an immense number of artisans, merchants, proprietors, foreigners, and individuals from all social classes waiting to enroll in the national guard.”48 Residents of the capital continued to enlist in the militia, and by mid-June the moderados had mustered a national guard in Mexico City that conformed to their political aspirations.

82  Pedro Santoni Moderado authorities took various steps to insure the success of the militia’s reorganization. First, on May 24, Congress enacted a decree that called on the national guard to preserve tranquility and order in the capital; no other institution, as Article 2 put it, was more appropriate for such a task than a citizen militia mustered by Mexicans “who had interests to lose in any mayhem.”49 Three days later, Governor Flores y Terán implored ayuntamiento officials “not to waste a moment” in conducting a census of the city’s inhabitants to facilitate enrollment in that military force.50 Next, and to complement the May 24 decree, the governor issued an edict on June 1 instructing citizens who wished to join the national guard to sign up at the headquarters of the Independencia, Bravos, Mina, Hidalgo, and Victoria battalions—the units that had spearheaded the revolt of the “polkos.”51 Then, with the acquiescence of moderado officials, France’s Minister Plenipotentiary André Nicolas Levasseur capitalized on the terms of Article 9 of the May 24 law—which allowed foreigners to enroll in the national guard— to muster French citizens into several militia regiments that he personally commanded. The purpose of this force, as another diplomat explained, was “the preservation of general order and the protection of private property.”52 Finally, on June 4 Otero reiterated to Governor Flores y Terán the urgency of “organizing the national guard without delay” to dissipate fears of a revolution when the U.S. army left Mexico City, and within two days the governor had readied himself to gather together and arm the capital’s citizen militia.53 Moderado advocates launched another elaborate publicity campaign to support these measures, and the strongest arguments came from the editors of El Siglo XIX. They claimed the public had enthusiastically greeted the May 24 law—an assertion that Atristain’s aforementioned comment seemed to confirm—and that revival of the militia would “remedy” Mexico’s “misfortunes,” “restrain factionalism, and bestow upon laws and civil authority the respectability they ought to enjoy in an organized society.”54 To buttress this perspective, on June 3 the Mexico City ayuntamiento agreed to issue a proclamation that emphasized the need for unity and the importance of serving in the national guard. Published four days later, the declaration urged Mexicans to “put aside emotions and individual interests,” and enroll in the militia. Such a magnanimous act, according to the councilmen, would provide the national government with ample “physical and moral support” to extinguish the “anarchistic endeavors” of its enemies.55 The ayuntamiento did not identify these foes, but the allusion to the puros could not go unnoticed. Puro supporters, however, correctly interpreted the ayuntamiento’s call for unity as nothing more than a thinly-veiled effort to restructure the national guard in Mexico City along partisan and class lines, and turned to their mouthpiece El Cangrejo—edited by Francisco Ortega, an experienced journalist who had been involved in national politics since the early 1820s— to counter such efforts with rhetoric of their own.56 This publication, which

Revitalization of the National Guard  83 earlier in 1848 had tried to diminish the heroic aura garnered by the “polko” battalions in the defense of Mexico City,57 and called as well for a national guard without class distinctions,58 sought in early June to discredit the militia corps manned by foreigners. Not only had an “insignificant person” like Governor Flores y Terán approved the establishment of such units, but their creation was akin to destroying the treaties of friendship and commerce that bound Mexico with the nations where those guardsmen had been born. El Cangrejo also wondered whether the chiefs and officers of such corps might still be considered foreigners given that they had accepted a military commission from the Mexican government. Finally, the puro newspaper did not foresee a satisfying outcome should foreign militiamen participate in one of Mexico’s all-too-frequent revolts. Those men would jeopardize their nationality if they supported the government or the rebels, while remaining neutral meant they were unfit for public service. In conclusion, according to El Cangrejo, the “monstrous” June 1 edict that established those units “slandered all of Mexico City’s inhabitants.” It implied that “the material interests of some individuals had not been sufficiently safeguarded by excluding the poor from service [in the national guard],” extended a sense of “doubt and uncertainty to wealthy Mexicans,” and warned foreigners “that their properties were not safe unless they personally defended them.”59 Both El Cangrejo and a large group of Mexico City residents used similar arguments to challenge Governor Flores y Terán’s June 1 directive. An editorial in the former, titled “Parody of the National Guard,” contended that the preamble to that pronouncement encompassed the “wretched idea of pleasing one social class while insulting and scorning the others.” The national guard’s sole purpose was to protect “the reigning minority” while targeting the poor as “thieves,” and as “seditious and rebellious” individuals. The terms of the June 1 statute made matters worse, declared El Cangrejo, because they gave the governor full authority to implement the May 24 decree, and such clout could only “corrupt the most beautiful institution of a free people.”60 Meanwhile, well-known puro pundits Ignacio Jáuregui, José María Arteaga, Francisco Suárez Iriarte, and Miguel Buenrostro were among the most prominent cosigners of a June 2 petition which argued that the June 1 edict “destroyed the essence of the institution” by limiting enrollment in the national guard to the “polko” battalions. That command stifled thirteen erstwhile militia corps “under whose flags a multitude of citizens” had “exposed their chests to enemy bullets.” To suppress those units or to “unfavorably compare them” to other national guard forces was a “grave injustice.” The petitioners, therefore, requested that Governor Flores y Terán grant them “absolute liberty” to form their own corps, elect their own officers, and organize those units as they saw fit.61 To lend additional gravitas to their request, the petitioners asked Eligio Romero, who also had signed the June 2 text, to deliver that document to the governor. The choice was not arbitrary given that Romero’s personal bravery, in addition to his sterling credentials as a puro partisan, was

84  Pedro Santoni beyond dispute. On September 13, 1847 Romero had led Mexican forces in a failed last-ditch assault to retake the Belén garita; during the charge U.S. troops inflicted eight bullet wounds on the horse he rode into battle.62 To bolster the citizens’ request, Romero added reflections of his own. The June 2 entreaty, he noted, stood as the “spontaneous expression” of the signatories’ “patriotic sentiments”; countless others espoused the petition as well but had been unable to sign because they were illiterate. He implored Governor Flores y Terán to “act honorably” by disregarding the “dire influence of an always rancorous and cowardly party [e.g., the moderados],” and grant the petitioners’ wishes. Then, in a surefire reference to Article 2 of the Acta de Reformas, Romero remarked that Mexicans did not deserve to be deprived of “one of their most precious rights.” These individuals had already organized national guard battalions “that had been, and would remain, the staunchest support of public liberties and of the true patriots who, thanks to the popular will, ought to direct the destinies of our unfortunate nation.”63 Moderado authorities, however, were in no mood for semantics, and on June 4 Flores y Terán ordered the arrest of at least seven prominent puro sympathizers. Detainees included the individual in charge of El Cangrejo’s printing press, Manuel Redondas, as well as petitioners Jáuregui and Arteaga; the latter two were transferred to the city of Querétaro absent due process as neither was informed of the charges levied against them.64 Such actions angered puro supporters. According to an anonymous writer, signatories of the June 2 petition were “fully cognizant of their rights and responsibilities,” and had expressed as well their “willingness to serve their country.” Given the requesters’ upstanding character, Flores y Terán’s reaction had been “inexplicable.” The essayist also claimed that the governor had “violently snatched from their homes, and then jailed, countless petitioners [reportedly more than 500],” thus placing “their families . . . in a most unfortunate situation.”65 Despite these protestations, and even though one prominent moderado characterized the maltreatment of puro enthusiasts as “half-measures that discredit [the government] without producing the desired effect,”66 Flores y Terán’s energetic efforts allowed the moderados to consolidate their hold on power and set up the national guard in Mexico City along partisan lines. Their newfound dominance became evident in the early morning hours of June 12, a day that marked the final departure of U.S. troops from the capital and the return of Mexican authorities to the city. The task of guarding the National Palace and participating in a ceremonial artillery exchange fell to the Mina regiment, and during the days that followed “countless national guardsmen patrolled the city . . . and insured there was not the slightest disorder.”67 The guardsmen’s strategic deployment, as well as their imposing presence, helped preserve domestic peace. Government officials positioned militiamen on housetops and in the upper stories of buildings, and armed them with weapons purchased earlier that month from the U.S. army, some

Revitalization of the National Guard  85 at a steep discount, in anticipation of a popular upheaval.68 Having assured public tranquility for residents of Mexico City, and with enactment of the Ley Orgánica one month away, the moderado goal of creating a formidable middle-class national guard seemed well within reach.

The Aftermath of War: An Inconclusive Reform To make real the moderados’ vision of the national guard, Herrera’s regime and public-spirited Mexicans strived to refurbish Mexico’s citizen militia from mid-1848 onward. First, on August 1, and with the intent of making effective the Ley Orgánica, the government issued detailed bylaws to regulate the process of registration and enrollment in the national guard in the Federal District and the country’s territories.69 Next, a “brilliant feast” held at La Profesa church on the evening of August 15 to honor the French and German militia corps attempted to solidify public support for the moderados’ project. According to one journalist, “a magnificent brass orchestra played beautiful sonatas [and] brightened the orderly and fraternal function” attended by more than 400 guests. Fourteen invitees that included Governor Flores y Terán, the aforementioned Manuel Payno and Vicente García Torres, and former Bravos battalion commander Manuel Gorostiza, offered toasts to Mexico’s prosperous future, domestic peace and harmony, true liberty, liberal institutions, the foreign militia corps, and the perfection of the national guard.70 Finally, President Herrera, then Federal District governor José María Malo, and the chiefs and officers of Mexico City’s militia corps met early in November to discuss the best means of reorganizing the national guard; one result of the meeting was that within two weeks, per Malo’s orders, guardsmen had to engage in training exercises at least twice a month to improve their martial capabilities.71 The dawn of a new era for Mexico, the moderados, and their refurbished citizen militia looked even more promising early in 1849 when various authorities publicized the accomplishments of that military force. Minister of Foreign Relations Luis Gonzaga Cuevas first did so when he addressed Congress on January 5 and 8. He initially echoed the comments made by Peña y Peña and de la Rosa in mid-May 1848—a well-trained and wellequipped militia “would certainly have saved” Mexico in the war against the U.S. Cuevas then boasted that the national guard had “strengthened the republic’s honor with actions and services worthy of good citizens in the short time it had been in existence [e.g., since enactment of the 1848 Ley Orgánica],” and that militia corps in Mexico City and several states provided “a sufficient guarantee to crush any upheaval that might threaten the government and the constitution.” Finally, Cuevas praised the entire force for having exhibited “a spirit of order and patriotism, a desire to promote the public welfare, and a generous [disposition.]” He added that “if the corresponding authorities persevered in their efforts to overcome the obstacles

86  Pedro Santoni which by their very nature are present in any obligation,” the guard would “perfect itself and produce lasting and steady benefits.”72 President Herrera and Governor Malo reiterated Cuevas’ words two days later during a review of Mexico City’s militia forces, including the foreign units, in Alameda Park. Herrera’s discourse characterized as “meritorious” the services those militiamen had rendered since June 1848, and encouraged them to become dexterous when handling weapons and in tactical operations so they could “sustain patriotic liberties, individual guarantees, and . . . the nation’s independence.” Malo spoke after the president, and was even more exuberant in his acclaim of the citizen militia. That institution “was entirely made up of disinterested patriots, as well as peaceful and industrious citizens, whose interests were those of all Mexicans,” and authorities rightly considered it as “the staunchest bulwark of public order and domestic peace.” Malo also applauded the guard’s selflessness. The militia had shed blood in Churubusco and Molino del Rey because it did not regard the “nation’s fate with indifference,” and would do so again if necessary. In closing, Malo said that he hoped the government would “dictate the opportune measures . . . so “[everyone] became aware of the [guard’s] noble mission and absolute necessity, and thus all honest men interested in [preserving] peace and public tranquility engrossed its ranks.”73 The year 1849 witnessed at least two other efforts by pundits and government officials to improve the day-to-day operations of the national guard. First, in mid-July a newspaper titled El Guardia Nacional, which remained operative through part of 1850, appeared in the Mexican capital with the explicit intent of “perfect[ing] the organization” of that military force.74 Then, on December 26, legislators decreed that national guardsmen, as well as members of the regular army, would henceforth receive instruction in “the theory and practice of gymnastics” per the model used by the French army. That kind of training would grant soldiers and militiamen the necessary “physical strength, agility, skill, and confidence . . . to overcome the hardships that military service entailed given Mexico’s irregular terrain, [and] the absence of [well-constructed] roads and bridges.” The government agreed to pay García Torres 7,960 pesos to publish 3,950 issues of a manual, titled Decreto e Instruccción para la Enseñanza de la Gimnástica en los Cuerpos del Ejército y Guardia Nacional, that included numerous sketches of different military drills and gymnastic exercises. It also requested that state governors invite national guard units to purchase copies of the guide, with the price of each not to exceed 2 pesos.75 I have not found any additional information about the booklet or the December 26 decree (e.g., what other steps officials took to implement it, newspaper editorials and/or comments from pundits on its merits), so it might not be too far-fetched to suggest that their effectiveness was rather limited. Despite such platitudes and exertions, Mexico’s citizen militia found itself in less-than-ideal conditions in the aftermath of the U.S.–Mexican War, and even commentators who sympathized with the moderado government did

Revitalization of the National Guard  87 not hesitate to point out its shortcomings. One such individual was José María Iglesias, then editor-in-chief of El Siglo XIX, as well as the author of two chapters of Apuntes para la historia de la guerra entre México y los Estados Unidos, a recent publication that surveyed the conflict with the U.S.76 Iglesias served as the featured orator of the 1848 observances of the anniversary of the Grito de Dolores, and his speech praised national guardsmen for their heroism and bravery in the defense of Mexico City. The discourse, however, included a cautionary note. It blamed Mexico’s “ill-fated destiny” for the country’s moribund state, and inferred that responsibility for such a quandary fell on government officials. “The opportunity to move ahead,” Iglesias argued, “had not been seized . . . and neither the [regular] army nor the National Guard had been reorganized.”77 While the extrapolation lacked merit given that federal and military authorities had begun work on far-reaching reforms to professionalize the army, and the Ley Orgánica had been enacted only two months earlier,78 it also underscored a prescient truth. The national guard suffered from significant inadequacies in the immediate post-war era that negated all efforts to systematize that military force. In the past, the dearth of armaments had bedeviled endeavors by Mexican leaders to overhaul the national guard,79 and the war with the U.S. exacerbated that shortage. In mid-1849 state authorities in Veracruz, Puebla, and Mexico reported that most of the militia’s weapons had been lost during that conflict; as a result, Veracruz only possessed 2,881 muskets for 7,695 militiamen, Puebla counted on 2,156 muskets for 13,481 enlistees, while Mexico had 1,798 muskets for 6,768 infantrymen.80 Officials from Tabasco, Chihuahua, Zacatecas, and Guanajuato subsequently complained that arms were scarce, and that they lacked financial resources to purchase new ones.81 Such shortages had adverse consequences. Early in August 1849 the governor of San Luis Potosí ordered guardsmen from his state to halt their efforts against indigenous rebels in the Sierra Gorda mountain range in central Mexico because he had not received 2,000 rifles (and 80,000 pesos) from the national government. At the same time, the lack of weapons in Nuevo León, coupled with the dearth of horses, made it more difficult for state officials to combat raids by the Comanches and Kiowas that “grew progressively worse” in the post-war era.82 Extraneous circumstances had an adverse effect on the militia’s wellbeing in two northern Mexican states. Outbreaks of infectious diseases like cholera killed thousands in nineteenth-century Mexico, and in 1849 one such epidemic “ravaged” eight of Chihuahua’s most populous cantonments; in addition, anxiety over whether the pestilence would spread paralyzed public affairs—including militia reorganization—in unaffected regions.83 Meanwhile, the 1848 discovery of gold in the soon-to-be U.S. state of California nullified efforts to regulate the national guard in neighboring Sonora. According to the state governor, news of the discovery had produced a “general excitement, and . . . [consequently] a large number of our

88  Pedro Santoni citizens emigrated. . . [including] a large part of those who were registered to serve. . . [and] most of its officers.”84 The inability of lawmakers to modify the Ley Orgánica also hindered efforts to revitalize the national guard. Early in 1849 Minister Cuevas had noted that current militia legislation and bylaws needed “the reforms that experience dictated,” particularly with regards to the institution’s means of financial support, service exemptions, and the conditions guardsmen encountered while on garrison duty.85 Mexican congressmen drafted at least two proposals that year to amend the Ley Orgánica, but neither project became law. Little had changed in this regard by early 1851; as President Herrera noted in his final state-of-the-union address, a bill concerning the national guard remained pending before Congress. While additional research is needed to ascertain why legislators did not move forward to remedy the flaws inherent in the Ley Orgánica, their failure to act meant that numerous defects continued to encumber the national guard.86 One such deficiency concerned the financial burden that militia upkeep imposed on the national government. Article 42 of the Ley Orgánica stated that national guard corps which left their homes for more than one day would earn the same salary as regular army units. Individual states were to shoulder this expense when such services occurred within their boundaries, and the national government would take up that cost when militia units traveled beyond state borders, and when those units garrisoned or defended a plaza or military position within the state (but away from their place of residence) under federal authority.87 Enforcing these requirements proved difficult, however, and within a short time the provisos of the September 11, 1846 national guard bylaws on this matter (Articles 5 and 35) were again put to use. Those clauses remained in effect at least until early 1850, and the situation, according to Minister of Foreign Relations Lacunza, at times proved detrimental. Some individuals drew funds from the treasuries of both the Federal District and the national government to cover these expenses because they believed the 1848 legislation was fully operational.88 The inability to collect the militia fees established by the Ley Orgánica— the so-called contribución de exentos—further undermined efforts to properly set up the national guard. According to Article 9, individuals exempt from militia service had to pay a monthly quota that ranged between 2 reales and 15 pesos to help support the national guard. State governors were empowered to regulate the collection and investment of such monies, and the national government had similar authority in the Federal District and in the territories. To protect potential guardsmen and their families from financial hardship, Article 10 of the Ley Orgánica allowed authorities to adopt any necessary measures so the fee would not unduly burden day laborers, mine workers, and individuals who earned less than 8 pesos a month.89 Despite these safeguards, in 1851 Minister Lacunza lamented that the contribution had “not been collected with punctuality.” The men charged with

Revitalization of the National Guard  89 this duty, he noted, “lack coercive powers, and the public treasuries of the Federal District and of the states have had to bear almost all expenses for the guard.”90 Available information on the militia fund from several locales corroborates this dire situation. Federal District governor Malo first tried to collect that fee from clerics late in December 1848, but Mexico City’s vicario capitular (capitular vicar, or diocesan administrator) refused to pay it; his tactics proved successful, and as of early 1850 members of the clergy did not have to bankroll the contribución de exentos.91 The militia tax did not produce enough revenue to offset national guard expenses in San Luis Potosí and Zacatecas,92 while authorities in Sonora had been unable to establish the fund as of late March 1850. In Querétaro, meanwhile, one official ominously noted in 1851 that “the pension for the exempted has not produced anything yet, nor will it do so as long as the national guard is not regulated.”93 Authorities throughout Mexico also complained that their countrymen’s dispiritedness derailed efforts to build a strong national guard. Officials in Nuevo León were “inundated” with requests for service exemptions in 1848 and 1849. Many such petitioners traveled to the state capital (Monterrey) to personally appeal to the governor, where bureaucrats eventually told them to desist because that decision was in the hands of local authorities.94 The governor of Tabasco grumbled about “the complete apathy of those functionaries entrusted” with getting the national guard off the ground; their indifference had rendered attempts to set up that force “almost totally useless.”95 His counterpart in Veracruz wrote early in 1849 that his “unceasing efforts to form a militia” had proven ineffective due to the “lack of a well-developed public spirit.”96 Leaders in Chihuahua likewise declared that such an “important and grandiose institution . . . has not been perfectly organized. . . [because of] the lack of public spirit as well as the little learning evident in our republic, where selfishness seems to be the dominant sentiment, especially among the classes that should most contribute, because of their social position, to the [militia’s] lasting and solid establishment.”97 Federal District governor Malo agreed with these statements, his earlier, more positive assertions about the national guard notwithstanding. He complained, late in December 1848, about his inability “to properly organize the national guard despite the diverse measures that had been proclaimed” because “many citizens viewed the right to make up that force . . . with scandalous indifference.”98 Mariano Otero, who for some time had despaired over his countrymen’s supposed apathy, concurred with these assessments. He lamented in mid-May 1849 that the national guard remained on an “insignificant footing” because of the “characteristic self-centeredness and indifference” with which Mexicans regarded public affairs.99

90  Pedro Santoni These comments, of course, reflect an elite, top-down perspective about the lack of altruism and innate selfishness that supposedly characterized Mexicans. There are, however, valid reasons to brand such judgments as misleading, if not utterly false. Many residents of Nuevo León did not want to enroll in the national guard because they had to defend their homes and families from the devastating attacks by borderlands Indians that afflicted the state.100 Consider, too, the arguments used by the governor of Michoacán in May 1849 to support his contention that he could not muster guardsmen to help the national government put down the Sierra Gorda rebellion. State residents “harbored deep resentments” from the U.S.–Mexican War because at that time “their own officers . . . were removed and replaced with ‘desconocidos,’ [(men who were not from Michoacán)] who simply left the soldiers for dead in the field.” Furthermore, and given that service in the national guard could also adversely affect the economic wellbeing of potential citizen-soldiers and their relatives, many individuals and their kin challenged government efforts to muster men into the militia. Three villagers from Bernal, Querétaro, sought exemption from national guard service on grounds they were day laborers and sabaneros (herdsmen), while the wife of José González, a mule driver from Casas Viejas (also in Querétaro), concerned that her husband might have to serve in the militia following his arrest, sought his release because “he was an hombre de bien [(decent folk)] supporting a wife and, more importantly, children.”101 Regardless of whether a lack of patriotic sentiments or the need to protect their self-interest drove Mexicans away from the national guard, other factors made service in that force an unattractive proposition, particularly for denizens of Mexico City. The barracks that housed the capital’s militia units in the summer of 1848 were, as El Siglo XIX put it, “filthy,” and consequently guardsmen could easily contract all kinds of diseases.102 Its editors also noted that guard service remained burdensome and poorly organized. Militiamen had to carry out duties more suited to policemen, and they often failed to fulfill their obligations because the citation to assemble at their quarters did not reach them in a timely manner.103 Assorted incidents further compromised public confidence in Mexico City’s national guard. In mid-September 1848 members of the Mina battalion evoked memories of Mexico’s painful, recent past when they attended an unspecified event wearing uniforms that had belonged to the U.S. army. Although the corps’ officers explained the guardsmen had done so in an attempt to cut expenses, the editors of El Monitor Republicano remained unconvinced, and sarcastically responded they had “nothing to add to such an economical idea.”104 Then, early that November, a group of citizens who lived near some unidentified barracks complained that citizen-soldiers disturbed their sleep because they sometimes began to play reveille as early as 4:30 a.m., non-stop, for as long as fifty minutes.105 Finally, popular goodwill toward Mexico City’s national guard also suffered because, as some journalists suggested, government officials had allowed deserters from the regular army to enroll in the capital’s militia corps.106

Revitalization of the National Guard  91 The shortcomings of this military force, however, were the least of President Mariano Arista’s worries in 1852. He had succeeded Herrera as chief executive one year earlier, but fiscal chaos, growing political polarization, indigenous rebellions, and filibustering expeditions that threatened the country’s territorial integrity had shaken the confidence of Mexico’s political class in the viability of his regime.107 These and other maladies helped expedite the July 1852 Blancarte pronunciamiento series (so named after national guard colonel José María Blancarte) that originated in the state of Jalisco and called on Arista to step down from the presidency. This regionallybased cycle of rebellions acquired a national focus during the next nine months, and made possible Santa Anna’s return to Mexico in April 1853 for his final term in office.108 Scholarship on the Blancarte string of pronunciamientos has focused on the political issues at stake, but closer analysis of those revolts reveals that the national guard’s status concerned the various petitioners as well. The October 20, 1852 Plan del Hospicio, for instance, twice referred to this military force. The eighth clause of Article 5, which specified the duties of an upcoming extraordinary Congress, called on that legislature to eliminate “the odious part about the national guard,” and listed as such garrison service and the contribución de exentos. Article 7, meanwhile, called for the immediate suspension of said contribution until that legislature met.109 On February 25, 1853, approximately seven weeks after Arista had resigned his post, then president (and santanista advocate) General Manuel María Lombardini responded to these demands. He issued a decree stating that the government, to improve the welfare of all classes, rendered inoperative the “palpably disproportioned and generally onerous” contribución de exentos until the national guard received a permanent, and definitive, reorganization.110 Others, however, wanted authorities to take more drastic action. Since late 1848 newspapers of all political stripes, even the moderado-leaning El Siglo XIX, had pointed out the flaws that beleaguered the institution and cast doubt on its future. That November La Palanca, the mouthpiece of the santanistas, characterized the national guard as “useless” and argued it would remain so unless the government took forceful steps to solve the many problems that afflicted it. Eight months later El Universal, which represented conservative interests, editorialized that all measures implemented so far to improve the national guard had been akin to “the medicines that one applied to a cadaver.” That military force, consequently, “exhibited daily the most convincing evidence of the rapid progress with which it marched toward its complete disorganization.”111 These sorts of cries reached their apex early in the spring of 1853 when the pro-conservative El Omnibus called for the guard’s abolition.112 The fate of Mexico’s citizen militia, therefore, rested with Santa Anna, who at that time was preparing to come back to his homeland from exile in Colombia. Following his April 1 arrival in Veracruz, Santa Anna spent four

92  Pedro Santoni days (April 7–11) at his hacienda, El Encero, weighing the merits of various projects sponsored by an array of statesmen, merchants, and high-ranking members of the regular army.113 The historical record remains sketchy as to the specifics of many such petitions, but at least two of them likely dealt with the national guard. In mid-February 1853, for instance, a politically “heterogeneous group” that included one Juan N. Govantes was charged with informing Santa Anna of the true state of public affairs when he disembarked in Veracruz. Govantes represented the national guard of the Federal District, so he must have told Santa Anna about the problems that beleaguered Mexico City’s militia units. Then, during his stay at El Encero Santa Anna received an entreaty, authored “with much frankness and truthfulness” by puro supporter Isidro Olvera, that sought to ensure Mexico’s wellbeing. Olvera called for the reorganization of the national guard in 1856, so he probably did the same in this document.114 Other journalists and individuals, however, left no doubt as to their intent. Early in April El Siglo XIX made it clear that Santa Anna had been called back to fulfill, not to thwart, the demands made in the Plan of Jalisco, which included reorganization of the national guard.115 Then, shortly after entering the capital on April 20, Santa Anna had to consider a detailed appeal penned on behalf of Mexico City’s Partido Progresista Demócrático (Progressive Democratic Party) by puro partisan Anastasio Zerecero that envisioned a national guard significantly different from the moderado model of 1848. Mexico’s most pressing need, as Zerecero put it, was to “preserve its nationality.” The country’s finances could only maintain a 15,000-strong regular army, but a military that small could not adequately defend the nation’s borders against foreign marauders and the independent Indian tribes that northern Mexicans referred to as “barbarians.” Mexico needed a national guard, which had the added advantage of not divesting laborers from industry, the arts, mining, or agriculture, to support the army in those endeavors. Zerecero then noted that organizing that military force was both “possible and easy so long as its bylaws avoided the problems that beleaguered current regulations.” He suggested ending all service exemptions other than those expressly sanctioned by law and encouraging authorities to act firmly on this matter. Zerecero also advised that cities capable of mustering more than one battalion should allow residents of each cuartel (district) to organize their own. This method would promote harmony between different social classes, ensure that “everyone’s interests were well-defended,” and “slowly establish the fellowship and regard for equality that ought to reign among citizens.”116 Available documentation does not reveal what Santa Anna made of Zerecero’s petition, but his subsequent actions show he did not want any kind of a national guard to remain operative. An April 25 circular letter issued by the Ministry of War hinted as to what lay ahead. The communication stated that Santa Anna wanted to give the Mexico City national guard a “testimony of his satisfaction with the distinguished services they had

Revitalization of the National Guard  93 rendered the nation under very difficult circumstances.” He thus ordered that grenadiers from all militia corps join the Granaderos de la guardia de los supremos poderes, a unit that Santa Anna reestablished that same day and which had been incorporated into the regular army in September 1843.117 Two days later Mexico’s new chief executive tried to bolster his control over public affairs by drawing on the national guard’s budding presence in the collective memory of his countrymen. He decreed the exhumation and reburial—in “graves befitting such meritorious Mexicans”—of the officers and rank-and-file troops from the regular army and the national guard who had “gloriously died” in the 1846–1848 conflict with the U.S.118 Santa Anna, however, abruptly halted that effort on April 28 when he dismantled Mexico City’s citizen militias, and incorporated them into the regular army. Those battalions, Santa Anna argued, had drifted away from the “spirit, and even the letter, of the laws issued for that institution” since its reestablishment in mid-July 1848. Militiamen did not render their services free of charge, and thus “burdened public funds as well as citizens who had paid the odious contribución de exentos.” He cited other reasons to support his decision, including “wasteful government expenditures” on apparel, armament, and equipment for the guard, as well as involuntary recruitment into that force through the “deplorable mechanism of the leva [(conscription)].” Finally, nearly one month later (May 20), Santa Anna obliged national guard units throughout the country to abide by similar standards.119 In the meantime, then Minister of War General José María Tornel dealt another blow to the national guard via a seemingly innocuous May 7 directive. The order stated that Santa Anna wanted to offer a public testimony of appreciation for the troops that in 1847 had defended Churubusco and Molino del Rey, so henceforth those encounters would be regarded as “distinguished actions.” In addition, the mandate posthumuously promoted Antonio León to division general and Lucas Balderas to colonel in the regular army (the latter had held that same rank in the Mina national guard battalion), while fallen citizen-soldiers—per a May 1, 1853 decree—would be considered (in accordance to their rank at the time of their death) for the pensions and promotions due to generals, officers, and soldiers from the regular army who had perished in the war against the U.S. The fourth proviso of the May 7 mandate, however, proved contentious. It accorded military honors to General Francisco Pérez’ brigade because it fought for an additional five hours after U.S. troops had captured the Churubusco convent. Those efforts had stopped the “triumphant march” of the U.S. army into the capital and allowed the remaining Mexican forces to retreat.120 Supporters of the national guard tried to neutralize Santa Anna’s directives. On May 17, José María Revilla y Pedreguera and seven former members of the Independencia battalion publicly protested what they regarded as Santa Anna’s blatant attempt to rewrite history; their rebuttal pointed out that no further fighting had taken place around Churubusco after the

94  Pedro Santoni fall of the convent, with the next military engagement being the September 8 Battle of Molino del Rey.121 That same day national guardsmen in the city of Veracruz rebelled to oppose their forthcoming incorporation into the regular army. The government, however, quickly put down both challenges. Santa Anna ordered the arrest of Revilla y Pedreguera and his cronies, and had them jailed in Veracruz’ Perote castle. Meanwhile, troops loyal to Santa Anna crushed the Veracruz uprising within two days, executed one of its leaders—named Aparicio González—and ordered the decimation of captured rank-and-file militiamen (who were later pardoned).122 Santa Anna’s regime also silenced puro Francisco Zarco, then the principal editor of El Siglo XIX, for a May 25 article critical of the government’s hardline response to the Veracruz mutiny. Authorities characterized the piece as “seditious,” collected all issues from post offices and El Siglo XIX’s printing press, and fined the journalist the not-insignificant sum of 300 pesos.123 In a last-gasp attempt to reverse this turn of events, Zarco and his cohorts published a long editorial on June 2 where they argued that Mexico’s “unique circumstances” made the national guard “indispensable.” They called attention to the shortfalls in the national treasury, which made it difficult to support the regular army, as well as to the “good services rendered by part of the national guard” in the conflict with the U.S; the latter made evident the need for citizens who were capable of fighting should the country have to wage war in the future. Advocates of the militia, however, were powerless to push the matter further, victims of what one scholar characterized as Santa Anna’s “particularly effective censorship of the press.” El Siglo XIX did not discuss the issue for the next ten days and stopped publishing editorials on June 13.124 The moderados would have to wait until 1855 before again attempting to mold a national guard that conformed to their ideals, but that effort also failed to produce the desired results.

Conclusion Santa Anna’s dismantling of the national guard was one mechanism he used to consolidate his power, but his regime quickly evolved into an oppressive centralist dictatorship that crushed federalism and regional autonomy. This turn of events dashed the hopes, raised by El Siglo XIX early in April 1853, that Santa Anna had returned from Colombia with the “noble and generous desire of faithfully serving Mexico, securing its independence, and reestablishing peace and harmony.”125 As a result, a powerful, broad-based national movement with popular roots—the Ayutla Revolution—erupted in the southwestern Mexican state of Guerrero in the spring of 1854 to counter the project of Santa Anna and his conservative allies. Peasants there joined the uprising to assert their vision of national politics, and the insurrection steadily gained adherents throughout the country. Little by little Santa Anna’s position became untenable, and between August 9 and 15, 1855 he abandoned the capital, stepped down as president, and again went into foreign exile.126

Revitalization of the National Guard  95 Leading moderados moved quickly to fill the political vaccum that set in after Santa Anna’s departure. On August 12 Manuel Payno set up a meeting with other key moderados at the home of General Martín Carrera, whom Santa Anna had named as one of his successors upon resigning. Payno wanted to outmaneuver the competing factions then jostling for power and, together with his cohorts in Mexico City, define the country’s new direction. To do so these men went beyond the revolution’s parameters as set forth in the plan enacted in Ayutla on March 1, 1854, and the amended version drafted in Acapulco ten days later. Their scheme involved reorganizing the national guard in a way that would allow them to integrate “the popular classes into political life in orderly fashion.”127 The events that unfolded in the capital in the next few days seemed to portend that Payno and his associates would succeed. At noon on August 13 a crowd estimated by some at 10,000 (but which may have only numbered 2,000) gathered in Alameda Park to celebrate the triumph of the Ayutla Revolution. The multitude first listened to the reading of a text known as the Acta de la Alameda—Article 2 of that document demanded revival of the national guard. Several individuals characterized as “friends of the people” spoke afterwards, one of whom (Francisco Zarco) emphasized the popular demand for a national guard. Afterwards the enthusiastic throng “rushed a table” to sign the Acta, and wandered through city streets loudly clamoring for the guard’s reorganization.128 Then, on August 15, General Carrera, who became provisional president that day, issued a manifesto stating his intent to fulfill popular objectives. To set Mexico “on the glorious path” that would allow it “to reach the great destinies that free peoples march to,” Carrera promised to unite “the people and army.” The latter would “have as its sister the national guard,” which he was “determined to establish and organize so it could fulfill its noble purpose.”129 The nature of the Ayutla Revolution, however, changed the terms of debate about the national guard and prevented the moderados from co-opting popular aspirations during the Reforma. The rebels had relied on national guardsmen to defeat Santa Anna’s army, and by the time Juan Alvarez, the uprising’s leading military chieftain, entered Mexico City in mid-November  1855, the country was well on its way to “becoming a popular federal republic . . . backed by an army of mulato and Indian National Guards.”130 As one nineteenth-century historian put it, “all cities and towns” began to organize national guard corps immediately after Santa Anna’s downfall as if to suggest that “the regular army was unnecessary.”131 Such an occasion in Toluca, the capital of Mexico state, was marked by “true fraternization between the people and the army.”132 A similar effervescence took place in the state of Puebla, where early in September “radical republicans as well as the more thoughtful moderados were forcefully telling [moderado Luis de la Rosa] . . . to reorganize the national guard.” Those “demand[s],” he added, “would soon become irrestible.”133 The widespread fervor on behalf of this military force went together with a recommendation from the editors of La

96  Pedro Santoni Pata de Cabra about the future use of the statue of Santa Anna that had once stood in Mexico City’s Plaza del Mercado. Late in August they suggested that the scrap metal from that effigy—which apparently was toppled during the latter stages of the August 13 popular mobilization at Alameda Park—should be cast into a cannon named “Liberator,” and bequeathed to the national guard to be fired whenever the liberty of Mexicans came under attack.134 What better way to honor the populace than by turning the dictator’s former image into an artillery piece manned by members of an institution that embodied Mexico’s plebeian elements? In the months that followed non-elites in the Mexican capital and journalists as well clamored for the reestablishment of a national guard that did not exclude the common folk. Late in September 1855 the Club de la Reforma, a popular debating society that emerged in Mexico City that fall—and perhaps the most important and “broad-minded of all” such organizations in Mexico—called for a national guard that cut across class lines and allowed members to elect their officers.135 Nearly six weeks later the club’s president, Francisco Schiafino, a former aide-de-camp to Santa Anna, asked to meet Minister of War Ignacio Comonfort to discuss a bill he had authored concerning the organization of the national guard.136 Then, in early November, the editors of El Siglo XIX bemoaned that the uncertainty and power vaccum prevalent during the past two months had delayed the definitive formation of the national guard, and urged authorities to promptly recreate that military force. Popular opinion, they wrote, “unanimously” wanted a citizen militia in which guardsmen elected their commanders, did not receive a salary, and whose members were recruited block by block or by districts. The latter requisite would ensure that each militia unit “represented popular interests, not those of office clerks, industrialists, merchants, ignorant families with aristocratic pretensions, and mayordomos de monjas (male administrators of nunneries), who in 1847 spearheaded the ‘polkos’ crusade, one of the saddest blemishes of our history.”137 Authorities had moved to address these concerns by the time El Siglo XIX published the aforesaid editorial. On October 31 Comonfort declared that the auxiliary forces that fought against Santa Anna during the Ayutla Revolution would henceforth be known as national guards, and on November 3 he made states financially responsible for their maintenance. Seventeen days later the Interior Ministry ordered state governors to open registers for a citizen militia in all municipalities, and on December 29 then Interior Minister and staunch moderado José María Lafragua instructed state governors to begin forming a national guard. He wanted militiamen to be “an armed people ready to defend the liberty” they had just won. Finally, delegates to the convention that met in Mexico City beginning in February 1856 to draw up a new constitution in accordance with the goals of the Ayutla Revolution pushed along the reorganization of the national guard. Deputies heard the arguments of Isidro Olvera to restructure and strengthen that military force. He envisioned a citizen militia that was educated, able to maintain

Revitalization of the National Guard  97 law and order while cutting across class lines, proficient in defending the republic from possible U.S. domination, and capable of helping enshrine the concept of popular sovereignty. Olvera’s reasoning proved persuasive and Mexico’s new charter—the constitution of 1857—incorporated most of his proposals.138 Although national guardsmen aligned with the puro model helped President Benito Juárez and his supporters prevail in the civil war of the Reforma (1857–1861) and the French Intervention (1862–1867), statesmen thereafter moved to distance popular elements from the emerging Mexican state. To do so they sometimes took steps that involved repressing (ever so subtly) the national guard.139 In May 1868, for instance, Zarco bemoaned the efforts of congressmen who sought funding to open four special artillery schools. He questioned Mexico’s need for such establishments because France, which had a large army, only had two, as well as the legislators’ neglect in organizing the national guard. Lawmakers continued to disregard similar entreaties for a citizen militia between 1869 and 1875 even though newspapers like El Padre Cobos reiterated that demand numerous times.140 The regime of Porfirio Díaz (1876–1911) continued apace with this process when it started to decommission the national guard in 1879. Díaz and his advisors further diminished the guard’s status as an institution emblematic of Mexican nationhood in the mid-1880s as they promoted the cult of the Niños Héroes (Boy Heroes), the young military cadets who supposedly died in the September 1847 defense of Chapultepec Castle, as the epitome of loyalty, honor, and patriotic duty.141 The endeavors of both Juárez and Díaz to nullify the national guard and expunge it from the collective memory of Mexicans stand in marked contrast to the moderado effort to transform that armed force into a viable institution of national defense and state-building between 1848 and 1853. Given that many pundits believed that Mexico was on the brink of extinction following the disastrous war with the U.S., upon taking office as chief executive early in June 1848 General José Joaquín Herrera undertook an ambitious attempt to reorganize the country’s national guard as part of the moderado blueprint to craft a strong, viable nation. Such a military force, the president and other statesmen hoped, would solve many ills made evident by the recent conflict with the U.S., forge a sense of national identity, and build a civil society that contributed to the formation of a Mexican nation-state. Numerous reasons, however, derailed the moderado project for a reinvigorated national guard. To some extent moderado leaders were themselves to blame, as the model they proposed for that force—understandable to some extent due to elite fears about an armed populace—excluded a great many (largely poor) Mexicans. Post-war circumstances further disrupted the moderados’ scheme. Their adversaries within Mexico’s small political class, who became increasingly intransigent after 1848, did not share their vision, while legislation like the Ley Orgánica could not overcome a multitude of social,

98  Pedro Santoni cultural, institutional, and economic issues that hindered its effectiveness. Finally, the moderado national guard ideal may well have been destined to fail from its very outset. To create the middle class that moderados envisioned as the backbone of the country’s citizen militia, as Luis de la Rosa put it, the masses would have had to “leave behind the humiliation and misery [in which they lived],” and that was a daunting task. The “uneven distribution of wealth” that prevailed in Mexico would impede, as it had since colonial times, all efforts to bring about “any great improvement” in their condition.142 This dismal situation had not changed much by the turn of the century despite the economic growth the country experienced under Díaz, and many of Mexico’s inhabitants then sought redress when they joined and actively participated in the Revolution of 1910. In the final analysis, the debate over the reform of Mexico’s national guard between 1848 and 1853 bears several important implications. First, it belies the assessment Charles A. Hale made nearly five decades ago about the post-war regimes of Herrera and Arista—that they were “reluctant to initiate critical reforms,” and when they did their “specific . . . suggestions” were “timid.”143 Second, the moderado effort to revitalize the national guard further highlights the steadfastness of independent Mexico’s first political elite. Rather than labeling that generation a failure because it could not consolidate a strong and effective government, moderado statesmen, like their rivals, deserve respect because they did not despair when faced with adversity. Instead, these men “moved on to refine their ideas further,” which in this case, for the moderados, meant organizing a middle-class citizen militia that invested the state with legitimacy.144 Finally, the discussion about restructuring the national guard contains an important lesson for scholars of nineteenth-century Mexican and Latin American history; studies of popular liberalism (and what is now termed as subaltern politics more generally) cannot be divorced from the study of “high” or elite politics. Both are intertwined and critical to a full understanding of the dynamics involved in nation-state formation.

Acknowledgments Many thanks to Berenice Pardo Hernández, Chris Conway, Will Fowler, Michael Scott Van Wagenen, Peter F. Guardino, and Pamela Murray for their comments and insights on earlier versions of this article. I especially appreciate the efforts of Daniel S. Haworth, who read more than one incarnation of the chapter and nudged it along to its final form.

Notes 1. Altamirano, “Las fiestas de septiembre en México y Puebla,” in Obras Completas. Ignacio Manuel Altamirano, 7: 413. For the symbolism behind the 1869 celebrations, including the suggestion that the militiamen represented Cincinnatus, the Roman statesman and military leader who became renowned for his

Revitalization of the National Guard  99 unselfishness and civic virtue during the early republic (fifth century BCE), see Beezley, Mexican National Identity, 61–63. 2. Guardino, Peasants, Politics, 219–220; and Rath, Myths of Demilitarization, 15. 3. Thomson, “Bulwarks of Patriotic Liberalism.” For the Ley Orgánica, see Dublán and Lozano, Legislación mexicana, 5: 414–421. The inability to muster suitable men remained one of the army’s most notorious imperfections as of the mid-1840s. As one scholar put it, the fact that “Mexicans of elegible age [still] equated military service with incarceration” ensured that many soldiers were “disruptive, indolent, and untrainable conscripts prone to desert at the first opportunity.” DePalo, The Mexican National Army, 90–91. 4. Hernández Chávez, La tradición republicana, 53–57. See also her “Origen y ocaso del ejército porfiriano,” 265–272; and “La Guardia Nacional y la movilización política,” in Rodríguez O. (ed.), Patterns of Contention. 5. The quote from the calendar is in Calendario de la democracia, 18; Pizarro Suárez’ remark can be found in his “Catecismo político del pueblo,” in Illades and Sandoval (eds.), Obras. Tomo I (Catecismos), 1: 11. 6. Thomson (with Lafrance), Patriotism, Politics, and Popular Liberalism; Mallon, Peasant and Nation; and McNamara, Sons of the Sierra. While Luis Medina Peña’s recent Los bárbaros del norte uncovers many new details about the post1848 national guard in the state of Nuevo León (some of which I incorporated into this essay), it focuses more on the emergence of what the author refers to as northeastern Mexico’s “Reform generation.” 7. The former shortcoming, most apparent in Hernández Chávez’ La tradición republicana, has been noted by Murray’s “Diverse Approaches,” 188, and by Lafrance in his book review of that monograph in The Americas. 8. Haworth, “The Mobile National Guard,” in Fallaw and Rugeley (eds.), Forced Marches, 73. Benito Juárez utilized the national guard for similar purposes as governor of Oaxaca between 1847 and 1852. McNamara, Sons of the Sierra, 31–32. In San Luis Potosí, post-1848 efforts by elites to use that force to assert greater control over regional political and military affairs proved unsuccessful. See Kerry McDonald’s analysis of the March 1849 Plan político y eminentemente social, proclamado en esta ciudad por el ejército regenerador de Sierra Gorda (also known as the Plan of Río Verde) in her “The Experience of the Pronunciamiento.” Timo H. Schaeffer’s Liberalism as Utopia (2017), which draws heavily on archival material from the states of Guanajuato, San Luis Potosí, and Oaxaca, also appears to adhere to this vision. I did not have time to peruse this monograph, but its back cover notes that non-elite Mexicans who joined the national guard “became the local faces of the state’s coercive authority.” 9. Villalpando César, “La evolución histórico-jurídica,” in Bernal (ed.), Memoria del IV Congreso, 1: 1151–1152; Reyes Heroles, Mariano Otero, 1: 125; and González Navarro, Anatomía del poder, 119. For a concise historiographical analysis about the national guard in nineteenth-century Mexico, see Urbina Pineda’s “La guardia nacional de la ciudad de México,” 7–24. 10. The quotes in this paragraph can be found, respectively, in Noticias estadísticas del Estado de Durango, 27; Memoria leida en las cámaras en 1851, 25; Rosa, Observaciones sobre varios puntos, 14–15; and Suárez y Navarro, Informe sobre las causas y caracter, 29. A recent, and more positive, assessment of the national guard in Yucatán through the early 1900s is Brondino, “La guardia nacional en Yucatán,” in Mijangos Díaz and Pérez Domínguez (coords.), Voces del antiguo régimen. 11. For another component of the moderados’ exertions—the staging of public ceremonies that attempted to transform the middle-class guardsmen who had died defending Mexico City during the war with the U.S. into icons of nationwide solidarity—see Santoni, “ ‘Where Did the Other Heroes Go?’ ”

100  Pedro Santoni 12. A recent study that analyzes the government’s failure to build a strong national guard in the aftermath of independence is Zúñiga Campos, “El fracaso de la ciudadanía armada.” Two other essays by Pedro Santoni offer additional details about the national guard in the mid-1840s. See “A Fear of the People,” and “The Failure of Mobilization.” 13. The classic account of the uprising remains Costeloe’s “The Mexican Church and the Rebellion of the Polkos.” 14. Dublán and Lozano, Legislación mexicana, 5: 266–267; and Sordo Cedeño, “El Congreso y la guerra,” in Vázquez (coord.), México al tiempo de su guerra, 80–81. 15. Hale, Mexican Liberalism, 34; and Fowler, Independent Mexico, 219–220. Otero’s claims on behalf of the national guard appear in the Dictamen de la mayoría. For Article 2 of the Acta, see Dublán and Lozano, Legislación mexicana, 5: 275. 16. Diario del Gobierno de la República Mexicana, April 13 and 14, 1847. 17. Diario del Gobierno de la República Mexicana, April 14, 1847. The long-standing perception of commandant generals as abusive authorities, as well as the assault on state sovereignty that the directive implied, had prompted national guard supporters to vigorously protest such orders in the past, and they did so again later in 1847. Santoni, “The Failure of Mobilization,” 183–184; and Serrano Ortega, “Hacienda y guerra,” in Vázquez (coord.), México al tiempo, 260–261. 18. El Federalista (Morelia), April 15, 1847, in Diario del Gobierno de la República Mexicana, April 25, 1847; “Nicolás Bravo, benemérito de la patria, general de división y comandante general del estado de Puebla, a sus habitantes,” Puebla, April 28, 1847, in Diario del Gobierno de la República Mexicana, May 1, 1847; Diario del Gobierno de la República Mexicana, May 9, 13, 25, and June 29, 1847; El Federalista (Querétaro), May 30, 1847; and El Republicano, May 7, 12, 13, 26, 28, 29, and 30, 1847. 19. The documentation in the Archivo del Ayuntamiento de la Ciudad de México/ Guardia Nacional (hereafter cited as AACM/GN), vol. 3276, attests to these struggles. For a brief explanation of the situation in the capital, one may consult Santoni, Mexicans at Arms, 194–195; and “The Civilian Experience,” in his edited volume Daily Lives of Civilians, 70–71. A lengthier analysis can be found in Urbina Pineda, “La guardia nacional,” 97–116. 20. Alcaraz, The Other Side, 243–245. Advocates of the national guard elsewhere in the country persisted with efforts to mobilize the force. When news of the August 24 armistice between the U.S. and Mexico reached San Luis Potosí, puro supporter (and federal congressman) Ponciano Arriaga sought to levy a 10,000-peso loan on the Catholic Church and wealthy merchants to bankroll the state’s citizen militia. Arriaga’s project further mandated that all stores and shops close at 4 p.m. so employees could receive military training. Corbett, “La política potosina,” in Vázquez (coord.), México al tiempo, 466. 21. Santoni, “ ‘Where Did the Other Heroes Go?’,” 816–817; and Granados, Sueñan las piedras, 32, and 149, n. 63. 22. Anonymous to Mariano Otero, Morelia, September 17, 1847, in Archivo Histórico Nacional de Madrid, Mariano Otero Correspondence (Nettie Lee Benson Collection, University of Texas, Austin), microfilm roll 3, 189–190. 23. Otero to Mariano Riva Palacio, Toluca, September 21, 1847, Mariano Riva Palacio Papers (Nettie Lee Benson Collection, University of Texas, Austin, hereafter cited as MRPP) 2412. Otero also informed Riva Palacio that Mexicans now had the chance to “get rid of the army,” a sentiment shared by many other pundits who blamed it for Mexico’s calamitous defeat. Santoni, “ ‘Where Did the Other Heroes Go?’,” 809.

Revitalization of the National Guard  101 24. Trist’s statement is underlined in the original. See his letter to James Buchanan, Mexico City, October 25, 1847, Nicholas Trist Papers (Library of Congress, Washington, DC) microfilm reel 8. I italicized Trist’s remarks in the text for stylistic reasons. 25. Alcaraz, The Other Side, 357; Roa Bárcena, Recuerdos de la invasión norteamericana, 2: 269, and 374; Santoni, Mexicans at Arms, 220–221; and El Monitor Republicano, December 11, 1847. Perdigón Garay’s comportment at Belén did not impress U.S. war correspondent George Wilkins Kendall. “As a military man,” he noted, [Perdigón Garay was] “beneath all contempt.” This statement, (and Kendall’s elaboration on it), appears in his Dispatches From the Mexican War, Cress (ed.), 419–420. While a certain degree of bias colored Kendall’s judgment, I have not located any comments by Mexican observers about Perdigón Garay’s conduct at the garita to offset his remarks. 26. These details are in El Monitor Republicano, January 1, 1848. One JMB chastised the newspaper for publishing an abstract of the December 1 proceedings that omitted, “perhaps involuntarily” (JMB’s emphasis), several key facts about Perdigón Garay’s proposal, and asked its editors to set the record straight. On the moderados’ dominance in Congress, see Sordo Cedeño, “El Congreso y la guerra,” 55. 27. K to the editors of El Razonador, no place, no date, in El Razonador, November 27, 1847. 28. The Daily American Star, May 26, 1848. 29. The two quotes are, respectively, in El Eco del Comercio, January 10 and 14, 1848. For Payno’s militia affiliation, see Prieto, Memorias de mis tiempos, 253. 30. El Municipal, February 16, 1848; and El Monitor Republicano, February 21, 1848. 31. Velasco Márquez, La guerra del 47, 24; Villaseñor y Villaseñor, Obras, 1: 466; and El Eco del Comercio, February 18, March 11, 17, and 20, and May 20, 1848. Leaders in Oaxaca’s Mixteca Baja subsequently memorialized León’s death in an attempt to preserve the region’s “culture of Catholic nationalism.” Smith, The Roots of Conservatism, 166–167. 32. El Eco del Comercio, March 4, 1848. 33. El Monitor Republicano, February 10, 1848. Several of its main contributors are listed in Velasco Márquez, La guerra del 47, 19. 34. El Monitor Republicano, March 11, 1848. Fowler’s recent Independent Mexico offers a more nuanced interpretation of what pronuciamientos entailed. 35. The first quote is in “El Sr. Peña y Peña, al abrir las sesiones del Congreso, en Querétaro, en 7 de Mayo de 1848,” in Informes y manifiestos, 1: 348; and the second appears in “Exposición con que el ministro de Relaciones presenta al Congreso Nacional el Tratado de Paz celebrado entre México y los Estados Unidos de América,” Querétaro, May 9, 1848, in Algunos documentos, 176. 36. Otero to Riva Palacio, Querétaro, May 11, 1848, MRPP 2642; and El Espíritu del Siglo, May 16, 1848. His full proposal appears in El Correo Nacional (Querétaro), May 20, 1848. 37. Circular letter of the Ministry of Foreign Relations, Querétaro, June 4, 1848, in El Siglo XIX, June 8, 1848; and González Navarro, Anatomía del poder, 212. 38. Circular letter of the Ministry of Foreign Relations, Mexico City, June 17, 1848, in El Siglo XIX, July 4, 1848. 39. For the reaction in Nuevo León, see Medina Peña, Los bárbaros del norte, 99; El Siglo’s response is in its July 17, 1848 edition. Founded in 1841 by Ignacio Cumplido, this newspaper operated under different names in 1846 and 1847 before resuming publication as El Siglo XIX on June 1, 1848. Its collaborators included Otero, de la Rosa, Guillermo Prieto, Luis Gonzaga Cuevas, Ignacio

102  Pedro Santoni Ramírez, and Francisco Zarco. Velasco Márquez, La guerra del 47, 15; and Hale, Mexican Liberalism, 12, n. 2. 40. Percy Doyle to Lord Palmerston, Mexico City, June 13, 1848, in Public Record Office/Foreign Office, Series 50/Mexico (hereafter cited as PRO/FO, 50/M), vol. 220, 284–285. Correspondents of Riva Palacio shared this opinion. See the letters of J[osé] M[aría] Andrade, Miguel Atristain, José Joaquín Castañares, Antonio Haro y Tamariz, and Gregorio [no last name], dated between May 16 and 28, 1848, in MRPP 2647, 2651, 2653, 2663, and 2664. 41. Berge, “A Mexican Dilemma,” 245–246, and 251–252. 42. Juan María Flores [y Terán] to the Minister of War, Mexico City, May 11, 1848, Archivo Histórico de la Secretaría de la Defensa Nacional, exp. XI-481.3–2761, fol. 278. The contents of this archive, to which I did not gain access, have in large part been microfilmed by the Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley. I located the cited document in reel 74 of their AHSDN collection. 43. Given that such reports could not be considered idle rumors, an ayuntamiento commission visited General William O. Butler, who had replaced Winfield Scott as commander of the U.S. occupation forces in mid-February 1848, and asked him to keep the reviled contraguerrillas (counterguerrillas)—a group of Mexican bandits first recruited into the U.S. army as an auxiliary force in the spring of 1847—away from the capital to further guarantee public security. Archivo del Ayuntamiento de la Ciudad de México/Actas de Cabildo/Sesiones Secretas (henceforth cited as AACM/AC/SS), vol. 301-A, meeting of May 16, 1848. More information about the origins, purpose, and reputation of the contraguerrillas is available in Johnson, A Gallant Little Army, 130–131. A recent, revisionist study of this force is Pérez’ “Banditry and Politics.” 44. DePalo, The Mexican National Army, 144; and Pletcher, The Diplomacy of Annexation, 566. 45. El Cangrejo, April 26, 1848. 46. Manuel Payno to Riva Palacio, Querétaro, May 11, 1848, MRPP 2640. 47. Andrade to Riva Palacio, Mexico City, May 18, 1848, MRPP 2647. 48. His June 5, 1848 letter to Riva Palacio is in MRPP 2678. 49. Dublán and Lozano, Legislación mexicana, 5: 362–363. 50. Flores [y Terán] to the Exmo. Ayuntamiento of this capital, Mexico City, May 27, 1848, AACM/GN, vol. 3276. The ayuntamiento’s follow-up efforts to this request are in AACM/AC/SS, vol. 301-A, meeting of May 27, 1848. 51. El Cangrejo, June 3, 1848. 52. The quote is in Doyle’s June 13, 1848 dispatch to Palmerston, PRO/FO, 50/M, vol. 220, 287. While parallel Spanish and British militia units never did materialize, German residents of Mexico City augmented the foreign militia later that summer. The force remained operative until July 1850, much to General Herrera’s elation, because it spared him the necessity of surrounding himself with potentially disloyal Mexican troops. Barker, The French Experience in Mexico, 118, and 122; de la Rosa to José María Luis Mora, August 12, 1848, in García (ed.), Documentos inéditos, 6: 106–107; and El Cangrejo, June 21, 1848. For the German corps, see El Monitor Republicano, September 17, 1848. Although Germany as a sovereign nation did not exist until 1871, I refer to these guardsmen as citizens of that country to avoid technically correct but clumsy phrases like “former residents of modern-day Germany.” For additional information about the foreign national guard, see Charles Bankhead to Palmerston, Mexico City, August 13, 1850, in PRO/FO, 50/M, vol. 237, 134–135; Zamacois, Historia de Méjico, 13: 170–171; El Daguerrotipo, July 27, 1850; and El Demócrata, July 26 and August 3, 1850.

Revitalization of the National Guard  103 53. Otero to the governor of the Federal District, June 4, 1848, in El Monitor Republicano, June 12, 1848; and AACM/AC/SS, vol. 301-A, meetings of June 5 and 6, 1848. 54. El Siglo XIX, June 6, 1848. 55. AACM/AC/SS, vol. 301-A, meeting of June 3, 1848; and “El Ayuntamiento de la Capital, a sus Conciudadanos,” Mexico City, June 7, 1848, in El Siglo XIX, June 8, 1848. 56. Velasco Márquez, La guerra del 47, 24; and Sosa, Biografías de mexicanos distinguidos, 765–769. 57. Its targets had included Pedro Jorrín, colonel of the Victoria battalion, and General Pedro María Anaya, who had commanded Independencia. El Cangrejo, January 20, 1848. At least one other newspaper disparaged Jorrín’s wartime conduct. When General Santa Anna ordered him to reinforce Chapultepec Castle as U.S. troops stormed that position on September 13, 1847, Jorrín supposedly replied that “he did not receive sufficient food or pay to leave the sentry box” he was stationed in. El Espíritu del Siglo, June 3, 1848. Jorrín apparently did fight bravely defending the Belén garita later that day. Alcaraz, The Other Side, 371. 58. Beginning on April 22, the front page of every issue of El Cangrejo included a small box that listed the reforms it believed the country most needed, and one such measure entailed a national guard that cut across class lines. The Diario de los Debates (Querétaro) made the same point in its May 24, 1848 editorial. 59. El Cangrejo, June 10, 1848. For further criticisms of foreign national guard units, see El Cangrejo, June 21, 1848. 60. El Cangrejo, June 3, 1848. 61. The first four also wrote for El Cangrejo, while Buenrostro and Suárez Iriarte served on the ayuntamiento that held power in the capital between late 1847 and early March 1848. Villaseñor y Villaseñor, Obras, 1: 466; and Berge, “A Mexican Dilemma,” 244, 252, and 246, n. 57. For the petition, which was signed by at least one woman (Carmen Gómez), see “Representación del pueblo,” Mexico City, June 2, 1848, in El Cangrejo, June 7, 1848. 62. Given his political leanings, Romero likely commanded puro national guardsmen; available documentation does not reveal which military unit he belonged to. Alcaraz, The Other Side, 371. A sampling of Romero’s efforts on the puros’ behalf is in Santoni, Mexicans at Arms, 142, 190, 201, 209–211, 220, 285, n. 91, and 290, n. 41. 63. “Esposición con que el ciudadano Eligio Romero presentó al Gobernador del Distrito la petición que precede,” Mexico City, June 4, 1848, in El Cangrejo, June 7, 1848. 64. Also arrested were José María Borda, Tomás Andrade, Cástulo Yáñez, and Juan Ortoy; rumor had it that Redondas’ partner, Leandro Valdés, would soon be incarcerated. Three other petitioners—Suárez Iriarte, Buenrostro, and Romero—managed to escape. “Apelación al pueblo,” no place, no date, in El Cangrejo, June 7, 1848; Atristain to Riva Palacio, Mexico City, June 5, 1848, MRPP 2678; El Cangrejo, June 21, 1848; and Villaseñor y Villaseñor, Obras, 1: 466–467. Borda, Andrade, and Ortoy secured their release soon thereafter because government authorities again arrested them on June 23 for being part of a “revolutionary junta.” In any case, the Supreme Court set them free on bail late in August. El Siglo XIX, June 26, 1848; and Villaseñor y Villaseñor, Obras, 1: 467–468. Romero was eventually detained, but he too gained his freedom sometime after mid-September. La Palanca, September 21, 1848. 65. El Cangrejo, June 21, 1848. 66. Atristain to Riva Palacio, June 5, 1848, MRPP 2678.

104  Pedro Santoni 7. Villaseñor y Villaseñor, Obras, 1: 462–463. 6 68. El Siglo XIX, June 11, 1848. Authorities had bought 5,124 rifles and cartridge belts, 762 rifle cartridges, 208 carbines with 30,000 carbine cartridges, and 124 fulminating rifles with 87,500 cartridges. Levinson, Wars within Wars, 98. 69. Dublán and Lozano, Legislación mexicana, 5: 430. Four days later, however, one newspaper lamented the fact that bylaws, for reasons that remain unknown, had not yet been published. El Siglo XIX, August 5, 1848. I suspect its editors were referring to regulations that applied to the national guard in the rest of the country. 70. El Monitor Republicano, August 17, 1848. 71. El Monitor Republicano, November 7, 1848; and El Heraldo, November 20, 1848. 72. Memoria del ministro de Relaciones Interiores y Exteriores, D. Luis G. Cuevas, 11, and 23–24. Cuevas, who had assumed the post in mid-November 1848, did not support these assertions with specific examples, but it is not far-fetched to suggest he had in mind the aid some 1,200 guardsmen from Guanajuato, Querétaro, San Luis Potosí, Zacatecas, and Jalisco gave General Anastasio Bustamante late in 1848 as he confronted indigenous peasants in the Sierra Gorda rebellion. González Navarro, Anatomía del poder, 212; Levinson, Wars within Wars, 110; and Reina, “The Sierra Gorda,” in Katz (ed.), Riot, Rebellion, 289. 73. “Alocución dirigida por el Presidente de la República a la Guardia Nacional del Distrito,” Mexico City, January 7, 1849; and “Contestación del gobernador del Distrito, a la alocución que el Exmo. Sr. presidente de la República, dirigió a los batallones de la Guardia Nacional al pasarles revista general,” Mexico City, January 7, 1849, both in El Monitor Republicano, January 8, 1849. On the day after the review Minister Cuevas wrote Malo to commend him for the national guard’s demeanor, praise its achievements, and express his hopes for its prosperous future. His January 8, 1849 letter was published in El Siglo XIX, January 17, 1849. The one critical comment I found about this event appeared in an opposition journal (El Heraldo), funded by British agiotista (money lender) Ewen MacKintosh. On January 10, 1849 this newspaper pointed out a discrepancy concerning the number of assembled militiamen, and wondered who was telling the truth—El Siglo XIX, who estimated more than 3,000, or El Monitor Republicano, who placed the total at less than 2,000. For MacKintosh’s support of El Heraldo, see Otero to Mora, Mexico City, October 14, 1848, in García (ed.), Documentos inéditos, 6: 119. 74. El Universal, July 13, 1849. One Mexico City weekly outlined El Guardia Nacional’s format, noted that it appeared daily (except Sundays), and characterized it as the “most economical, varied, and beneficial of all those published throughout the republic.” La Civilización, February 14, and 21, 1850. Other newspapers in the capital sometimes reprinted articles from El Guardia Nacional, and Gómez Farías referred to it once. See his letter to an unknown recipient, no place, no date [1849], in the Valentín Gómez Farías Papers 3165, folder 56 (Nettie Lee Benson Collection, University of Texas, Austin, hereafter cited as VGFP). The late Michael P. Costeloe suggested, however, that its sole purpose (like that of other papers that circulated at the time) was to endorse General Mariano Arista in the 1850 presidential elections; he claimed that El Guardia Nacional received a monthly subvention of 300 pesos from the Ministry of War (which Arista then headed). See his “Mariano Arista and the 1850 Presidential Election,” 61–62. 75. Dublán and Lozano, Legislación mexicana, 5: 654–655. The Bancroft Library at the University of California, Berkeley holds a copy of the handbook. 76. Sinkin, The Mexican Reform, 49; and Prieto, Memorias de mis tiempos, 281–282.

Revitalization of the National Guard  105 77. “Discurso pronunciado el 16 de septiembre de 1848, por el ciudadano Lic. José María Iglesias, en el aniversario de la proclamación de la independencia nacional,” in El Monitor Republicano, September 17, 1848. 78. The reorganization of the military is briefly discussed in DePalo, The Mexican National Army, 149. At least one state—Zacatecas—did not immediately circulate the national guard decree, a decision that greatly pleased Valentín Gómez Farías. See his letter to Fermín, Casimiro, and Benito [Gómez Farías], Querétaro, August 4, 1848, VGFP 3022, folder 55. The Ley Orgánica was finally published in the state’s capital on December 23, five months after its enactment. Memoria con que el encargado de la secretaría del supremo gobierno del Estado libre de Zacatecas, 21. 79. For a snapshot of the situation late in 1846, see Santoni, “The Failure of Mobilization,” 186–187. 80. “Resumen general de la fuerza existente en la fecha, con expresión de las armas a que pertenecen,” Jalapa, December 31, 1848, in Memoria leída por el ciudadano Juan Soto; Memoria sobre la administración del Estado de Puebla en 1849, 99; and Memoria de las Secretarías de Relaciones y Guerra, Justicia, Negocios Eclesiásticos e Instrucción Pública, del Gobierno del Estado de México, 38. 81. Memoria que el ciudadano Lino Merino, 9; Memoria que el Secretario del Gobierno. . . [de Chihuahua], 9–10; and “Estado que manifiesta la fuerza que tiene hasta hoy día de la fecha [July 28, 1849] la expresada Guardia, con relación del número de jefes, oficiales, tropa, armamento, vestuario y municiones y toda clase de útiles pertenecientes a ella,” in Memoria en que el gobierno del estado libre de Zacatecas; Memoria del Gobierno del Estado de Guanajuato, 109. 82. Cypher, “Reconstituting Community,” 36–37; and Medina Peña, Los bárbaros del norte, 110. The quote (and details about these attacks) is in DeLay, War of a Thousand Deserts, 298. 83. Memoria que el Secretario del Gobierno . . . [de Chihuahua], 9. For statistics about the victims that the mid-nineteenth century cholera epidemic wrought on several locales, including Mexico City, see González Navarro, Anatomía del poder, 74. 84. Memoria en que el gobierno del Estado libre de Sonora, 12. 85. Memoria del ministro de Relaciones Interiores y Exteriores, D. Luis G. Cuevas, 24. 86. See the Senate’s “Dictamen de la comisión especial del ramo, sobre arreglo de la Guardia Nacional,” Mexico City, February 7, 1849, in El Monitor Republicano, February 11, 1849, and a subsequent proposal by the Chamber of Deputies’ commission on War and Government [Affairs], dated July 28 and 30, 1849, in El Siglo XIX, August 14 and 15, 1849. For Herrera’s remark, see “El General de Herrera, al abrirse las sesiones ordinarias, en 1° de Enero de 1851,” in Informes y manifiestos, 1: 386. According to Nicolás Pizarro Suárez, the apparent lethargy was due to the Acta de Reformas, which he asserted had “mutilated” the 1824 constitution. Congress, consequently, did not enact legislation about “freedom of the press, the national guard, and individual guarantees,” and failed as well to “rebuild the army or [restructure national] finances.” Pizarro Suárez attributed such “paralysis” to the fact that “the people had not been called on,” and more specifically to the “absurd manner” wherein Article 5 of the Acta had organized the Senate. See his La libertad en el orden, 67–68. Article 27 of the Acta de Reformas (which Pizarro Suárez did not mention) might also offer some clues to explain the lawmakers’ sluggishness. That proviso classified the Ley Orgánica as a “constitutional law,” which meant it could only be altered or revoked six months after legislators had discussed a bill to that effect. Dublán and Lozano, Legislación mexicana, 5: 277–278.

106  Pedro Santoni 87. Dublán and Lozano, Legislación mexicana, 5: 418. 88. Memoria del ministerio de Relaciones Interiores y Exteriores, leída al Congreso General en enero de 1850, 16–17. For specific details about the pertinent 1846 militia legislation, see Dublán and Lozano, Legislación mexicana, 5: 162, and 165. 89. Dublán and Lozano, Legislación mexicana, 5: 415. 90. Memoria leida en las cámaras en 1851, 25–26. 91. García Ugarte, Poder político y religioso, 1: 365. Pages 366–369 of this book highlight the arguments used by religious leaders in the capital to bolster the Church’s position in its dispute with secular authorities. Two pamphlets located in the Colección Lafragua of the Biblioteca Nacional de México shed more light on this matter. See Tornel, Diálogo entre D. Lucio y el Curioso preguntón; and Segunda parte de la defensa. 92. In San Luis Potosí, the fund amassed 6,360 pesos in 1848, but militia costs totaled 82,515 pesos. “Estado general que manifiesta los ingresos y egresos que ha habido en esta oficina, con distinción de los ramos que forman el cargo y data de la cuenta que se ha llevado desde 1° de Enero a Diciembre 31 de 1848,” San Luis Potosí, January 3, 1849, in Informe de la gestión administrativa del gobierno del estado de San Luis Potosí correspondiente al año 1849. Zacatecas experienced similar problems for an even longer period. Between October 1846 and late May 1849 state authorities raised 27,312 pesos in taxes to support the national guard, but outlays for that force added up to 315,570 pesos. Conditions did not improve during the next eight months, as the militia tax garnered 6,859 pesos while expenditures reached 60,482 pesos. “Estado general que manifiesta los ingresos y egresos ocurridos en todas las oficinas de rentas desde 1° de Octubre de 1846 hasta fin de Mayo del corriente año [1849],” in Memoria en que el gobierno del estado libre y soberano de Zacatecas; and “Estado general que manifiesta los ingresos y egresos ocurridos en todas las oficinas de Hacienda Pública del estado de Zacatecas desde 1° de Junio de 1849 hasta fin de Enero de 1850,” in Memoria con que el encargado de la secretaría del supremo gobierno del Estado libre de Zacatecas. 93. Memoria en que el gobierno del Estado libre de Sonora, 12; and Memoria presentada por el secretario del despacho del gobierno del Estado de Querétaro, 22. 94. Medina Peña, Los bárbaros del norte, 106. 95. Memoria que el ciudadano Lino Merino, 9. 96. Memoria leida por el ciudadano Juan Soto, 6–7. 97. Memoria que el Secretario del Gobierno. . . [de Chihuahua], 9. 98. Malo’s remarks appeared in a December 21, 1848 edict published in El Correo Nacional (Querétaro), December 28, 1848. 99. Otero to Mora, Mexico City, May 13, 1849, in García (ed.), Documentos inéditos, 6: 140. Otero’s despondency was also evident in his September 9 and December 14, 1848 letters to Mora, as well as in another missive to Mora penned that October 12 by Francisco Fagoaga, a former Mexico City councilman. See, respectively, García (ed.), Documentos inéditos, 6: 113, 126, and 115. 100. Medina Peña, Los bárbaros del norte, 104, and 106. 101. Cypher, “Reconstituting Community,” 38, and 42–43. 102. El Siglo XIX, August 4, 1848. Military barracks in mid-nineteenth century Latin America were stigmatized as “the male equivalent of the bordello”—in other words, as a locale that “attempted to distance ‘dangerous’ male and female ‘loners’ from ‘honorable’ family households.” Beattie, The Tribute of Blood, 9. Mexico’s so-called “respectable poor” did not want to join the regular army (and spend time in the barracks) because such service would deprive

Revitalization of the National Guard  107 them of their honor, “perhaps the[ir] most fragile possession,” so similar concerns likely discouraged middle-class males in Mexico City from joining the national guard. Guardino, “Gender, Soldiering, and Citizenship,” 35. 103. El Siglo XIX, August 17, and September 21, 1848. 104. El Monitor Republicano, September 16 and 20, 1848. 105. “Various ciudadanos a los Exmos. Srs. ministros de relaciones y de guerra, y al sr. gobernador del Distrito,” no place, no date, in El Monitor Republicano, November 8, 1848. 106. La Palanca, October 9, 1848. 107. Perhaps indicative of how these issues distracted Arista’s attention from the national guard is that he never discussed that military force at length the nine times he addressed Congress between January 1, 1851, and January 5, 1853. The speeches are in Informes y manifiestos, 1: 395–428. 108. See, by Fowler, Independent Mexico, 225–227, and Santa Anna, 293; and Díaz Díaz, Caudillos y caciques, 236. A fuller explanation of these events is in Doyle, “’The Curious Manner,” in Fowler (ed.), Forceful Negotiations. 109. Plan del Hospicio, October 20, 1852, in Vázquez (ed.), Planes, 4: 401–402. 110. Dublán and Lozano, Legislación mexicana, 6: 318; and Fowler, Santa Anna, 293. 111. La Palanca, November 11, 1848; and El Universal, June 25, 1849. 112. The information from El Omnibus—from its March 31 issue—is in El Republicano, September 29, 1855. (Even though the latter newspaper shares the same name with the one cited in note 18, the two were different publications). Issues of El Omnibus for 1853 are unavailable at the three repositories I consulted for this essay—Mexico City’s Hemeroteca Nacional, the University of California, Berkeley, and the University of Texas, Austin. 113. Fowler, Santa Anna, 296; and González Navarro, Anatomía del poder, 367. 114. El Siglo XIX, February 11, 1853; and Zamacois, Historia de Méjico, 13: 623. The first quote comes from González Navarro, Anatomía del poder, 360, and the second is in El general Santa Anna burlándose de la nación, 261. For Olvera’s political background, see Guardino, Peasants, Politics, 196. 115. El Siglo XIX, April 4, 1853. The term “Plan of Jalisco” denoted the Plan of Blancarte, which originated in Jalisco state. Nevertheless, neither the original nor the amended version of this plan (July 26 and September 13, 1852) mentioned reorganization of the national guard, so the reference to this process is rather puzzling. Perhaps the demands made in the Plan del Hospicio (October 20, 1852) superseded earlier ones, and El Siglo interpreted its request to eliminate “the odious part about the national guard” as entailing its reorganization. 116. Esposición dirigida al Exmo. Sr. General Presidente D. Antonio López de Santa Anna, 13–14. By this time puro Francisco Zarco had become the main editor of El Siglo XIX, a fact that likely explains why the newspaper endorsed this proposal in its April 23, 1853 edition despite its long-standing preference for a militia manned by members of the middle class. 117. Dublán and Lozano, Legislación mexicana, 4: 560–561. 118. Van Wagenen, Remembering the Forgotten War, 55–56; and Dublán and Lozano, Legislación mexicana, 6: 379. 119. Additional details about the April 28 and May 20 laws can be found in Dublán and Lozano, Legislación mexicana, 6: 380–381, and 407–416, particularly 407–408. 120. For the May 7 order and May 1 decree see, respectively, Dublán and Lozano, Legislación mexicana, 6: 394, and 6: 384–385. For Balderas’ political activities, military heroics, and posthumous career, see Santoni, “Lucas Balderas,” in Pilcher (ed.), The Human Tradition.

108  Pedro Santoni 121. J.M. Revilla y Pedreguera, Rodrigo Valdés, Francisco J. Marín, Abraham Olvera, Gerónimo Pérez, C. Baquier, Atanasio Ortega, and Luis Campuzano to the editors of El Siglo XIX, Mexico City, May 17, 1853, in El Siglo XIX, May 20, 1853. 122. El Siglo XIX, May 27, 1853; Rivera Cambas, Historia antigua y moderna de Jalapa, 4: 410–412; and Zamacois, Historia de Méjico, 13: 668. Further information about the events in Veracruz appears in González Navarro, Anatomía del poder, 427–431. 123. El Siglo XIX, May 28, 1853; and Hale, Mexican Liberalism, 14. 124. The first three quotes in this paragraph come from El Siglo XIX, June 2, 1853, and the last is in Fowler, Santa Anna, 297. There he also outlines the measures Santa Anna implemented to curtail freedom of the press. Also see El Siglo XIX, June 13, 1853. 125. El Siglo XIX, April 4, 1853. For details about Santa Anna’s turn to despotism see Fowler, Santa Anna, 296–311; and Guardino, Peasants, Politics, 180–188. 126. Fowler, Santa Anna, 314-315, and Independent Mexico, 230–231. 127. Tapia, “Las ‘Jornadas’ de agosto,” 55–56, and 66–71. The quote is in 121–122. For the main provisos of the Plan of Ayutla and its subsequent modification in Acapulco, see Fowler, Independent Mexico, 228–230. Both plans appear as appendixes in Portilla, Historia de la revolución, xv–xix; and xix–xxvii. 128. Tapia, “Las ‘Jornadas’ de agosto,” 66–67, 95–96, and 117. The first quote appeared in El Siglo XIX, August 14, 1855, and the second in El Omnibus, August 15, 1855, both of which are cited in Tapia, “Las ‘Jornadas’ de Agosto,” 97, and 109. Pages 123–124 of this title contain the different versions of Article 2 of the Acta. 129. Zamacois, Historia de Méjico, 14: 71–72. This declaration echoed what General Rómulo Díaz de la Vega, the Mexico City governor and commandant general had told the crowd two days earlier when it handed him the signed Acta de la Alameda—that “there would be a national guard because it was the army’s sister, and would become the pillar of order and liberty.” Díaz de la Vega’s speech is cited in Tapia, “Las ‘Jornadas’ de Agosto,” 122. 130. Thomson, “Popular Aspects of Liberalism,” 274. For the quote, see, by the same author, “The End of the ‘Catholic Nation’,” 159. 131. Zamacois, Historia de Méjico, 14: 98–99. 132. La Pata de Cabra, August 22, 1855. 133. De la Rosa to Riva Palacio, Puebla, September 2, 1855, MRPP 5779. 134. La Pata de Cabra, August 25, 1855. After signing the Acta de la Alameda, the marchers “turned into mutineers” who ransacked the printing press of El Universal as well as the homes of various individuals closely associated with Santa Anna’s regime. Tapia, “El pueblo y el poder,” 217–219. 135. Covo, “Los clubes políticos,” 446; and El Republicano, September 28, 1855. The quote is in Forment, Democracy in Latin America, 169. 136. El Republicano, September 25, 1855; Troncoso, Guerra de 1847 entre México y los Estados Unidos, 29; and Francisco Schiafino to the Minister of War, Hotel de Iturbide, room #76, Mexico City, November 3, 1855, in El Republicano, November 5, 1855. The Bancroft Library at the University of California, Berkeley holds a copy of Schiafino’s proposed law, his Proyecto de guardia nacional. I have been unable to ascertain if both men ever got together. 137. El Siglo XIX, November 7, 1855. 138. Haworth, “The Mobile National Guard,” in Fallaw and Rugeley (eds.), Forced Marches, 56; Dublán and Lozano, Legislación mexicana, 7: 593–594, and 596– 597; and Sinkin, The Mexican Reform, 56, and 101–102. The quote is in 101.

Revitalization of the National Guard  109 139. Villalpando César, “La evolución histórico-jurídica,” in Bernal (ed.), Memoria del IV Congreso, 1: 1155; and Thomson, “Bulwarks of Patriotic Liberalism,” 33, and 36. 140. Villalpando César, “La evolución histórico-jurídica,” in Bernal (ed.), Memoria del IV Congreso, 1: 1157; El Siglo XIX, May 16, 1868; and El Padre Cobos, February 21, May 27, and June 6, 1869, October 8, 1874; and October 31, 1875. 141. Santoni, “ ‘Where Did the Other Heroes Go?’,” 843–844, and 843, n. 120. For a succinct sketch about the growing popularity of the Niños Héroes, see Esposito, Funerals, Festivals, and Cultural Politics, 168–170. 142. Rosa, Observaciones sobre varios puntos, 87, and 85, n. S. 143. Hale, Mexican Liberalism, 33. 144. Fowler, Mexico in the Age of Proposals, 267.

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114  Pedro Santoni Tapia, Regina. “Las ‘Jornadas’ de agosto de 1855 en la ciudad de México. Un estudio de caso de los mecanismos de lo político, y del discurso político de lo social.” MA thesis, Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, 2010. ———. “El pueblo y el poder. Los comportamientos políticos de los capitalinos a mediados del siglo XIX.” PhD diss., El Colegio de México, 2014. Thomson, Guy P.C. “Bulwarks of Patriotic Liberalism: The National Guard, Philharmonic Corps, and Patriotic Juntas in Mexico, 1847–88.” Journal of Latin American Studies 22:1 (February 1990): 31–68. ———. “Popular Aspects of Liberalism in Mexico, 1848–1888.” Bulletin of Latin American Research 10:3 (July 1991): 265–292. ———. “The End of the ‘Catholic Nation’: Reform and Reaction in Puebla, 1854– 1856.” In Will Fowler (ed.), Malcontents, Rebels, & Pronunciados: The Politics of Insurrection in Nineteenth-Century Mexico. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2012. 148–170. Thomson, Guy P.C. (with David G. Lafrance). Patriotism, Politics, and Popular Liberalism in Nineteenth-Century Mexico: Juan Francisco Lucas and the Puebla Sierra. Wilmington, DE: Scholarly Resources, 1999. Tornel, José Julián. Diálogo entre D. Lucio y el Curioso preguntón. No place, 1849. Troncoso, Francisco de P. Guerra de 1847 entre México y los Estados Unidos: Desde la salida de Puebla hasta la desocupación de México. Mexico City: Talleres del Departamento de Estado Mayor, 1908. Urbina Pineda, Omar. “La guardia nacional de la ciudad de México durante la guerra entre México y los Estados Unidos, 1846–1848.” BA thesis, Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, 2013. Van Wagenen, Michael Scott. Remembering the Forgotten War: The Enduring Legacies of the U.S–Mexican War. Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2012. Vázquez, Josefina Zoraida (ed.). Planes en la nación mexicana: Libro cuatro: 1841– 1854. Mexico City: Senado de la República/El Colegio de México, 1987. Velasco Márquez, Jesús. La guerra del 47 y la opinión pública (1845–1848). Mexico City: Secretaría de Educación Pública, 1975. Villalpando César, José Manuel. “La evolución histórico-jurídica de la guardia nacional en México.” In Beatriz Bernal (ed.), Memoria del IV Congreso de historia del derecho mexicano (1986). 2 vols. Mexico City: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, 1988. 1: 1117–1162. Villaseñor y Villaseñor, Alejandro. Obras del Lic. Alejandro Villaseñor y Villaseñor, Tomo I: Estudios Históricos. 4 vols. Mexico City: Imprenta de V. Agüeros, 1897–1910. Zamacois, Niceto de. Historia de Méjico desde sus tiempos más remotos hasta nuestros días. 22 vols. in 25. Barcelona: J. F. Parres y Cía, 1878–1902. Zúñiga Campos, Mario Alberto. “El fracaso de la ciudadanía armada: La milicia cívica de la ciudad de México (1823–1834).” BA thesis, Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, 2013.

5 The Sierra Gorda Pronunciamientos of 1848–1849 and the Origins of Popular Conservatism in Mexico Will Fowler This chapter is concerned with the emergence of popular conservatism in Mexico, a historical phenomenon characterized by a belief in corporate values, actions, and institutions, an emphasis on order and central authority, and the ardent defense of the Roman Catholic Church and faith. Unlike its liberal counterpart, the subject remains comparatively neglected.1 To correct this deficiency, this essay argues that the roots of popular conservatism can be found in four pronunciamientos (revolts) that erupted in the Sierra Gorda mountain range of central Mexico in the aftermath of the 1846–1848 war with the United States. Led by General Mariano Paredes y Arrillaga, Father Celedonio Domeco de Jarauta, General Leonardo Márquez, and ultra-conservative cavalry officer Tomás Mejía, these four uprisings dovetailed with each other and sought to exploit the region’s popular grievances to further their unique goals. Although none of the rebellions enjoyed longterm success, the actions of Mejía’s heterogeneous force of pronunciado troops and indigenous peasants were especially significant. They displayed an early and forceful expression of the kind of popular conservative alliance that became common and difficult to defeat once the bitter, grueling, and bloody conflict known as the War of the Reforma (1857–1861) got underway ten years later. Mejía then became one of the Reforma’s most notorious conservative generals, leading the liberals to order his execution by firing squad alongside Emperor Maximilian and General Miguel Miramón outside the city of Querétaro at the Cerro de las Campanas (Hill of the Bells) on June 19, 1867. While studying these pronunciamientos perfectly illustrates how the much-forgotten 1848–1853 period gave rise to aggressive popular conservative demands, alliances, and mobilizations, the chapter also sheds much light on the ideological evolution of Mexico’s conservadores (conservatives). This political bloc only started to label and think of themselves as such in the mid-to-late 1840s. They first outlined their ideological (monarchical) principles in a mid-February 1846 editorial in El Tiempo, attributed to the preeminent thinker Lucas Alamán, which also stated they were “conservatives of conviction and character.” Then, in 1850, one year after the foundation of the Conservative party, like-minded writers, troubled by their country’s

116  Will Fowler recent military fiasco in the U.S.–Mexican War and its apparent inability to recover from that debacle, boasted that their moniker was due to their desire to “preserve [conservar] the frail life of this society, which has been mortally wounded.”2 By the mid-1850s, however, their position on the issues of the day had grown increasingly intransigent and combative, not in small part because their evolution as a political group had merged and become associated with, and exploited as well, the agrarian unrest and political violence that spread across provincial Mexico. Conservadores were not just white, well-to-do elite politicians and military leaders intent on turning the clock back to an absolutist monarchical colonial past. Indigenous peasant communities joined them in the struggle for a popular conservative agenda in post-war Mexico.

From Popular Centralism to Popular Conservatism In the early 1800s, as Jaime E. Rodríguez O. argued in a recent study of the Mexican independence process, “poor people, whether urban or rural, were not only affected by high politics but also understood their interests and took action to defend them; that is, they engaged in politics.”3 Peter F. Guardino had put this view forward some twenty years prior in a different context—peasant politics in Guerrero state. During the 1830s and 1840s rural folk in that territory adapted the discourses, practices, and techniques of post-independence politics to local circumstances to serve their own ends as they engaged with, and ultimately influenced, national affairs.4 Guardino suggested that this pattern, which he termed “popular federalism,” preceded the “popular liberalism” that had emerged by the midcentury Reforma,5 and eventually evolved into it, “characterized by inclusive definitions of citizenship, an emphasis on local autonomy, and opposition to the wealthy few.”6 However, while Mexican liberalism—be it popular, elite, or federal—has received significant attention in the historiography, the same cannot be said for Mexican conservatism. Likewise, the few studies dedicated to Mexico’s conservatives have largely focused on well-known elite political actors like Alamán, General Paredes y Arrillaga, Carlos María de Bustamante, and José María Gutiérrez Estrada. This skewed historiographical approach, paired with an official history that has tended to demonize Mexico’s conservative past, has enshrined liberals as representing the progressive and popular democratic cause of most Mexicans while portraying conservatives as an essentially rich, elitist, and reactionary minority.7 Recent research, however, reveals that conservative political ideas had a significant popular following. According to an ambitious monograph centered in Oaxaca’s Mixteca Baja, the “defense of clerical Catholicism, order and stability, gradual land reform, and even militarism found considerable echo in certain regions of indigenous Mexico.” Religious belief, church ritual, and lay-clerical relations played a crucial role in determining the way given rural communities interacted socially and informed their

The Sierra Gorda Pronunciamientos  117 political affiliation. In the Mixteca this resulted in the emergence of conservative peasant movements that valued and defended the importance of the Catholic Church in maintaining a system based on ideas about property, hierarchy, and the role of the state that chimed with them. That “provincial conservatism” established deep and resilient roots in the Mixteca is evidenced by the manner in which the Mixtecs went on to support conservative rebels during the War of Reforma, rejected Emiliano Zapata’s call for land distribution during the Revolution of 1910, and at the height of the Cold War in 1962 led the last armed religious Cristiada uprising against impious “communist” government authorities.8 Likewise, another study set in Querétaro’s highlands demonstrated that clerics had provided structure and protection to rural folk in the area since the late 1700s. They loaned money, built schools, and became involved in politics. In return, local chiefs “supported the priesthood with their own family members, sending men and women to join the clergy. . . . Popular Conservatism reflected rural parishioners’ desire to maintain this structure, to maintain a Catholic order.” Thus, when the call to take up arms came in the mid-1800s, peasants purposely “chose alternative authorities with whom to negotiate and seek compromise, authorities who respected [the] rebels’ holy cause and their attempts to retain Catholicism in its prominent place in Mexican society.”9 This chapter, therefore, contends that by the 1850s there was such a thing as “popular conservatism,” a set of ideas which, like popular liberalism, was supported by an emerging middle class as well as indigenous groups. Similarly, in tandem with Guardino’s popular federalism, as well as opposed to it, there was what I will here call a form of “popular centralism” that evolved into the “popular conservatism” of the post-1848 years. To understand the reasons behind the development of this phenomenon, one must first take note of the way rural and indigenous communities started to engage with proto-conservative protest movements two decades earlier. As I have argued elsewhere, the pronunciamiento as a political practice became popularized and was adopted by subaltern groups in the 1830s,10 and the more than 400 pronunciamientos that erupted around the middle of that decade (which remodeled the country from a federal to a centralist republic) made it clear that Mexico’s God-fearing popular classes were intent on upholding long-held political values, institutions, customs, and ideas of a markedly traditionalist character.11 These men (and women) believed that the puro (radical liberal) Congress of 1833–1834 was riding roughshod over the colonial era military and ecclesiastical fueros (legal privileges), order, central authority, and the Roman Catholic faith, all of which needed to be protected at all costs. The thousands of villagers who supported the pronunciamiento cycles of 1833–1835 through numerous pronunciamientos de adhesión (plans of allegiance/pledges of support) not only engaged in politics,12 but in so doing defended interests and beliefs that resonated with those of an incipient proto-conservative movement that later organized itself around Alamán’s Conservative party in 1849. As noted in

118  Will Fowler the minutes of the June 4, 1834 pronunciamiento of the municipality of Coronanco (state of Puebla), members of the town council, laborers, and neighbors believed that the country’s legislators were unwise and did not understand “the customs of the pueblos,” determined as they were to “dictate unobservable laws.”13 Equally important among the demands of the popular centralists was the need to instill order. Their reiterated call for Veracruz’ strongman and then much-celebrated military hero General Antonio López de Santa Anna to protect the Mexicans’ sacred religion as well as military and ecclesiastical fueros was framed within a discourse of sought-after order, stability, and central authority. Albeit exceptional, moderado (or moderate, as this political bloc was known) president-to-be (1851–1853) General Mariano Arista’s call to make Santa Anna dictator in his June 8, 1833 Plan of Huejotzingo represented an expression of a hardening stance by the more intransigent members of the 1830s so-called “party of order.” The defense of the regular army and its privileges, with its praise of this institution as the one that had forged Mexico’s independence from Spain and was the guarantor of national sovereignty, law and order, was equally emblematic of the popular centralists’ traditionalist stance. The precursors of mid-century conservatism were also centralists because of what they perceived as the centrifugal effects of federalism. As noted in the July 6, 1835 pronunciamiento de adhesión issued by the town council of Cinco Señores, Durango—which a “respectable and numerous gathering of neighbors” adhered to—the “long and painful experience” of federalism had made changing Mexico’s political system into a centralist one an urgent matter. These individuals wanted national laws that were indestructible and unchangeable, essentially immune to meddling by radical liberals; to be free and independent from any foreign power; their religion to be the Roman Catholic faith with tolerance of none other; and a popular, representative, central republic wherein all of their individual rights, together with freedom of the press, were duly guaranteed.14 In other words, mid-1830s popular centralism was most certainly corporate, traditionalist, and fundamentally Roman Catholic, but it was also democratic (if I may use the term loosely here). Like so many other pronunciamientos that circulated in 1835, the pronunciados, be they army officers, town councilmen, “copious numbers” of inhabitants, or, even “la masa del pueblo” (the people en masse) wanted a popular centralist constitution that respected the country’s customs and traditions.15 As the previous paragraphs have suggested, the ardent defense of the Church and the Roman Catholic faith was a salient trait of the popular centralist pronunciamientos of the mid-1830s that brought the First Federal Republic (1824–1835) to an end.16 However, just because centralists were intolerant Catholics who sought to protect the Church and its fueros did not mean they represented, together with the clergy, a united proto-conservative movement. Some clerics from Guadalajara, the capital of Jalisco state, embraced liberal ideas in the 1820s and 1830s precisely to protect their

The Sierra Gorda Pronunciamientos  119 ecclesiastical properties.17 If the Church associated itself with the forces of conservatism by the mid-nineteenth century, this was the result of the manner Church-state relations unfolded. It was not always that way.18 The Church, furthermore, “did not represent a uniform monolithic group. Instead, it reflected the divisions of the society in which it lived.”19 Even supposedly radical liberals like Valentín Gómez Farías were devout Roman Catholics in private; Gómez Farías, in fact, forbade Protestant German-born Julius Uhink from marrying his daughter until he converted to Catholicism.20 The conservative pronunciamientos of the late 1840s clearly built on both the experience and mobilizations of the 1830s noted so far. Participants in the mid-century upheavals—as illustrated by some ideas publicized by General Paredes y Arrillaga in June 1848—shared with their predecessors a sense that society was broken and at risk of dissolution, and that since independence Mexicans had lost their moral compass. He also believed that federalism, once more in place following the restoration of the 1824 federalist constitution in August 1846, had resulted in division, weakness and, as evidenced during the war against the U.S., the painful absence of a unifying national spirit.21 Meanwhile, other mid-century pronunciados remained adamant that Mexico’s Catholic faith and Church needed to be defended at all costs,22 that they could not tolerate any other religion, and thus had to fight for what they described as a “just and sacred” cause.23 However, the conservative pronunciamiento cycle of the late 1840s markedly differed from its mid-1830s predecessor on two distinct, albeit interrelated, fronts. First, the latter cluster of rebellions turned out to be far more violent; they were less about forceful negotiation and more about achieving their stated aims through military victory. Second, the mid-century conservative pronunciamientos became entangled with the rise of agrarian discontent and the corresponding dramatic increase of popular revolts that came to characterize the post-war years in provincial Mexico, a trend most obvious in the Sierra Gorda mountains that spread through the states of San Luis Potosí, Guanajuato, Querétaro, and Hidalgo.

The Sierra Gorda Rebellion The Sierra Gorda rebellion, as it is misleadingly known, was not a singular event or uprising, but rather a series of parallel upheavals, revolts, and pronunciamientos in which different political actors and communities were involved, sometimes alongside one another, at others quite distinctly apart.24 They evidently influenced and informed each other in the way that the initial success of certain revolts inspired neighboring pueblos, communities and garrisons to emulate them and follow suit. While rebel leaders like Tomás Mejía and Eleuterio Quiroz encouraged different villages to rebel as they roamed the region calling for insurrection, promising rewards to those that did, the communities that joined them did so to address local grievances as well as to tackle national injustices. Quite often they exploited

120  Will Fowler the context of violence and upheaval to settle old grudges with neighboring pueblos regardless of ideology even though there was an underlying common theme of agrarian discontent. Francisco Chaire, who started the revolt of Xichú in August 1847 (which scholars consider as the launching point of the Sierra Gorda rebellion), initially rose up in arms to fight for the U.S. against the Mexican government. He offered those who followed him “the free use of the vacant lands and the wood of the Sierra, and to all the masses the division of the haciendas, exemption from all types of taxes, the abolition of the military draft, the end of parish fees and the expropriation of all the followers of the government.”25 In stark contrast, the villagers of Tantoyuca, a town north of the Sierra Gorda in Tamaulipas state, took up arms on January 7, 1848 to fight against U.S. forces whose intention, they claimed, was to dominate and rob their territory. Having said this, the tantoyuqueños also had tax-related grievances they sought to redress. To fight the invaders, they would refuse to pay their hacendados (large landowners) and proprietors any more rent or contributions, and neither would they pay any more direct contributions or taxes, including municipal ones and the excise tax on tobacco, for the duration of the war. They claimed they needed to hang onto these resources to wage their own war of independence against the Americans.26 The long-term causes for the conflagration of rebellions in the Sierra Gorda were similar to those which gave rise to much of the agrarian violence that afflicted the countryside in nineteenth-century Mexico—the tensions triggered by the marked growth of haciendas.27 Many hacendados made the most of a remote and weak government and judiciary to aggressively increase their landholdings, threatening and encroaching upon village communal lands, and frequently ignoring the indigenous communities’ ancestral rights and autonomy. Hacienda expansion also altered labor relations in the Sierra Gorda. As laborers and tenants came from elsewhere and increased the region’s population density, indigenous peoples such as the Nahuas and the Otomís were either displaced or found themselves competing for natural resources. Access to water, arable land, and wood became restricted, often illegally, to the hacendados, who went on to charge their tenants and neighboring pueblos for their use. In the Sierra Gorda this turn of events particularly affected timber, the most important sector of the regional economy because of its use in the silver mines of Guanajuato and Querétaro. That landlords charged for the privilege of woodcutting, exacted fees for the use of firewood, and forbade charcoal production not under their control, certainly became a major source of unrest because to serranos (as residents of the area were known) “the forest was the source of their livelihoods.”28 Consequently, as John Tutino put it, thousands of peasants, tenants, and indigenous peoples from the Sierra Gorda rose up in arms to gain “free access to the resources of the Sierra’s rural uplands.”29 On top of the long-term problems caused by hacienda growth and the acute wealth asymmetries it provoked, the Sierra Gorda had a lengthy

The Sierra Gorda Pronunciamientos  121 history of popular rebellions that fueled the unrest of the late 1840s. In some cases, taxation by the national and regional governments was a bone of contention. To note but one such example, Article 4 of the April 14, 1837 federalist plan of San Luis Potosí, circulated as part of several waves of pronunciamientos launched to restore the 1824 charter abolished in October 1835, stressed that the many taxes people paid were never “enough to satisfy the ambition of a few moneylenders protected by well-known politicians.”30 In other instances, revolts that had erupted before the war with the U.S., such as the one Rafael Sánchez led in the town of Cadereyta in 1841, lingered on through hit-and-run operations carried out by gangs of outlaws that included the very rebel leaders who eluded captivity by retreating to the mountains. When the Sierra Gorda rebellion flared up some of these roaming rebels-cum-bandits resurfaced in the ranks of the mobilized rebel armies. Sánchez, for instance, joined Mejía and his forces in mid-1848.31 The conflict with the U.S. dramatically exacerbated these grievances, and in so doing gave rise to the constellation of rebellions that spread across the Sierra Gorda between 1847 and 1850. For one, the war effort brought with it that most violent form of government interference with the rhythms of daily life; the leva (forced military conscription).32 According to one observer, “there is scarcely a day that droves of these miserable and more than half naked wretches are not seen thus chained together and marching through the streets to the barracks, where they are scoured and then dressed in a uniform.”33 Peasants resented losing their loved ones to a conflict they did not believe affected or concerned them. Several of the rebellion’s key instigators and leaders, men such as Chaire and Quiroz, were deserters running away from the authorities.34 The first major uprising in the Sierra Gorda, however, was triggered by the January 11, 1847 decree whereby the national government, in a desperate bid to raise funds to wage war with the U.S., determined it could raise up to fifteen million pesos by mortgaging, expropriating and auctioning the so-called bienes de manos muertas (allegedly unused Church lands and property).35 Just a week later—on January 18—an angry crowd of Otomí indigenous peasants, armed with clubs, machetes, knives, stones, and some firearms, converged in the main square of the city of Querétaro and tried to assault the municipal palace. As noted by commander general Pánfilo Barasorda, who had his troops open fire on the crowd, they did not understand the patriotic nature of the law, and were both “alarmed” and “hallucinated” by it, outraged that their adored Church and religion was under attack. Barasorda’s forces eventually dispersed the mob after three solid hours of gunfire. There are no figures for the number of people who died during the clash, but these could not have been inconsiderable since Barasorda felt obliged to circulate a flyer, several days later, in which he congratulated his troops for their sterling defense of the municipal palace. He stressed that he lamented the resulting death toll, but that blame for the casualties fell on the “exalted passions” of the populace.36 The brutal repression meted out

122  Will Fowler by Barasorda may in part explain why the Querétaro mutiny did not flare up more generally at the time. Nevertheless, and even though then president General Santa Anna annulled the controversial January 11 law some two months later, the tensions that were bubbling away at the time continued to simmer and it did not take long for another incident to set the region on fire. The Sierra Gorda rebellion as such thus did not get fully underway until Francisco Chaire, a member of a disgruntled hacendado family whose properties had been recently embargoed because of the massive debts they had incurred due to a slump in the tobacco business, rose up in arms in the mining village of Xichú, on the Guanajuato side of the Sierra Gorda, at the end of August 1847. Francisco had returned home looking for somewhere to hide after deserting from the national guard, but the town mayor recognized and arrested him. With nothing to lose, the Chaires and their laborers—approximately 200 men—came to Francisco’s rescue. His father Don Miguel, his brother Guadalupe, and a fugitive deserter named Eleuterio Quiroz who worked for the Chaires as a mozo (laborer), led the attack on the town hall and helped Francisco break out of prison. After setting the judicial archive on fire and sacking the homes of Xichú’s authorities, the Chaires next called on the neighboring pueblos to rebel with them against the established order; as noted earlier, in return for the pueblos’ support they promised free access to land and timber, the redistribution of haciendas, an end to taxes and the leva, and even the expropriation of their enemies’ properties. That they then offered their services to the U.S. expeditionary army was, most likely, a desperate way of trying to secure their protection against the 800 troops that Mexican authorities in Guanajuato dispatched to quell the rebellion. Although the Americans declined the Chaires’ offer, Mexican officials quickly realized they could not, engaged as they were in fighting the war against the U.S., sustain a long-lasting military operation to pursue and apprehend the Chaires and their band (which came to number 400), so they offered the rebels an amnesty if they turned themselves in. The Chaires and some of their followers accepted the pardon, but others, including Quiroz, most certainly did not.37 The young man who became one of the most prominent leaders of the Sierra Gorda rebellion had, according to an anonymous pamphlet published in 1849, “a difficult character, [was] illiterate [and] rebellious.”38 Indeed, Quiroz had acquired a reputation for being quarrelsome and disrespectful of authority before the uprising got underway. Prior to working for the Chaires he had labored as a muleteer on the hacienda of Tapanco in San Luis Potosí where he assaulted its hacendado for reasons that remain unclear. Subsequently drafted into the army following the outbreak of the war with the U.S., Quiroz deserted following the Battle of Angostura-Buena Vista (February 22–23, 1847), and took refuge in the mountains of Xichú, where he ended up as one of Miguel Chaire’s hired hands. Quiroz then turned Francisco Chaire’s escape from captivity into a rebellion that resonated with the January 1847 indigenous uprising in Querétaro, and inspired

The Sierra Gorda Pronunciamientos  123 others to use the context of a foreign war and upheaval to revolt against the authorities and combat the leva, increasing taxes, the threat to their communal lands and exploitative hacendados while safeguarding and protecting the sanctity of the Church. His army of deserters, malcontents, and peasants went on to target the families and estates of the gente de bien (men of property) of the Sierra, and throughout December 1847 systematically assassinated the town mayors and hacendados of the villages they attacked. Displaying a particularly cruel and sadistic streak, in one instance Quiroz forced hacendado Fernando Pérez watch his daughters being raped, and in another he cut off hacendado Alejo Urías’ arms before killing him.39 While Quiroz’ insurrectionary movement thereafter underwent several shifts and changes as different rebel groups joined it as well as fought it,40 he did succeed in forging a seemingly unlikely alliance with disgruntled potosino (as residents from the state and/or city of San Luis Potosí go by) hacendado Manuel Verástegui, and in mid-March 1849 they issued—at the head of what they termed the Regenerating Army of the Sierra Gorda—the “Eminently Social and Political Plan of Río Verde.” The document transformed Quiroz’ rebellion from a relatively fluid insurrectionary movement with no consistent or clearly stated aims or objectives to one that explicitly defended an array of anticlerical, radical—even socialist—demands; twotime former president (1830–1832, and 1837–1841), and champion of the “party of order” of the 1830s, General Anastasio Bustamante, described them as communist.41 The plan called for the permanent army to be abolished and replaced with a national guard, for the clergy to be reformed and moralized, for all fueros to be abolished, for the redistribution of the land so the clases menesterosas (working classes) improve[d] their situation, and for Santa Anna to never be allowed to return to Mexico; the controversial general, bitter that politicians had not deemed his services necessary in the waning months of the war with the U.S., had gone into exile in March 1848, one month after the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo had been signed.42 However, Verástegui’s alliance with Quiroz proved ephemeral because the hacendado could not control the latter; the former mozo of the Chaires had no qualms about burning down the hacienda of San Diego (which belonged to the Verástegui brothers) in July 1849.43 Within a few months Quiroz was alone, abandoned by the Verásteguis and hounded by Tomás Mejía, who by then had accepted an amnesty and become one of the government’s fiercest combatants in the region. Quiroz would be captured and executed before the end of the year, and his death marked the end of the rebellion.

The 1848–1849 Pronunciamiento Cluster As these events unfolded through the Sierra Gorda, three conservative pronunciamientos that sought to impact national politics erupted in the region: The joint Lagos (in Jalisco state)-Guanajuato revolts of June 1 and 15, 1848 led by General Paredes y Arrillaga and Father Jarauta; Mejía’s

124  Will Fowler pronunciamiento of San José de los Amoles of June 4, 1848; and Leonardo Márquez’ Plan of Sierra Alta of February 11, 1849. While all three revolts aimed to overthrow the moderado-led government and opposed ratification of the 1848 Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo that had sealed Mexico’s defeat in the war with the U.S., they also mirrored the confused concatenation of peasant revolts that overlapped, merged, and clashed with each other across the Sierra Gorda. These pronunciamientos were conflicting in terms of their aims (e.g., who should rule the country), the behavior of the pronunciados (e.g., Mejía’s decision to abandon the rebellion to fight Quiroz meant he found himself defending the government when Márquez revolted in 1849 even though he sympathized with his fellow-conservative commander’s aims), and their ultimate outcomes. In the end, their contradictory demands explain why the uprisings failed to coalesce into a single, strong, and united revolutionary movement. Rumors that Paredes y Arrillaga had been plotting to overthrow lawyer Manuel de la Peña y Peña’s make-shift wartime moderado regime had been circulating since his return to San Luis Potosí from exile in France in early 1848.44 This was not a surprising development given that the ambitious general not only had started the constellation of pronunciamientos that brought General Bustamante’s second presidency to an abrupt end in 1841, but he also had initiated two subsequent pronunciamiento cycles in 1844 and 1845 that toppled, respectively, then presidents Santa Anna and moderado General José Joaquín de Herrera. The latter pronunciamiento finally allowed third-time-lucky Paredes y Arrillaga to fulfill his political ambitions and become president in January 1846,45 but his involvement in a conspiracy to place a European prince on the Mexican throne, as well as his failure to wage war successfully against the U.S., cost him any popularity he may have once enjoyed and insured him but a brief, eight-month tenure as chief executive.46 Overthrown that August by an atypical puro-moderadosantanista alliance, Paredes y Arrillaga, who in many ways epitomized the elite criollo (creole) reactionary figure that has come to typify the historiography’s archetypal view of a mid-nineteenth-century Mexican conservative, was now clearly intent on revenge. Fifty-one years old in 1848, he was a hard-drinking and aggressive high-ranking military officer, a staunch centralist, and a devout Catholic. He had no time for the proletariat, which he described disdainfully as “terrible and destructive.”47 In stark contrast, as noted by Michael P. Costeloe, Paredes y Arrillaga “felt that Mexico could and should be governed only by an alliance of the army and the rich, affluent classes, including the clergy, whose education, ownership of property and integrity enabled them to maintain the political stability without which no progress in any field could be made.”48 By mid-1848 Paredes y Arrillaga’s intentions had been made easier because he had befriended Jarauta, a notoriously irascible Spanish priest and former carlista combatant who had ended up exiled in Mexico following the liberal victory in the First Carlist War in Spain (1833–1840).49 In the spring of

The Sierra Gorda Pronunciamientos  125 1847 Jarauta led Veracruz-based guerilla forces in several daring operations that temporarily blocked all communications between Xalapa and Veracruz, and he joined residents of Mexico City that September when they staged a three-day riot to fight the occupying U.S. army. Jarauta continued to harass U.S. troops early in 1848. Late that February he raided the town of Zacualtipán in Mexico state, announced that he intended to keep on fighting the U.S., and pocketed assets valued at 500,000 pesos to support his military operations.50 As a result, by the time Jarauta had reached the state of Aguascalientes sometime that spring he possessed a “well-earned reputation as an audacious guerrilla fighter.” Jarauta further enhanced his popular appeal because “he incessantly praised the valor of Mexicans and the beauty of Mexican women,” and repeatedly stated that “his sole ambition was to kill many Yankees to liberate Mexico.”51 The stage was thus set for Jarauta, in cahoots with Paredes y Arrillaga, to launch the pronunciamiento of Lagos on June 1. The Spanish cleric ranted against the moderados in the expository part of the manifesto; that political bloc, so he claimed, had displayed their treacherous nature when they held power back in 1845 (before Paredes y Arrillaga had overthrown them) and recognized Texas’ independence. Next, Jarauta characterized the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo as a work of “iniquity and treason,” “the worst crime committed in centuries” given that Peña y Peña’s regime had sold “half of the republic to the invading army for a contemptible sum.” He then asked whether the Mexican people would suffer such an affront “calmly and impassively,” whether they would observe with indifference the betrayal of their brave combatant brothers who were still fighting to uphold their Mexican “religion, customs, and nationality.” Few such individuals existed, but they were resolved to die to defend these “cherished ideals,” and he invited the population to rise up in arms against the government that had betrayed the nation. The plan’s last article offered leadership of the pronunciamiento to the most senior general to second it,52 and Paredes y Arrillaga took the bait. On June 15, the same day he captured the state capital of Guanajuato at the head of 400 men, Paredes y Arrillaga issued an address that echoed Jarauta’s tirade and assumed command of the pronunciamiento. The Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, he declared, was “illegal and infamous,” “ignominious” and “anti-constitutional,” and the government that had signed it needed to be overthrown for having “insulted the country’s honor” and “profoundly hurt [its] national pride.”53 These events finally forced General Bustamante, who had not marched against peasant rebels in the Sierra Gorda because he considered Paredes y Arrillaga a far more serious threat to the government than the “many gangs of bandits [. . .] that overrun the countryside and pueblos, committing crimes and disorders,”54 into action. The former chief executive oversaw the Reserve Army posted in Dolores Hidalgo, and he first dispatched a detachment to Lagos to suppress the uprising. By the time those troops arrived the Spanish priest had left that city, so Bustamante

126  Will Fowler took it upon himself to lead the campaign against Paredes y Arrillaga and Jarauta’s pronunciamiento. He mobilized his forces to Guanajuato, placed the city under siege on July 7, and eleven days later launched a major attack that crushed the pronunciados. Convinced that the spread of peasant rebellion across the Sierra Gorda had to end, and that “the absolute impunity [. . .] that revolutionaries have for so long enjoyed one way or another, has not only led to the scandalous repetition of military uprisings [in our country], it has encouraged many a fool to join them, blindly,”55 Bustamante broke with previous convention. He did not show any clemency to the rebels and executed most of them, including Jarauta, who was shot six times in the back.56 The government’s success against Paredes y Arrillaga and Jarauta, however, did not bring peace to the Sierra Gorda. On February 11, 1849, a third pronunciamiento erupted in the state of Guanajuato, the so-called Sierra Alta revolt. Here, staunch conservative Leonardo Márquez, a hot-headed twenty-nine-year-old army officer who had been hounding Quiroz and his rebels at the head of the government forces, turned against the authorities and called for the demise of moderado General Herrera’s presidency, who had replaced Peña y Peña when he returned to power for a second time early in June 1848. Márquez attempted to use the conflagration of the Sierra Gorda and its competing conservative pronunciamientos to bring back Santa Anna, who at that time was residing in Kingston, Jamaica.57 Just as importantly, Márquez’ Plan of Sierra Alta was also an evident reaction to Minister of War Mariano Arista’s far-reaching draconian cuts of the regular army.58 Article 7, the lengthiest in the plan, stated that as soon as Santa Anna returned to power he would rescind the recent military reforms Arista had enacted, increase the army’s size to 50,000 troops, and ensure it would enjoy, once more, the “distinctions, prizes and considerations it deserves for its services [. . .] to the patria [fatherland].” 59 If Márquez was hoping that Quiroz, together with his campesino (peasant) rebels alongside military garrisons across the country, would second his conservative pronunciamiento, he was bitterly disappointed. The plan proved unpopular among his own troops for reasons that remain unclear, and they started to desert him at the first opportunity. Márquez then marched toward Querétaro in the hope that General Bustamante, now stationed there, would turn against the government and support him. Bustamante may have well endorsed a pronunciamiento against Arista’s cutbacks to the regular army, but he was not going to back one calling for the return of his long-time nemesis, Santa Anna, who had toppled him from power not once, but twice, in 1832 and 1841. Unable to link up with the garrison in Querétaro or capture the city, Márquez’ rebel army dwindled more through further desertions, and he retreated to the nearby hacienda of La Griega, hounded by loyal government troops led by Colonel Rafael Vásquez. Realizing his was a lost cause, Márquez decided to abandon his men after Vásquez secretly offered him a pass through the lines. When the remaining pronunciados realized

The Sierra Gorda Pronunciamientos  127 their leader had run away, they handed themselves in and brought the pronunciamiento to an end.60 The aforesaid pronunciamientos coincided with many peasant uprisings that between 1847 and 1850 spread around Quiroz’ rebellion, but they never coalesced or combined into a common general insurrectionary movement. Between June and September 1848, thanks to Tomás Mejía’s leadership style and disposition to address peasant grievances, campesino rebels joined forces with conservative military pronunciados. Mejía’s involvement in the Sierra Gorda rebellion not only proved critical in cementing the very agrarian-indigenous networks that gave him the popular following he enjoyed for two decades thereafter, but also helped give birth to an embryonic popular conservative movement in the region.

The Rise of Tomás Mejía Born on September 17, 1820, Mejía was the son of a well-established and locally respected cacique (political boss), prefect, and army officer from Pinal de los Amoles on the Querétaro side of the Sierra Gorda.61 Of Otomí heritage (his baptismal record described him as an “Indian”), his humble background mirrored that of Benito Juárez, the Zapotec-descended liberal lawyer and president (1857–1872).62 As one scholar put it, the two men “had roots in the country’s indigenous ethnic groups, clearly demonstrated in their physical characteristics. Each had a wide following beyond the elite of their respective parties. [. . .] [L]ike those of Juárez, Mejía’s origins were provincial. Both came from the deep sierra and maintained alliances there throughout their careers.”63 Mejía, however, would eventually represent the very Mexico—indigenous, Catholic, popular, crusading, and conservative—that Juárez and his cohorts wanted to eradicate. No wonder, then, that Juárez was intent on executing Mejía, one of the staunchest allies of Emperor Maximilian, when the French Intervention came to an end in June 1867.64 Following in his father’s footsteps, Mejía joined the army as a young man and spent his early years as a cavalry officer fighting the Apache between 1842 and 1845, from whom he borrowed the blood-curdling war screams with which he famously led his horsemen into the fray.65 The years spent combating the so-called indios bárbaros (barbaric Indians) of the Sierra Gorda also provided him with a profound knowledge of the region, and an understanding of guerrilla warfare he employed with striking success once the War of the Reforma got underway in 1857.66 Moreover, Mejía was a Mexican nationalist much in the way most santanista army officers were in the 1840s, seeing the army and its members as the authors and guarantors of independence, and the very embodiment of the nation.67 He was “recklessly brave” and threw himself wholeheartedly into fighting for his

128  Will Fowler country during the U.S.–Mexican War.68 Mejía saw action in the battle for the city of Monterrey (September 21–24, 1846), and at Angostura-Buena Vista, and was stationed in San Luis Potosí when news reached him of the fall of Mexico City in mid-September 1847. Like Santa Anna, who tried to keep the war going in Puebla and Oaxaca after U.S. troops had occupied the capital, and who described the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo as one “of eternal shame and bitter regret for every good Mexican,”69 Mejía rebelled in June 1848 out of an equally passionate sense of patriotic outrage at what he considered as a pathetic capitulation and betrayal by the moderado government. Writing nearly eleven years after that treaty, Mejía noted that the concessions Mexico had granted the U.S. to end the war threatened to bring about the disappearance of “our religion, our race, our customs, traditions and language, our families and our properties.”70 By this time Mejía no longer distinguished between puros and moderados. He viewed the 1859 McLane-Ocampo Treaty, signed by puro Melchor Ocampo during the War of the Reforma, and whereby Juárez’ Veracruz-based camp was willing to grant the U.S. free transit across various routes in the republic to secure its support against the conservative government in Mexico City, as an extension of the 1848 betrayal. Above all, Mejía is best remembered as an intransigent crusader who regarded the Catholic faith an intrinsic part of Mexican national identity. As one of his biographers put it, Mejía believed that “to attack religion meant attacking the Mexican patria, because religion explained everything: their culture, their customs, the gentle nature of the Mexican character, their generosity.”71 His religious fervor was intricately linked to his ardent nationalism, as the speeches he made throughout the Reforma included numerous references to religion and patria. Having risen up in arms against Ignacio Comonfort’s moderado government (1855–1857), Mejía commended his troops after they forcefully occupied Querétaro in mid-October 1856 for having routed the faction that “was hoping to secure its control [over the nation], corrupting its customs, denying the existence of the Supreme Maker of everything and affronting the ministers of the Church.” Mejía also celebrated the victory of those who “have the good fortune not to have known or practiced any religion other than the very one revealed to us by that same Supreme Maker to whom we owe the most profound and reverential respects.” The talk ended with his customary “LONG LIVE RELIGION, LONG LIVE THE PATRIA.”72 Given the importance this understanding of Catholicism had in provincial Mexico, it is not surprising that Mejía’s stance found significant support among the serranos who had pronounced against the anticlerical reforms of the 1833–1834 Congress, and then converged on the main square of Querétaro late in January 1847 to vociferously protest the decree issued on the 11th of that month authorizing the mortgaging or sale of ecclesiastical property. If Mejía went on to become one of the Reforma’s most vocal and tireless conservative generals, it was because he viewed the Catholic faith

The Sierra Gorda Pronunciamientos  129 and Church as sacrosanct and untouchable, and was prepared to give his life to defend it from the puros’ increasingly rampant anticlerical reformism. Mejía’s zealot-like devotion for Querétaro’s very own Virgin of the Pueblito became well-known, as he would cry out before going into battle “Let’s go muchachos [boys]! Attack in the name of my Madre Santísima (Holy Mother) of the Pueblito!”73 As one contemporary put it, by the late 1850s fundamentalist Catholic Mejía was the leader of a bunch of “bandidos religioneros (Bible-bashing bandits).”74 Historians, however, have practically ignored how Mejía’s June 1848 Plan of San José de los Amoles allowed him, for the first time, to combine conservative insurrectionary action and guerrilla warfare with a genuinely popular mobilization. In fact, and symptomatic of the extent to which the historiography has forgotten the post-U.S.–Mexican War years, is that neither of Mejía’s two biographers mention his June 1848 pronunciamiento, and one of them characterizes his Plan of Sierra Gorda of December 2, 1855 as “the first document of importance that he signed.”75 Three reasons, nevertheless, make the 1848 Plan of San José de los Amoles historically significant. First, the plan itself makes clear that Mejía—as a nationalist, patriot, and war veteran—felt completely and utterly betrayed by the moderado government. Second, that pronunciamiento also shows that Mejía, like so many of his contemporaries, still believed that only Santa Anna could put Mexico’s house in order and meaningfully keep up the war effort against the U.S.76 Finally, on this occasion Mejía first displayed an acute awareness of the social grievances that were at the heart of much of the agrarian violence that had spread across the Sierra Gorda. That he became the obvious face of the popular conservative movements of the 1850s–1860s was in great measure because of his pro-clerical stance and religious beliefs, but it was also, as became evident during the Sierra Gorda rebellion, due to his willingness to engage with the peasants’ calls to redistribute the land and wealth of those liberal hacendados who opposed him. Thus, on June 4, 1848, several months after Quiroz had parted ways with the Chaires and started terrorizing the gente de bien of the Sierra, and nearly two weeks after Mexican congressmen had ratified the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, Mejía and his troops joined up with the local community of the Mineral of San José de los Amoles, Jalpan, in his home state of Querétaro, and staged a pronunciamiento. The rebels ceased to recognize Herrera’s government (Article 1); declared they would continue to fight the war against the U.S. (Article 2); stressed that they would punish whoever opposed them, noting that if landowners did so they would confiscate their land and return it to their rightful [indigenous] owners (Article 3); and declared, again appealing to popular demands, that no more taxes would be paid to the current government (Article 4). While Articles 5 and 6 proffered the usual disposition not to displace or harm those authorities who supported them, and a commitment to circulate the plan both locally and nationally, Article 7 called on Mejía and the community leaders to meet

130  Will Fowler on the 20th so they could appoint a commission to approach a respected Mexican general “whose conduct in the present conflict with the enemy has not been tarnished” with a view to have him lead them.77 Although said general remained unnamed, it is evident Mejía was thinking of Santa Anna, who had fought in almost every major engagement of the U.S.–Mexican War and even attempted to keep up hostilities after Mexico City had fallen to the Americans. The resulting combined heterogeneous force of pronunciados and indigenous peasants succeeded in taking several towns across the Sierra Gorda. Mejía is credited with having mustered support by promising to address the agrarian problem, displaying a commitment to returning any liberalsympathizing hacendado-encroached lands to their original communal landholders.78 As the prefect of Tula reported, Mejía was responsible for starting an uprising that had, as one of its key aims, to expropriate the properties and wealth of all those who did not second his plan.79 However, Mejía’s control of the ongoing waves of rebellions that spread across the region was tenuous from the start. He had the backing of the local community near Jalpan, but further beyond he had not yet acquired the reputation or contacts to harness the multiple competing revolts into a single revolutionary movement. Mejía must have hoped he could exploit the Sierra Gorda’s popular grievances and channel local anger into backing for his national goals, but given that the “social base for the [movement consisted] fundamentally of Indians,” the agrarian demands of the insurgents went far beyond Mejía’s objectives.80 Similarly, as the rebellion spread, what mattered to the rebels and Indians was the defense of their lands, not whether General Herrera should remain in the presidential chair. Last, with the January 11, 1847 decree having been annulled and the moderado government refraining from pursuing further anticlerical measures, the religious fervor and anger that would fuel much of the popular conservative belligerence of the Reforma was absent in the 1848–1849 rebellions. With Mejía not drawn into calling upon the crusade-like rhetoric that would prove so effective and popular a few years later once the Reforma got underway, he was unable to transform the numerous competing peasant revolts into one single, Catholic, revolutionary movement. Given the inherent weaknesses of his rebellion, by late August 1848— with Jarauta and his followers executed, Paredes y Arrillaga gone missing, and Guanajuato recovered by government troops—Mejía realized that order had to be restored in the Sierra Gorda at all costs. That meant putting an end to Quiroz’ revolt, which still raged on. Furthermore, although willing to expropriate the property of liberal landowners, Mejía personally loathed Quiroz and what he stood for. He was a deserter, a traitor, and as he would note years later when having to quell a similar agrarian rebellion with caste war undertones led by one Vega in 1858, “the revolution would assume destructive proportions in all the villages just as in 1849 in the time of the rebel leader Quiroz.”81 Mejía thus accepted the amnesty Minister of

The Sierra Gorda Pronunciamientos  131 War Arista offered him. With the government unable to send more troops to crush the rebellion, Mejía assumed military command of the Sierra Gorda on September 28, 1848, and he ruthlessly pacified the region in just over a year. He crushed Quiroz’ forces in the first week of September 1849, and although Quiroz managed to escape, Mejía captured him late in November and ordered his execution that December 6.82 In so doing, Mejía displayed a commitment to enforcing law and order in the Sierra against ungodly “communist” outlaws like Quiroz. That he had also displayed a noteworthy sensitivity towards the agrarian demands of the Sierra found favor in the villages and communities ravaged by the conflict, and served him well once he became the champion of popular Catholic conservatism in the 1850s.

Conclusion Given that the largest corpus of pronunciamientos during the early national period were the centralist pro-fueros constellation of 1833–1835, it can be argued that there was such a thing as “popular centralists.” These individuals were members of the popular classes, be they urban or rural, who believed in defending corporate values and institutions such as the Church and the army. They were also devoutly Catholic, took pride in traditions and customs they had inherited from their elders, and were staunchly centralist (but still committed to forging a representative form of government). As this chapter has argued, one can think of a genealogy of popular conservatism, where the popular centralists of the mid-1830s evolved into the popular conservatives of the late 1840s. The pronunciamientos of the Sierra Gorda (1848–1849), particularly Mejía’s Plan of San José de los Amoles of June 4, 1848, on the back of the Otomís’ violent response to the anticlerical January 11, 1847 decree, substantiate the view that the centralists of the 1830s were proto-conservatives of sorts, and that the conservative rebels of the late 1840s were the original popular conservatives of the Reforma. Mejía’s pronunciamiento certainly confirms that an emergent vein of popular conservatism came to be voiced in provincial Mexico after the U.S.– Mexican War. It defended the patria, opposed moderado leadership and the treacherous peace treaty it had signed with U.S. officials, and offered to address agrarian concerns by targeting hacendados who sympathized with the government. Mejía’s 1848 rebellion may have been brief, but it set the tone for his later popular conservative movements. Following the triumph of the 1854 Ayutla Revolution, Mejía became the undisputed Catholic warlord of the Sierra and turned into a major headache for liberal leaders and supporters. By the end of the decade, as one scholar put it, “persons of distinction and property on the Jalpan to Río Verde side of the [Sierra Gorda] mountains feared [Mejía’s] capacity for inflaming social tensions among hacienda workers on lands owned by Liberal proprietors”; his military support, furthermore, came “from the sierra populace [who] remained personally loyal

132  Will Fowler to him.”83 His more-than-a decade-long dominance of the region began with the December 1855 Sierra Gorda pronunciamiento. Together with a group of “peaceful landowners and laborers” anxious to have “peace and order, [. . .] patria and religion for our children,” and “morality from our rulers,” Mejía then called for the defense of Church privileges. He rebelled against the liberals in reaction to the Juárez Law issued that November 23, a decree that essentially put an end to ecclesiastical and military courts in a bid to turn the secular state into the sole dispenser of justice, and which conservatives interpreted as an attack on the clerical and military fueros. During the next twelve years Mejía led popular conservative insurgent forces in the area, challenging the liberals when they held Mexico City (1855–1857 and 1860–1863), or serving as the conservative government’s strongman (1858–1860) or as one of the Second Empire’s leading generals (1863–1867) when they did not. In the final analysis, while Mejía was executed alongside Emperor Maximilian and General Miramón in June 1867—thus earning the moniker of traitor in Mexico’s official history—a fairer assessment of who he was and what he stood for came from Porfirian historian Justo Sierra. He remembered Mejía as an Indian warlord who was “always loyal to his ideal, having fought and died for a cause he identified with his unmovable religious faith. He saw himself as Christ’s soldier, and fought with the mettle of the crusaders and the faith of the martyrs.”84 Recent research, moreover, has enabled historians to contextualize Mejía with even greater precision. According to James Cypher, “Conservative mobilization in the Sierra [Gorda] countryside did not so much begin in 1855 as continue its trajectory from 1853 with same central actors: José López Uraga and Tomás Mejía.”85 I would go even further than Cypher and note that such mobilization actually started in 1848, when Tomás Mejía, albeit briefly, threw in his lot with the rebellion and gave voice and direction to a movement that was engaged both with upholding conservative values and addressing agrarian demands. The combination of fundamentalist conservative Catholic beliefs and agrarianindigenous mobilization was to prove, under Mejía’s leadership, a particularly explosive and resilient force in the Sierra Gorda for well over a decade thereafter, and its origins are to be found in the post-war “forgotten years.”

Notes 1. Only two studies to date have engaged with this concept—Smith’s The Roots of Conservatism, and Van Oosterhout’s “Popular Conservatism.” Popular liberalism, in contrast, has been amply studied since the early 1990s. See, by Thomson, “Popular Aspects of Liberalism,” and (with David G. LaFrance), Patriotism, Politics, and Popular Liberalism. Guardino has penned Peasants, Politics, and The Time of Liberty, while Caplan authored Indigenous Citizens. 2. The first quote comes from “Nuestra profesión de fe al Memorial Histórico,” in García Cantú (ed.), El pensamiento de la reacción mexicana, 237–242; and the second appeared in El Universal, January 9, 1850. For the birth of the

The Sierra Gorda Pronunciamientos  133 Conservative party, see Vázquez, “Centralistas, conservadores,” in Fowler and Morales Moreno (eds.), El conservadurismo mexicano, 123. 3. Rodríguez O., “We are now the True Spaniards,” 3. 4. See Guardino, Peasants, Politics. 5. Thomson defined it as a “liberalism [that] was not only embraced by gente de razón—by an emerging mestizo bourgeoisie—but was also accommodated within Indian communities (not necessarily the most acculturated ones).” See his “Popular Aspects of Liberalism,” 281. 6. Guardino, Peasants, Politics, 217. 7. See Chapter 1 of this volume (“Setting the Scene”), as well as Fowler’s and Morales Moreno’s “Introducción: Una (re)definición,” in their edited volume El conservadurismo mexicano, 11–12. 8. Smith, The Roots of Conservatism, 79. 9. Van Oosterhout, “Popular Conservatism,” 6, and 305. 10. The pronunciamiento was a written protest, often drafted as a list of grievances or demands, which could result in armed rebellion if the government did not attend to them. Fowler, Independent Mexico, particularly 132–187. 11. Most pronunciamientos analyzed in this study can be accessed online at http:// arts.st-andrews.ac.uk/pronunciamientos/. 12. At a village level corporatism was very much part of the popular centralism of the mid-1830s, and the dynamics of the pronunciamiento practice lent itself to corporate manifestations and action, giving a communal voice to specific popular groups from a few given pueblos. Guerra, “El pronunciamiento.” 13. “Acta del Ayuntamiento, labradores y vecinos de la municipalidad de Coronanco,” June 4, 1834, in Archivo General de la Nación, Mexico/Gobernación (hereafter cited as AGNM/G), 1834, caja 203, f. 27. 14. “Pronunciamiento de la Ciudad de Cinco Señores, que secunda el hecho en Durango para apoyar el sistema centralista,” July 6, 1835, in Archivo General de la Nación, Mexico/ Historia (hereafter cited as AGNM/H), v. 560, cuaderno 20. 15. The quoted phrases are taken from “Acta del pronunciamiento del Mineral de Taxco en favor del centralismo,” June 1, 1835, in Archivo Histórico de la Secretaría de Defensa Nacional (hereafter cited as AHSDN), Exp. XI.481.3/1120, f. 12. 16. While affronted priests probably spearheaded many such pronunciamientos, it remains difficult to determine whether clerics did so by choice or as obliged by circumstances. Staples, “Clerics as Politicians,” in Rodríguez O. (ed.), Mexico in the Age of Democratic Revolutions. Also see Connaughton’s Entre la voz de Dios. As Jesuit priest and historian Mariano Cuevas argued as long ago as 1940, when the 1833 pronunciamiento cycle began “the Clergy may well have taken the lead but they did not need to because the general uprising of the people and the army was spontaneous.” See his Historia, 597. 17. Connaughton, Ideología y sociedad. 18. Connaughton, “La larga cuesta,” in Fowler and Morales Moreno (eds.), El conservadurismo mexicano. 19. Staples, “Clerics as Politicians,” in Rodríguez O. (ed.), Mexico in the Age of Democratic Revolutions, 241; and Connaughton, Entre la voz de Dios. 20. Fowler, “Valentín Gómez Farías,” 47. 21. “Proclama del general Paredes y Arrillaga, al levantarse en armas contra el gobierno de la república, protestando contra la aprobación de los tratados de paz con los Estados Unidos,” Guanajuato, June 15, 1848, in Vázquez (ed.), Planes, 4: 388. 22. See Article 5 of the “Plan de Guanajuato, resultado de la fracasada conspiración del teniente D. Eligio Ortiz, desconociendo al gobierno del general Herrera llamando al general Santa Anna,” July 9, 1848, in Vázquez (ed.), Planes, 4: 389.

134  Will Fowler 23. “Plan de San Andrés” (Toluca, state of Mexico), July 21, 1849, in AGNM/G, 1849, caja 370, exp. 23, f. 3; and Van Oosterhout, “Popular Conservatism.” 24. A recent study of these revolts is Cypher, “Reconstituting Community.” For the Sierra Gorda rebellion, see Vázquez Mantecón, “Espacio social”; and, by Reina, Las rebeliones, 291–324, and “The Sierra Gorda,” in Katz (ed.), Riot, Rebellion. 25. AHSDN, Exp. XI/481.3/2855. Also see El Siglo XIX, May 12, 1849. The quote comes from Reina, “The Sierra Gorda,” in Katz (ed.), Riot, Rebellion, 280–281. 26. “Plan de Tantoyuca,” January 7, 1848, in Vázquez (ed.), Planes, 4: 386. 27. Meyer, Problemas campesinos; and Tutino, From Insurrection, 215–258, and 355–356. An overview of hacienda growth and development is offered in Taylor, Landlord and Peasant; Brading, Haciendas and Ranchos; and Bazant, Cinco haciendas. Also see Costeloe, “Mariano Arizcorreta,” 64–69. 28. Reina, “The Sierra Gorda,” in Katz (ed.), Riot, Rebellion, 275. 29. Tutino, From Insurrection, 252–253. 30. “Pronunciamiento federalista de San Luis Potosí,” April 14, 1837, AHSDN, Exp. XI/481.3/1271, ff. 124–126. Additional details about this rebellion are in Cañedo Gamboa, “Ponciano Arriaga,” in Fowler (ed.), Malcontents, Rebels. 31. Cypher, “Reconstituting Community,” 17. 32. To appreciate how military conscription affected the state of San Luis Potosí late in the summer of 1846, see Calvillo and Monroy, “Entre regionalismo y federalismo,” in Vázquez (coord.), México al tiempo, 423–424. 33. Thompson, Recollections of Mexico, 172–173. 34. González Navarro, Anatomía del poder, 38–41; and Reina, “The Sierra Gorda,” in Katz (ed.), Riot, Rebellion, 276–281. 35. For the decree, and the reaction it provoked in Mexico City, see Santoni, Mexicans at Arms, 182–195; and Costeloe, “The Mexican Church.” 36. AHSDN, Exp. XI/481.3/2337: “Partes de la comandancia general del estado de Querétaro, dando cuenta del motín ocurrido con motivo de la publicación del decreto en el que se autoriza la ocupación de bienes eclesiásticos. Año de 1847,” in particular ff. 2–3, Pánfilo Barasorda to Minister of War, Querétaro, January 19, 1847; ff. 4–5, [Barasorda] Commander General of Querétaro [to Minister of War], n/p, January 20, 1847; ff. 27–28 [Barasorda] Commander General of Querétaro [to Minister of War], Querétaro, January 19, 1847; and f. 26, Orden General del 20 al 21 de enero de 1847 ([Querétaro]: Imp. de José Perea, 1847). 37. González Navarro, Anatomía del poder, 38–41; Reina, “The Sierra Gorda,” in Katz (ed.), Riot, Rebellion, 280–281; and Cypher, “Reconstituting Community,” 17–18. 38. Anonymous, Origen y progreso de la revolución de Sierra Gorda, quoted in McDonald, “The Experience of the Pronunciamiento,” 215. 39. Corbett, “La política potosina,” in Vázquez (coord.), México al tiempo, 39; and Reina, “The Sierra Gorda,” in Katz (ed.), Riot, Rebellion, 282. 40. In San Luis Potosí the tenants of the Albercas hacienda, inspired by Quiroz’ rebellion, rose en masse against their hacendado, José González Cosío, and engrossed his forces after Quiroz promised to make them property holders. For a brief spell of time Mejía’s own revolt of June-August 1848 appeared to be an extension of Quiroz’ movement. Quiroz also tried to link his rebellion to General Paredes y Arrillaga’s June–July 1848 pronunciamiento, but the latter would have none of it because, as I discuss subsequently, he despised everything Quiroz and his unruly horde of Indians and campesinos represented. Nevertheless, a twelve-article plan that linked Quiroz to Paredes y Arrillaga—in all likelihood a forgery because the conservative general had gone into hiding by then— circulated in Xichú on October 15, 1848, with it appearing signed by the “Most

The Sierra Gorda Pronunciamientos  135 Excellent General in Chief of the First Section of the Regenerating Army of Liberty and Constitutional Independence, Don Mariano Paredes y Arrillaga, or by he who seconds his voice, General Don Eleuterio Quiroz.” The plan opposed the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, the sale of national territory, and called for the confiscation of the properties of supporters of the territorial cession. It also stressed the need to defend the Roman Catholic faith as well as the federal system, and was against any attempt to impose forced loans on the dispossessed. In addition, the plan noted that elected authorities and private property were to be duly respected while demanding the execution of corrupt officials who accepted bribes. Reina, “The Sierra Gorda,” in Katz (ed.), Riot, Rebellion, 284. 41. Quiroz may well have been manipulated by his ally given that Verástegui apparently wrote the plan in an attempt “to gain greater access to political power.” McDonald, “The Experience of the Pronunciamiento,” 230; and González Navarro, Anatomía del poder, 41. 42. The plan was published in El Siglo XIX, March 30, 1849. Details on Santa Anna’s exile are in Fowler, Santa Anna, 279-281. 43. Corbett, “La política potosina,” in Vázquez (coord.), México al tiempo, 479. 44. Reports of his activities can be found in El Monitor Republicano, March 10, 18, 20, and 31, 1848. 45. Costeloe, “The Triangular Revolt”; and Vázquez, “In Search of Power,” in Fowler (ed.), Malcontents, Rebels. 46. Soto, La conspiración. 47. Mariano Paredes y Arrillaga to José María Tornel, Guadalajara, May 10, 1842, Mariano Paredes y Arrillaga Papers (Nettie Lee Benson Collection, University of Texas, Austin) 140, folder 143. 48. Costeloe, The Central Republic, 218. For a brief discussion of Paredes y Arrillaga’s ideas, see Fowler, Mexico in the Age of Proposals, 73–75. 49. 1830s Carlism in Spain was a particularly aggressive and uncompromising defense of the Catholic Church vis-à-vis the threat posed by the liberals (and their successors) who proclaimed Spain’s 1812 secularizing Cádiz Constitution. Carlists also fought for the right of Ferdinand VII’s brother, Don Carlos, to assume the throne following Ferdinand’s death in 1833; their enemies supported an arrangement whereby Ferdinand’s widow, María Cristina, would serve as regent until their daughter Isabella came of age. Carr, Spain, 184–185; and Diccionario de historia, 3: 797–798. 50. Granados, Sueñan las piedras, 61; and Levinson, Wars within War, 87. 51. González Navarro, Anatomía del poder, 234. 52. “Plan de Lagos,” June 1, 1848, in El Siglo XIX, June 19, 1848. 53. “Proclama del general Paredes y Arrillaga,” June 15, 1848, in Vázquez (ed.), Planes, 4: 388. Also see Cotner, The Military and Political, 174–186. Two days later, from within Guanajuato, a lieutenant named Eligio Ortiz tried to launch a different pronunciamiento which, building on Paredes y Arrillaga and Jarauta’s insurrection, hoped to give the rebellion a new direction. The plan confiscated from Ortiz when the conspiracy was uncovered called for Santa Anna to return and serve as dictator, for General Nicolás Bravo to serve as temporary president while Santa Anna made his way back from exile, for the annulment of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, and for Church properties and assets to be respected. Little is known about Ortiz and the circumstances surrounding his foiled plot. However, although Paredes y Arrillaga prevented Ortiz’ pronunciamiento from prospering, the latter’s demand for the return of Santa Anna resonated with Tomás Mejía’s and Leonardo Márquez’ respective plans. “Plan de Guanajuato, resultado de la

136  Will Fowler fracasada conspiración del teniente D. Eligio Ortiz,” July 9, 1848, in Vázquez (ed.), Planes, 4: 389. 54. Andrews, Entre la espada y la Constitución, 318. The quote, from an anonymous Querétaro-based army officer, is in a March 15, 1848 letter that Bustamante sent to the Minister of Foreign Relations, and appeared in El Monitor Republicano, March 31, 1848. 55. Anastasio Bustamante to the Minister of War, Guanajuato, July 24, 1848, in El Correo Nacional, September 7, 1848. 56. Andrews, Entre la espada y la Constitución, 319–322. Paredes y Arrillaga, meanwhile, managed to escape. Although his disappearance led many to suspect he would join the other Sierra Gorda movements and generate further instability, Paredes y Arrillaga instead sought refuge in a Mexico City convent where he died a year later. El Monitor Republicano, August 9, 1848. For Jarauta, also see Diccionario Porrúa, 2: 1573–1574. 57. Fowler, Santa Anna, 281. 58. Arista, Proyecto. Also see Chapter 1 of this volume, “Setting the Scene.” 59. “Pronunciamiento de Sierra Alta,” February 11, 1849, in Vázquez (ed.), Planes, 4: 393. 60. Mejía subsequently captured Márquez in Popotla but released him upon being presented with a safe conduct signed by Bustamante. Cotner, The Military and Political, 190–192. 61. For Mejía, see Díaz Ramírez, La vida heroica; Hamnett, “Mexican Conservatives”; Hamnett, “The Formation of a Mexican Conservative,” in Deans-Smith and Van Young (eds.), Mexican Soundings; and Reid Torres, El general Tomás Mejía. 62. Quoted in Reid Torres, El general Tomás Mejía, 1. Mejía never referred to himself as an Otomí (just as Juárez did not describe himself as a Zapotec), but rather as an “indomestizo with Otomí blood.” Hamnett, “Benito Juárez,” in Fowler (ed.), Gobernantes mexicanos, 1: 324. Also see Thomson, “La contrarreforma,” in Fowler and Morales Moreno (eds.), El conservadurismo mexicano. 63. Hamnett, “The Formation of a Mexican Conservative,” in Deans-Smith and Van Young (eds.), Mexican Soundings, 122–123. 64. Hamnett, “La ejecución del emperador,” in Jáuregui and Serrano Ortega (eds.), Historia y nación. Vol. 2. Política y diplomacia, 2: 242–243. 65. Reid Torres, El general Tomás Mejía, 5. 66. Hamnett, “Mexican Conservatives,” 188. Such was Mejía’s mastery of irregular warfare that, except for one 1859 battle, he was never beaten militarily until General Mariano Escobedo’s liberal forces captured the city of Querétaro in May 1867. 67. Fowler, Tornel and Santa Anna, 151–152. 68. Ridley, Maximilian and Juárez, 152. 69. For Santa Anna’s attempts to prolong the conflict (which belie the subsequent misguided perception that he lost the war with the U.S. on purpose), see Fowler, Santa Anna, 278–281; the quote is in Santa Anna, Mi historia militar y política, in García (ed.), Documentos inéditos, 59: 42. 70. Tomás Mejía to Miguel Miramón, Querétaro, January 29, 1860, AHSDN, Exp. XI/481.3/3700, ff. 950–55; and Hamnett, “Mexican Conservatives,” 189. 71. Díaz Ramírez, La vida heroica, 27. 72. “El general en jefe de las fuerzas de la Sierra Gorda a sus subordinados,” Querétaro, October 15, 1856, in Díaz Ramírez, La vida heroica, 30–31. 73. Reed Torres, El general Tomás Mejía, 5. 74. José María Arteaga to Minister of War, Querétaro, January 10, 1857, AHSDN, Exp. XI/481.3/3961, f. 12, quoted in Hamnett, “Mexican Conservatives,” 192.

The Sierra Gorda Pronunciamientos  137 75. See Reid Torres’ El general Tomás Mejía; and Díaz Ramírez’ La vida heroica. The quote is from Reid Torres, El general Tomás Mejía, 35. 76. Santa Anna had on two previous occasions (1834 and 1847) reversed the puros’ anticlerical reforms. His military victories were remembered more than his defeats at the time. He had repulsed the Spanish and the French armies in 1829 and 1838, respectively, and albeit unsuccessfully, led the Mexican army in the Northern, Eastern, and Valley of Mexico campaigns during the war with the U.S. Fowler, Santa Anna, 352–355. 77. “Acta del Mineral de San José de los Amoles,” June 4, 1848, reported and reproduced in letter from Rafael María Villagrán to Minister of War, Tula, June 22, 1848, AHSDN, Exp. XI/481.3/2827, ff. 4–7. 78. Reina, “The Sierra Gorda,” in Katz (ed.), Riot, Rebellion, 281. 79. Prefect of Tula to Commander General of the State of Mexico, Tula, June 26, 1848, AHSDN, Exp. XI/481.3/2827/ff. 8–9. 80. Reina, “The Sierra Gorda,” in Katz (ed.), Riot, Rebellion, 279. 81. Hamnett, “Mexican Conservatives,” 196. 82. “Informe a la cámara de diputados de los servicios prestados por Tomás Mejía en la campaña de Sierra Gorda, y solicitando su promoción al grado de teniente coronel,” Mexico City, February 28, 1849, AHSDN, Exp. XI/481.3/2921, f. 7; and “Parte del comandante de escuadrón Tomás Mejía a la Comandancia General del Estado de Querétaro sobre la acción de La Meza de Juárez,” Tolimán, September 6, 1849, AHSDN, Exp. XI/481.3/3028, f. 5. 83. Hamnett, “Mexican Conservatives,” 193–194. 84. Quoted in Díaz Ramírez, La vida heroica, 75. 85. Cypher, “Reconstituting Community,” 29, and 51.

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138  Will Fowler Connaughton, Brian F. Ideología y sociedad en Guadalajara (1788–1853). Mexico City: UNAM, 1992. ———. “La larga cuesta del conservadurismo mexicano, del disgusto resentido a la propuesta partidaria, 1789–1854.” In Will Fowler, and Humberto Morales Moreno (eds.), El conservadurismo mexicano en el siglo XIX. Puebla: BUAP, 1999. 169–186. ———. Entre la voz de Dios y el llamado de la patria: Religión, identidad y ciudadanía en México, Siglo XIX. Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 2010. Corbett, Barbara M. “La política potosina y la guerra con Estados Unidos.” In Josefina Zoraida Vázquez (coord.), México al tiempo de su guerra con Estados Unidos (1846–1848). Mexico City: Secretaría de Relaciones Exteriores, El Colegio de México, and Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1997. 455–480. Costeloe, Michael P. “The Mexican Church and the Rebellion of the Polkos.” Hispanic American Historical Review 46:2 (May 1966): 170–178. ———. “The Triangular Revolt in Mexico and the Fall of Anastasio Bustamante, August–October 1841.” Journal of Latin American Studies 20:2 (November 1988): 337–360. ———. The Central Republic, 1835–1846: Hombres de Bien in the Age of Santa Anna. New York: Cambridge University Press, 1993. ———. “Mariano Arizcorreta and Peasant Unrest in the State of Mexico, 1849.” Bulletin of Latin American Research 15:1 (January 1996): 63–79. Cotner, Thomas Ewing. The Military and Political Career of José Joaquín de Herrera, 1792–1854. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1949. Cuevas, Mariano. Historia de la nación mexicana. 3rd ed. Mexico City: Porrúa, 1967. Cypher, James. “Reconstituting Community: Local Religion, Political Culture, and Rebellion in Mexico’s Sierra Gorda, 1846–1880.” PhD diss., Indiana University, 2007. Díaz Ramírez, Fernando. La vida heroica del general Tomás Mejía. Mexico City: Editorial Jus, 1970. Diccionario de historia de España. 2nd revised and enlarged edition. 3 vols. Madrid: Revista de Occidente, 1969. Diccionario Porrúa: Historia, biografía y geografía de México. 5th ed. 3 vols. Mexico City: Porrúa, 1986. Fowler, Will. “Valentín Gómez Farías: Perceptions of Radicalism in Independent Mexico, 1821–1847.” Bulletin of Latin American Research 15:1 (January 1996): 39–62. ———. Mexico in the Age of Proposals, 1821–1853. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1998. ———. Tornel and Santa Anna. The Writer and the Caudillo, Mexico 1795–1853. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 2000. ———. Santa Anna of Mexico. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2007. ———. Independent Mexico: The Pronunciamiento in the Age of Santa Anna, 1821–1858. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2016. Fowler, Will, and Humberto Morales Moreno. “Introducción: Una (re)definición del conservadurismo mexicano del siglo diecinueve.” In Will Fowler, and Humberto Morales Moreno (eds.), El conservadurismo mexicano en el siglo XIX. Puebla: BUAP, 1999. 11–36.

The Sierra Gorda Pronunciamientos  139 García Cantú, Gastón (ed.). El pensamiento de la reacción mexicana. Historia documental. Tomo primero (1810–1859). Mexico City: UNAM, 1994. González Navarro, Moisés. Anatomía del poder en México, 1848–1853. 2nd ed. Mexico City: El Colegio de México, 1983. Granados, Luis Fernando. Sueñan las piedras: Alzamiento ocurrido en la ciudad de México, 14, 15 y 16 de septiembre de 1847. Mexico City: Ediciones Era/ Conaculta/INAH, 2003. Guardino, Peter F. Peasants, Politics, and the Formation of Mexico’s National State: Guerrero, 1800–1857. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1996. ———. The Time of Liberty: Popular Political Culture in Oaxaca, 1750–1850. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2005. Guerra, François-Xavier. “El pronunciamiento en México: Prácticas e imaginarios.” Travaux et Recherches dans les Amerique de Centre 37 (juin 2000): 15–26. Hamnett, Brian. “La ejecución del emperador Maximiliano de Habsburgo y el republicanismo mexicano.” In Luis Jáuregui, and José Antonio Serrano Ortega (eds.), Historia y nación. Vol. 2. Política y diplomacia en el siglo XIX mexicano. Mexico City: El Colegio de México, 1998. 227–244. ———. “Mexican Conservatives, Clericals, and Soldiers: The ‘Traitor’ Tomás Mejía through Reform and Empire, 1855–1867.” Bulletin of Latin American Research 20:2 (April 2001): 187–209. ———. “The Formation of a Mexican Conservative Leader: Tomás Mejía, 1840– 1855.” In Susan Deans-Smith, and Eric Van Young (eds.), Mexican Soundings: Essays in Honour of David A. Brading. London: Institute for the Study of the Americas, 2007. 122–139. ———. “Benito Juárez: Técnicas para permanecer en el poder.” In Will Fowler (ed.), Gobernantes mexicanos. 2 vols. Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 2008. 1: 303–335. Levinson, Irving W. Wars within War: Mexican Guerrillas, Domestic Elites, and the United States of America, 1846–1848. Fort Worth: Texas Christian University Press, 2005. McDonald, Kerry. “The Experience of the Pronunciamiento in San Luis Potosí, 1821–1849.” PhD diss., University of St. Andrews, 2011. Meyer, Jean. Problemas campesinos y revueltas agrarias en México, 1821–1910. Mexico City: SEP, 1973. Reid Torres, Luis. El general Tomás Mejía frente a la doctrina Monroe: La Guerra de Reforma, la intervención y el imperio a través del archivo inédito del caudillo conservador queretano. Mexico City: Porrúa, 1989. Reina, Leticia. Las rebeliones campesinas en México, 1819–1906. Mexico City: Siglo XXI, 1980. ———. “The Sierra Gorda Peasant Rebellion, 1847–50.” In Friedrich Katz (ed.), Riot, Rebellion, and Revolution: Rural Social Conflict in Mexico. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1988. 269–294. Ridley, Jasper. Maximilian and Juárez. London: Phoenix Press, 2001. Rodríguez O., Jaime E. “We are now the True Spaniards”: Sovereignty, Revolution, Independence, and the Emergence of the Federal Republic of Mexico, 1808–1824. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2012. Santa Anna, Antonio López de. Mi historia militar y política 1810–1874: Memorias inéditas. In Genaro García (ed.), Documentos inéditos o muy raros para la

140  Will Fowler historia de México. Vol. 59: Antonio López de Santa Anna. Mexico City: Porrúa, 1991. 1–118. Santoni, Pedro. Mexicans at Arms: Puro Federalists and the Politics of War, 1845– 1848. Fort Worth: Texas Christian University Press, 1996. Smith, Benjamin T. The Roots of Conservatism in Mexico: Catholicism, Society, and Politics in the Mixteca Baja, 1750–1962. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2012. Soto, Miguel. La conspiración monárquica en México, 1845–1846. Mexico City: EOSA, 1988. Staples, Anne. “Clerics as Politicians: Church, State, and Political Power in Independent Mexico.” In Jaime E. Rodríguez O. (ed.), Mexico in the Age of Democratic Revolutions, 1750–1850. Boulder & London: Lynne Rienner Publisher, 1994. 223–241. Taylor, William B. Landlord and Peasant in Colonial Oaxaca. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1972. Thompson, Waddy. Recollections of Mexico. New York & London: Wiley & Putnam, 1847. Thomson, Guy P.C. “Popular Aspects of Liberalism in Mexico, 1848–1888.” Bulletin of Latin American Research 10:3 (July 1991): 265–292. ———. “La contrarreforma en Puebla, 1854–1886.” In Will Fowler, and Humberto Morales Moreno (eds.), El conservadurismo mexicano en el siglo XIX. Puebla: BUAP, 1999. 239–263. Thomson, Guy P.C. (with David G. LaFrance). Patriotism, Politics, and Popular Liberalism in Nineteenth-Century Mexico: Juan Francisco Lucas and the Puebla Sierra. Wilmington, DE: Scholarly Resources, 1999. Tutino, John. From Insurrection to Revolution in Mexico: Social Bases of Agrarian Violence, 1750–1940. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1988. Van Oosterhout, Keith Aaron. “Popular Conservatism in Mexico: Religion, Land, and Popular Politics in Nayarit and Querétaro, 1750–1873.” PhD diss., Michigan State University, 2014. Vázquez Mantecón, Carmen. “Espacio social y crisis política: La Sierra Gorda 1850–1855.” Mexican Studies/Estudios Mexicanos 9:1 (Winter 1993): 47–70. Vázquez, Josefina Zoraida. “Centralistas, conservadores y monarquistas 1830– 1853.” In Will Fowler, and Humberto Morales Moreno (eds.), El conservadurismo mexicano en el siglo XIX (1810–1910). Puebla: BUAP, 1999. 115–133. ———. “In Search of Power: The Pronunciamientos of General Mariano Paredes y Arrillaga.” In Will Fowler (ed.), Malcontents, Rebels, and Pronunciados: The Politics of Insurrection in Nineteenth-Century Mexico. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2012. 171–204. Vázquez, Josefina Zoraida (ed.). Planes en la nación mexicana. Libro cuatro: 1841– 1854. Mexico City: Senado de la República/El Colegio de México, 1987.

6 To Whom We Now Turn The Problem of Leadership in Southeastern Mexico’s Age of Transition, 1848–1855 Terry Rugeley “Where did we go wrong?” This, the perennial question of agonized parents and losing soccer teams, was also the dilemma facing Mexico in the fateful year of 1848 when the nation signed away some two-fifths of its territory to the United States. That loss topped off the numerous pronunciamientos (revolts) of the 1830s and 1840s, and the indigenous peasant rebellions and splashy filibustering expeditions that spun out of those wars. A resolution of sorts arrived in 1855 when a new liberal government, far more hard-nosed than earlier counterparts, began the arduous process of dismantling colonial corporatism and imposing, by force if necessary, a way of life based on individual initiative and private property rights. Between the 1848 cession and the 1855 liberal triumph that launched the Reforma—a revolution which proved considerably less conclusive than its proponents had hoped—lay seven lost years of the dolorous question. Few regions felt the problem as keenly as the southeast, where legitimate governing institutions weakened or even collapsed in the regional nodes of Yucatán, Campeche, Tabasco, and Chiapas. To whom, in such moments, did people turn? And why? And finally, to what consequence? This chapter explores five forms of leadership that operated before, during, and in the wake of the aforesaid conflicts: The patriarchal, the militia-based, the charismatic, the proconsular, and the professional. Collectively, they point to profoundly fractured societies in states of rapid transition—a problem throughout nineteenth-century Latin America, but in this case heightened and complicated by southeastern Mexico’s overall poverty, deep ethnic divides, and its often-strained relationship with national power. An attempt to understand the five forms of leadership thus returns us to the questions stated above, only now directed toward a region defined by conditions considerably different from those of a place like Mexico City. From what social class did each form emerge? What was its ideological orientation? What was its base of support? What circumstances favored its emergence? What were the personal styles of governance associated with each form, its strengths and weaknesses? And finally, what were the legacies of these five forms of leadership for later southeastern society?

142  Terry Rugeley The message here is simple: Leadership in the so-called años olvidados (forgotten years) followed a logical evolution from what came before. It was born out of the failures of earlier governance and the seemingly habitual catastrophic consequences of that governance. With one important exception (Chiapas, a case as instructive as it is different), leadership during the period fell to military proconsuls, the so-called comandantes militares imposed by the national government. They invoked military solutions to what were essentially social and civilian problems, with predictably mixed results. The comandantes succeeded at first, because order was necessary before further advances could be made. In all circumstances, however, leadership during the años olvidados faltered in the larger stretch for its inability to establish any definitive consensus over the more tempestuous issues of the day, for its failure to titrate the right dose of social conservatism, and above all for its sheer lack of some institutional process that could perpetuate its own gains and perspectives. And the provinces that comprise southeastern Mexico followed varied paths. They fit the remark of surprised Europhile diplomat Henry Kissinger when leading then U.S. President Ronald Reagan’s 1983 commission on how to promote development in the five Central American nations; that they were all different. In some places proconsular leadership came early and stayed late. Elsewhere it materialized for a moment and was gone, while in still other locales it failed to arrive at all, as provincials tackled the same issues, often with similar methods, through strictly civilian processes. Regional variations grew from the squabbles and schisms that came before, matters that in turn had originated from differences in geography and ethnic composition, with flat-out inadvertency also playing a generous role.

East of Veracruz, West of the Rising Sun The southeast was part of Mexico and at the same time a unique and different world, like some incongruent appendage that nature had fastened with glue. It consisted of three provinces: Yucatán, Tabasco, and Chiapas. Of these, Yucatán boasted the largest population, at once the most international and (rivaling Chiapas) the most indigenous of presences. Maya peoples made the place what it was, with their vast archaeological heritage, their distinctive language of “sh-” sounds and glottal stops, their close-knit relationships with rain and field gods, and a system of slash-and-burn agriculture that the millennia had honed to a hardy perfection.1 Flat as a tortilla and with no geographical barriers, Yucatán possessed but a single Maya dialect and a single rural lifestyle. Because of its huge coastline and geographic centrality, the peninsula formed the crossroads of the southeast; partly Mexico, partly Central America, partly Spain, but also washed by currents from the Caribbean, Great Britain (via its inimitable hybrid colony, Belize, or British Honduras), and even a drop or two of the U.S. Time and turmoil would eventually splinter off Campeche

To Whom We Now Turn  143 and Quintana Roo, but without crafting fundamentally different accents or cultures, so the peninsula would forever consist of Siamese triplet states.2 The Spanish conquistadors and their descendants lived as encomenderos (recipients of Indian labor and tribute), but the peninsula’s poverty of natural resources limited them to accepting gimpy offerings like eggs, honey, wax, and assorted foodstuffs . . . hardly the treasures that had brought men half-way across the globe. Tabasco—river country, to coin a term—presented the most anomalous of the three provinces, with a geography, agriculture, and social landscape that were all its own. The only place in Mexico characterized by an excess of water, the province grew up along the arabesque branches and tributaries of the Grijalva and Usumacinta rivers, both with catchments reaching far into the Guatemalan interior.3 Ethnic composition had fragmented into ChontalMayas, Zoques, and Nahuatl-speakers before contact with Spanish explorers, supplemented by occasional visits from the elusive Lacandóns of the riverine interior. Nothing here happened efficiently.4 A colonial cacao boom promoted both an early hacienda system and a precocious mestizaje, that peculiar blending of Spanish and Indian blood which has come to define so much of Mexican society; land split into small properties nestled amid bends and twists in the rivers, while indigenous peoples lost that overwhelming majority status, together with the cultural unity, that characterized Yucatec Mayas. Tabasco possessed the fewest people, while its mosquito-borne contagions admitted relatively few outsiders. Various problems came to beset Tabasco by the 1820s. Its cacao economy had begun to decline by then. Residents railed against a Mexican national government whose internal tariffs they held responsible for provincial decline, but the real issue lay in cheaper and sweeter imports from the Venezuelan coast, the stuff that had made families like that of the famed Simón Bolívar rich as sultans.5 Patricians of this seldom visited province came in two fundamental shapes and sizes: A well-to-do commercial class ensconced in the city of San Juan Bautista (today Villahermosa), and rough-cut planters who preferred to reside in their estates, keeping watch over the cacao orchards and sipping aguardiente (hard liquor) in the afternoons. The federalist itch—that overwhelming desire for regional autonomy so common in nation’s first decades—afflicted them both, but more so the latter, who possessed no real connection with waist-coated creole highbrows of Mexico City, the country’s grand and distant capital.6 The province of Chiapas resembled a jumbled miniature of the South American continent, with a narrow Pacific coastline, high ranges that endured cold winters, a huge river basin, and a long, gradual fade-off into an eastern rainforest. Above all, Chiapans were a people born of mountains. Centuries spent in climbing uphill and downhill had rendered them closed, even xenophobic. In other regards, Chiapas’ formidable geography split Maya culture into five main groups (Tzeltal, Tzotzil, Tojolabal, Chol, and Lacandón, the last of these concealed in a riverine rainforest that few

144  Terry Rugeley outsiders would penetrate until century’s end.)7 Like their Maya counterparts in Yucatán, they selectively absorbed parts of the Catholic religion, placing the annual liturgical cycle alongside agricultural rhythms as the basis of community life. Chiapas’ emerging provincial political life pitted the ancient colonial capital of San Cristóbal (originally Ciudad Real) against a more modern, Mexico-oriented, rival city of Tuxtla: the highlands versus the plains; prelates and tributary lords versus merchants, public servants, and newly rich hacendados (large landowners). Neither group advanced some multicultural dream, as both lived at the expense of the indigenous peoples in different ways. The more conservative highlanders had fattened on tribute, or else on the repartimiento de mercancías (the forced sale of merchandise used to leverage Indians into the workforce).8 The practice had ended by the late eighteenth century, but the concept of unremunerated peasant labor endured. Conservative statesmen of the 1830s rooted Indians to their estates, obligating them to four or five days of work each week.9 Landowners lived a lifestyle that Spanish conquistador Hernán Cortés would have endorsed, dining sumptuously as Indian servants looked on with arms crossed, a Mesoamerican raj.10 Meanwhile, a new class of landowners, nineteenthcentury liberals who favored laissez-faire economic practices as well as an increased emphasis on private property and individual initiative, had begun to emerge in the Grijalva basin, a fertile lowlands that traversed the state’s center. These men grew rich on the profits of sugar, cotton, cattle, indigo, and the lowly peanut, crops soon joined by coffee and, toward century’s end, rubber tapping. They preferred to draw in workers as sharecroppers, debt peons, or transient hired hands, and did everything possible to move village and public land into the hands where they belonged; their own. However difficult it may have been to leave the old village, the demeaning terms of residential service in the haciendas pushed highland Mayas in droves into the new arrangement, particularly in the 1830s, and thereby tilted state power in the liberals’ favor.11 Southeasterners differed in all the ways shown above, but they shared certain commonalities. Silver mining, that pinnacle of the colonial economy, did not exist here, nor did any other sort of mineral; wealth derived first from tribute of relatively low-priced commodities like corn and eggs and wax, and later from small haciendas that produced mainly to feed urban markets nearby. Consequently, the three provinces were far less capitalized than the nation’s center; today one has only to compare the old historic center of Mérida with the far more imposing and luxurious counterpart in Querétaro to see how much difference a few silver mines made. The shortage of money and investment meant significantly lower levels of learning, intellectual curiosity, and cultural attainment. Indeed, with only few exceptions, almost all the first serious archaeological investigations came at the hands of foreigners, as locals looked on in bemused astonishment at someone who had come so far simply to move around stones so immense. Southeasterners

To Whom We Now Turn  145 welcomed outsiders who did not happen to be capitalinos (as residents of Mexico City were known), much in the way that Scottish highlanders were said to deal openhandedly with anyone who did not bear the curse of being English. Above all, the stamp of Maya culture lay everywhere—on the food, the language, the relics of an enigmatic and distant past—and with it came that curious creole psychology that glorified the pre-Columbian past while rejecting anything having to do with indigenous peasants of their own day. When Mexico gained independence from Spain in 1821, creoles of all three provinces mounted aggressive campaigns to acquire land and Indian labor, and to impose highly regressive taxes that forced peasants to subsidize the state. This was the southeast, the land over toward the rising sun.

The Fumbling Fathers At a superficial glance, one might have expected southeasterners to go places after 1821. They had sat out the eleven-year struggle for independence with no insurgencies, no massacres, no razed villages, and no upheaval beyond the usual quota of plots and cabals. Nor had they suffered the searing damage of places like the Bajío in central Mexico, where silver mines had flooded and collapsed, or smoking ruins of once splendid sugar haciendas that insurgent leader José María Morelos left in his battles throughout Michoacán between 1811 and 1815.12 The sun shone brightly here today and, many assumed, even more so tomorrow. To whom did people turn in such moments of promise? Southeastern leadership prior to the military governors of 1848–1853 followed some recognizable patterns, and the first of those was to elect men of strongly provincial, patriarchal coloring: Santiago Méndez, Miguel Barbachano, and Tiburcio López Constante (Yucatán); Agustín Ruiz de la Peña (Tabasco); and Joaquín Miguel Gutiérrez (Chiapas). Their lives were the stuff of novels, in which gentlemen inhabited huge townhouses, eyed female servants, and attended masses and balls with equal theatricality. Some were firstgeneration Mexicans, and all were overwhelming urban in tastes and outlook. In their better versions, they dabbled in literature, or associated closely with those who did; la exquisitez (exquisiteness) was, after all, a gentlemen’s pursuit. They lived by rents on property both urban and rural, in most instances involved themselves in commerce, and lacked military origins, except perhaps some honorific title that in no way involved the bother of leading men into battle.13 Gutiérrez offers a perfect example of these, to coin a term, “fumbling fathers.” Of peninsular-creole parentage, he received the usual elite humanist education, flirted with insurgent politics in the days of Morelos, and helped paint the world crimson by retailing cochineal whenever and to whomever possible. As anti-Spanish intrigues gave way to Masonic lodge politics in the new republic, Gutiérrez found himself as Chiapas’ governor between 1832 and 1835, exactly the moment when national forces were

146  Terry Rugeley re-imposing centralist rule. To him it fell to lead the resistance. After retreating to Guatemala, he returned to stage attacks on his home city of Tuxtla, but both the guns and the numbers were against him. Gutiérrez, like some desperado in a western movie, then perished while attempting to shoot his way out of the church where the army had cornered him (a less cinematic version has him falling from a second-story window in a botched escape attempt). Brief and exciting, his life had all the ingredients of patrician leadership; sparkling birth credentials, a lucrative career, gun in his left holster and pen in his right, and federalism as the one true religion.14 His bronze effigy now gazes sternly over the capital city that bears his name: Tuxtla Gutiérrez. On the whole, these patricians made better statues than administrators, for if the goal was continuity and the perpetuation of an old colonial order, then early leadership failed at a most spectacular level. Here, as elsewhere in Mexico, national life quickly degenerated into mayhem. Not only could no one agree on a basic direction (centralist? federalist? democratic and laissez-faire? authoritarian and neo-colonial?), but there was also little interest in including indigenous peasants in public affairs, and even less of an attempt to do so. Early governors presided over initial, and typically bungling, attempts to alienate village lands. Campaigns to keep both men and money in the provinces put them on a collision course with the Mexican government, which needed both to maintain its professional military establishment. Provincials also opposed any form of tariffs or trade restrictions as violations of their fundamental rights. Unruffled by self-doubt, comfortable in their parlor tertulias (social gatherings), this generation of patrician leaders nevertheless joined history’s long list of people who have sawed off the limb on which they sat. Rather than defusing popular discontent, the provincial upper crust gave it an open forum by increasing demands for taxes, labor (coerced or otherwise, whichever was easier) and land privatization, and by simultaneously declining to fund the national army, one of the few forces capable of muzzling serious unrest. The various crises generated by federalism between the mid-1820s and early 1830s mostly discredited the old patricians (who, one must confess, had it coming). Centralist statesmen revoked the 1824 federal constitution in 1835, reduced provincial self-government, and soon began to demand both recruits and money to reclaim the province of Texas, which claimed its own independence from Mexico in 1836. In so doing, they summoned up new forms of leadership, and provincials turned to cruder, if more dynamic, individuals who only ten years earlier had no hope of ever guiding public affairs. Specifically, power devolved to militia leaders from outlying districts, men who had made their fortunes as hands-on hacendados and who lived much closer—both physically and culturally—to their workers. This change had been a long time coming. Provincial militias had originally grown out of a late Bourbon campaign to arm the sprawling Spanish empire against foreign aggression; they had the manpower (usually of poor training and

To Whom We Now Turn  147 arms), but after the withdrawal of Spanish Bourbon officers in 1821 militias typically depended on prominent local hacendados for leadership. The prototype of said leadership in the southeast was Santiago Imán y Villafaña (1800–c.1854), a landowner from north-central Yucatán who between 1836 and 1840 raised a Maya following to stop the Mexican army from gang-pressing his workforce for the endless campaign to reconquer Texas. Others had gotten there first: Campeche-based centralists had used Maya recruits to invade rebellious Tabasco in 1830, and again in 1832 in the so-called Chenes Wars.15 But Imán set his forces loose in the heart of Yucatecan society, and to do so he bargained away what had been one of the fundamentals of this neo-colonial world: Church taxes. Imán not only routed the hated military recruiters from his patria chica (homeland), but then surged westward and forced the surrender of centralist forces in the walled city of Campeche.16 City gentlemen saw Imán as an uncouth cowboy, and more than halfway dangerous; still, they could not touch his power over the masses which they needed for the dirty work of provincial resistance. Tabasco’s Fernando Nicolás Maldonado (1806–1888), a cacao planter and at least initially an ardent federalist, consciously adopted Imán as his model. He went to Campeche as Imán’s revolt was reaching its successful conclusion to meet with his hero in hopes of counsel and material support, but only obtained both in extremely modest portions.17 Maldonado never achieved Imán’s broad backing, in part for his own lack of vision, in part owing to Tabasco’s far more fragmented and far-flung indigenous base, in part because this would-be caudillo never hit on an issue capable of generating mass support the way that the promise to repeal Church taxes did in Yucatán. Militia leadership eventually stumbled into the pit of its own insincerity. Men like Imán and Maldonado had no intention of promoting some sort of egalitarianism—ethnic, economic, or otherwise—and when their campaigns failed to improve the lives of the people below them, they ceded the stage to charismatic leadership in its purest form; that dangerous thing no one can define but which everyone feels, like an electric shock, a three-way convergence of the man, the moment, and the message. If Imán failed to end taxes, discrimination, or political violence, then perhaps humbler men armed with machetes could. In Yucatán, they drew principally from Maya headmen known as batabs, village caciques (bosses) who under calmer circumstances might have spent their days collecting taxes, castigating chicken thieves, and living the tiny good life. We possess only the wispiest biographical fragments of men like Jacinto Pat and Cecilio Chi, but know enough to see how their revolt came about. Pressures on this all-critical “hinge” sector had been growing since the days of the ill-fated 1812 Spanish constitution, which, however inconsistently and whatever the real motivation, had promised an equality of sorts to peoples of the Spanish American colonies. Peasant demands for relief from Church and state taxes coincided with ever greater need for revenues to get the post-colonial order on its feet; the weak

148  Terry Rugeley and embryonic nature of political institutions gave way to squabbles, which gave way to blows, which gave way to armed struggles that exposed Maya peasants to a political violence unknown since the days of the conquistadors. It was not an easy time for village headmen. The path opened in the mid-1840s by the implosion of authority in the wake of federalist revolts and the U.S. invasion. When the original handful of batab leaders perished—most often at the hands of rivals, not Yucatecan soldiers—their mandate drifted further in the direction of pure charisma. More powerful, battle-tested successors like Bonifacio Novelo, Venancio Puc, Bernabé Cen, and Crescencio Poot, to name only the more famous, then came to the fore. Such men had grown up inured to bloodshed, and their “managerial style” proved impossible to bottle. They survived as leaders because they assassinated their way to the top; they led by example on raids on Yucatecan towns; and they justified their actions through the blessings of that much-studied oracle, the Speaking Cross. This sort of power defied legal process, and since the human heart eventually sickens of killing, the arrangement began to disintegrate from the mid-1870s onward. Most participants then drifted away into even smaller, remoter, and decidedly more peaceful settlements, leaving only the hardest kernel of caste warriors who, well into the twentieth century, saw themselves as fighting on to some apocalyptic conclusion.18 Tabasco lacked the Indian population, but it attracted a string of charismatic troublemakers unruffled by tradition or institutional oversight. The most dramatic version came in the person of Francisco de Sentmanat y Zayas (1802–1844), the black-sheep son of Cuban military aristocracy and tightly connected with the older and French-speaking upper crust of New Orleans. Sentmanat entered Tabasco in mid-1841 as either Maldonado’s hireling or associate (depending on who was talking), but he recognized his chance and pushed Tabasco’s would-be caudillo aside. For approximately three years he converted the province into his own private fiefdom, complete with honors, palatial homes, and a bevy of women, but fell from power in 1843 when an angry Mexican army, led by soon-to-be proconsular leader General Pedro de Ampudia y Grimarest (1805–1868), returned from a failed reconquest of Yucatán and needed to work off the frustration. Ampudia ran out Sentmanat, and when the adventurer attempted a return the following year, had him executed—and quite literally boiled his head in oil and shipped it (and the rest of the Cuban) back for burial in New Orleans.19 Nevertheless, charismatic leadership simply descended to Sentmanat’s wilder, if less theatrical, understudy Miguel Bruno (1818–1848), son of an émigré Napoleonic soldier and his Colombian wife. A series of botched rebellions got him exiled to central Mexico, but the 1846 U.S. invasion provided Bruno with the opportunity he had spent his life waiting for; an emotional cause that allowed him to rally and raid while wrapped in the patriotic banner. Bruno became Tabasco’s most dynamic insurgent leader during the all-critical moment of grassroots defense against the invading U.S. Navy in July 1847, a time when

To Whom We Now Turn  149 recycled patricians did approximately nothing. He scored no knock-out victory but did at least keep his soldiers alive and in the field until epidemic disease eventually forced a U.S. withdrawal.20 In the final analysis, rather than sorting out difficulties and resolving disputes, these untitled and often unlettered charismatic leaders mostly ramped up the mayhem. They proved as dangerous as they were powerful, for each new wave of commanders had to be more audacious, more violent, and less reluctant to observe moral scruples. In so doing, charisma eventually invited a new form of leadership, one that lies at the heart of this chapter: The military occupational governor.

Enter the Miles Gloriosus Seen from the presidential throne—and perhaps just about anywhere else— provincial federalist governance had failed, and spectacularly. The period following the February 1848 Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo and the triumph of the 1854 Ayutla Revolution the following year takes its place as part of a long line of convulsions and attempted stabilization that defined the first seventy-five years of Mexican national history. Nowhere was this truer than the southeast, the perennially wayward stepchild of the early republic. Under the circumstances sketched above, the comandancia militar was Mexico City’s principal means of relating to outlying provinces. Once independence came, comandantes appointed in the nation’s capital provided one of the few mechanisms of leverage over the southeast.21 Comandantes were reliably centralist, “big-picture” conservatives even if not of a particularly religious bent, and if religious at all far more inclined to honor God the Father— dispenser of both laws and punishment—than His cheek-turning Son. They tended toward the vainglorious, if only for reasons of show. Comandantes understood perfectly well that they constituted virtually the only class of Mexican citizens with training and experience in large-scale logistics and organization. Centralist to be certain, but regardless of the thickness of their national umbilical cords they could be testy when provoked, above all when chief executives in the National Palace failed to provide the necessary support.22 The most obvious feature of these men and their tenure requires no further exploration; they came to power because of a decade of provincial catastrophes. Indeed, although the 1824 constitution returned in 1846 as a desperate way to confront the U.S. invasion, autonomy was the last thing Yucatán needed because suppressing the Maya insurgency trumped all other considerations. But a glimpse beyond that reveals another basic commonality, beginning with their résumé of long-time national military service. Wherever the comandantes might have originated (some of them were not even Mexican-born), they made their careers in the federal army, an institution informed by a truly national vision. They resembled modern Mexican presidents insofar as capital-city training squeezed out their provincialism

150  Terry Rugeley and made them devout centralists. Too easily painted as power-mad warlords, they in fact enjoyed strong credentials for leadership; federal army officers were among the few Mexicans to boast experience in mathematics, organization, communications skills, and large-scale logistics. In their strength lay their weakness, however, for they commanded far better than they persuaded, and the problem of state-level politics always threatened to undo them.23 Creole patricians did not like being told what to do, and reliably conspired to roll the calendar back to 1824. They lacked force of arms, and hence could not oppose military commanders openly. Elite creoles could only plot, but so long as they were sufficiently unnerved by uprisings and invasions, and the comandantes possessed the requisite determination and weaponry, the advantage would lay with the latter. Comandante leadership came in two phases: An early and somewhat ineffectual campaign conducted by men not entirely certain of their mission or their options, and later in the form of more worldly-wise strongmen not afraid to violate legal niceties. Yucatán illustrates this progression. By 1850 the provincial army had blunted the more serious initiatives of the Caste War. While Maya insurgents wrought chaos in appreciable territory in the southern and eastern parts of the peninsula they did not, legend to the contrary, come close to seizing Mérida, inflicting racial extermination, or somehow “driving the whites into the sea.” Then, when the rebels’ ramshackle organization, internal squabbles, and uncertain aims stalled the initiative, the Yucatecan state managed to recover most of its lost space in short order. To impose some measure of professional generalship, the national government sent General Manuel Micheltorena (1804–1853). This Oaxacan-born officer arrived in April 1850, sick and exhausted from earlier missions in California and Chihuahua, with no soldiers and no resources, and few accommodations beyond a writing desk and a hat-rack. He tried to coordinate his activities with Mérida’s political elites, only to discover that their cynical machinations had been the real problem all along. While the general came to sympathize with the Indian insurgents he had come to suppress,24 duty outweighed personal sentiments here, and Micheltorena persisted for a year in his task. In the end, an unending string of army revolts—themselves in part the product of civilian profiteering and withheld pay—caused him to tender his resignation in January 1851.25 After this more cautious foray came the great autocrats. Control of the Yucatecan situation passed first to General Rómulo Díaz de la Vega (1804–1877). Like his more hesitant predecessor, de la Vega had served throughout the length and breadth of the republic, confronting situations of profound instability, and his power in some ways derived from broad (mainly patrician) concerns over that instability, the most obvious and painful of all being the Caste War. While the insurgents were never in position to take control of Yucatán’s cities or its economic hubs, they did survive by retreating deep into the southern and eastern forests, and setting up something that resembled an independent state. The time was right for a military

To Whom We Now Turn  151 cacicazgo (chiefdom), since prominent Yucatecans were sufficiently united in this crisis to get behind a strongman, and while Díaz de la Vega lacked as clear a program as might be imagined, his tenure did bring three major changes to society. First, he pushed hard at insurgent centers with punishing raids at places like Chichanhá and Chan Santa Cruz. These campaigns hardly inflicted the death blow that followers hoped, as rebels simply melted into the forests before Díaz de la Vega’s advances, and in fact redirected their own offensives to the less defended north-center.26 The mere fact of soldiers parading triumphantly into insurgent encampments, however, heartened Yucatecan society and won boundless approval. Beyond that, Díaz de la Vega brought some measure of order and sustainability to the war by instituting a schedule of so-called “mobile forces” that allowed soldiers six months each year to tend their home affairs.27 He cultivated warm personal relationships with the clergy, went out of his way to employ (and more surprisingly, to pay) army chaplains, tried to avoid the now routine trashing of churches requisitioned as barracks, and even made fitful attempts to reinstate peasant Church taxes, a practice that pretty much everyone but parish priests had forgotten.28 Finally, he momentarily quelled the bewildering squabbles of patrician cliques that had defined the peninsula from the moment of national birth. These changes set the stage for Díaz de la Vega taking power for himself in 1853. When Yucatecan military officers threw out Governor Miguel Barbachano for giving away lucrative lumber concessions in exchange for foreign credit, Díaz de la Vega—encouraged by Antonio López de Santa Anna’s return to national power in April of that year, and by the subsequent re-abrogation of the 1824 federalist charter—seized the uncertain moment and assumed the governorship.29 It is hard to know whether Díaz de la Vega actually engineered Barbachano’s overthrow from behind the scenes, or simply waited for the next, and by this point inevitable, Yucatecan dust-up; the latter actually seems more likely. Whatever the case, Díaz de la Vega had western, northern, and central Yucatán under his control by mid-year, and oversaw two years of a stability unknown for nearly two decades, years of quiet rebuilding on both sides of the government-insurgent line. Haciendas re-opened, labor terms were renegotiated, and lost property was tentatively sorted out (a process still incomplete thirty years later). The problem of displaced people resisted decrees, though. Newly settled island populations stayed where they were, while decrees issued by the Díaz de la Vega cacicazgo failed to bring refugee populations home from Tabasco, Guatemala, or British Honduras.30 An approximate if not quite identical process played out in neighboring Tabasco. River country was not actually in crisis in 1848, at least not beyond its usual state of anarchic poverty; rather, the moment caught the river people, having just survived a mauling at the hands of Commodore Matthew Perry’s forces during the war with the U.S., trying to balm the raw emotions that followed the worst excesses. The U.S. Navy had burned down

152  Terry Rugeley huge sections of San Juan Bautista, and customs collections had dwindled to nothing since Perry’s warships had controlled the entrepôt of Frontera, together with its customs house, for well over a year. In addition, the occupation and insurgent resistance played havoc with provincial farming, commerce, and population.31 The situation was in no way helped by the spirit of sheer intransigence—what to say about the disposition of a place where Tabasco’s two (strictly personalist) parties celebrated their own obstinacy by adopting the names la Piedra (“the Rock”) and el Cocoyol (a notoriously hard-to-crack seed)?32 Small wonder, then, that the first post-war governments spent most of their time putting down residual rebellions like those of Miguel Bruno, who waged an insurgency against Perry and his sailors. Once again, early proconsular presence remained limited, its mission narrowly defined under the restored federalist order that came with the presidency of General José Joaquín Herrera. Post-invasion Tabasco’s greatest problem consisted of men like Bruno, who had run out the governor and dissolved the legislature, and for this reason Lieutenant Colonel Manuel Peláez attempted to negotiate with him. Peláez, however, found himself seriously outgunned and withdrew from his dealings, leaving the task of arrest to Tomás Francisco de Paula Marín Sabalza (1805–1873), known to history in the shortened version: Tomás Marín.33 Principally a naval commander (he had defeated the Texas Navy, sent to Yucatán in 1842 to assist with its separatist movement), Marín managed to surround Bruno in an isolated ranch house as the latter dallied in bed with one of his conquests; a kangaroo court and firing squad handled the rest. What is significant is that Marín manifested no intention of setting up some sort of post-invasion cacicazgo. A conservative, as well as a true seaman who felt constrained on dry land, he followed orders and redeployed, only to return in 1851 when he and Lieutenant Alejandro García (who might be tagged a proconsul-in-training) put down an attempted revolt in Pichucalco, just south of the Tabascan border. In both instances, Marín did not have it in mind to manage the lives of the rowdy Tabascans; he only sought to accomplish his mission and withdraw at the soonest opportunity.34 Enter into this situation a new comandante militar, a general named Manuel María Escobar y Rivera (1807–1891), who was to govern Tabasco from September 1853 to August 1855.35 Guatemalan-born but trained in Mexico City, the rotund and bearded Escobar had been active on the Tabasco scene earlier, albeit somewhat distanced from direct governance; he had masterminded the operation to arrest Bruno, but without leaving the confines—one hesitates to say “comforts”—of the port of Frontera. But Santa Anna’s return to power in the spring of 1853 changed things. His campaign to establish tighter and more conservative control over the nation required a more handson approach, particularly in troublesome provinces like Tabasco, and the president therefore appointed Escobar to what had become a familiar office. He simultaneously served as comandante and political governor of a state that did not particularly care to be either commanded or governed.

To Whom We Now Turn  153 Tabasco lacked the emergency conditions that rallied Yucatecan elites behind Díaz de la Vega; small wonder, then, that the Escobar years witnessed only modest accomplishments. Perhaps his greatest feat was to curtail, however momentarily, the river people’s seemingly endless rebellions and uprisings. Beyond that, Escobar made token efforts to mollify the concerns of churchmen. The general buffed up a few dilapidated churches, had the cemeteries weeded and fenced, and tried to resolve some of the perpetual intra-institutional spats that roiled the impoverished Tabascan clergy. Still, Escobar resembled Spanish officers of the late colonial period in that he nursed a certain disdain for the Church as a rival to the military institution, and perhaps for that reason kept his distance from deeper involvement.36 These projects amounted to little, but they were more than anyone had ever done for the clergy, and clerics loved him for it. In addition, he cleaned the perpetually grungy state capital, created a separate jail for female offenders (the nature of their crimes unstated), and phased out the centuries-old practice of hawking goods and produce from canoes along the muddy river landing; instead, Escobar mandated the beginnings of the slightly inland and upland market area that exists today along Constitución and Pino Suárez Avenues.37 But even these slender accomplishments required funding, and the sad fact was that tiny, flood-prone Tabasco lacked the productive base of the peninsula. Escobar thus responded creatively. His ad hoc lotteries proved wildly popular for the same reason that lotteries always prove popular; they retail hope to the luckless.38 Less successful was Escobar’s cacao export tax, which drew fury and, more than anything, non-compliance. By now Tabascan merchants had become world-class smugglers and black marketers; they knew how to buy off customs officials, and clandestine river country cacao was now making its way to far-off places like Durango in the north.39 Still, Escobar’s salmagundi of funding gimmicks and piecemeal reforms, both administered with the rod, brought a modicum of peace to a province whose own stock of that commodity had depleted years earlier. Chiapas alone escaped military proconsulship. The state had not experienced Tabasco’s dramatic filibustering, nor had it to deal with a foreign invasion that gave birth to insurgents like Miguel Bruno. Furthermore, and despite recurring racial fears, highland Mayas failed to imitate their Yucatecan counterparts in some sort of Caste War. Spread hopelessly thin in the wake of recent debacles, the Mexican government left Chiapans to manage their own affairs. This meant a continuation of the highland-lowland rivalry that had defined state politics prior to 1846. It happened as follows. After the so-called “December 6 revolution” overthrew Santa Anna in late 1844, the new administration sent General Gerónimo Cardona to assume control of the province. The relationship between the military governor and his people quickly ground into an inevitable rut. He saw them as quarrelsome children of dubious loyalty, whereas they bristled at his outsider status and imperious approach. His tenure might well have been brief, but Cardona

154  Terry Rugeley caught a break with the war against the U.S, as invading forces never got further than San Juan Bautista, and the general was able to impose martial law and mobilize a Chiapan militia without having to use it. The dynamics of the situation immediately reversed themselves after the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo. Chiapan patricians then successfully accused him of failing to aid Tabasco and engineered his removal when he declined to hand over command to a replacement.40 Things began promisingly enough, with a conservative-liberal coalition under recycled Tabasco federalist Fernando Nicolás Maldonado. He entered a land of nervous caution. The fear of igniting a Caste War scenario in their own province caused Chiapan statesmen to back off from radical plans for land privatization. Moreover, and given his role in the embarrassing rise of Sentmanat in the early 1840s, Maldonado was now more inclined to work cooperatively. The new civilian government managed to hold things together for five years, all the while putting out brush-fire rebellions. But Santa Anna’s return to national power in 1853 tipped the state’s precarious political balance. On November 25 of that year, Santa Anna issued a decree making terrenos baldíos (vacant public lands) national property and revoking all previous alienations. This policy may have reflected impatience with failed liberal experiments of the previous decades (chief among them being increasing secularization and fitful, mostly provincial-led attempts at land privatization), and a corresponding desire to get back to Spanish conservative values, wherein the king reserved final decision over most resources.41 Or perhaps it was simply a warm-up to forcing the beneficiaries of earlier baldío grants to pay twice, a way of getting the bankrupt Mexican state back on its feet; after all, that was exactly what Austrian Archduke Maximilian tried a decade later during his short-lived French-backed empire (1864–1867).42 Regardless of the exact motivations behind Santa Anna’s decision, Maldonado, unlike wiser provincial governors who might have invoked the colonial dogma of “I obey, but do not comply,” committed the misstep of promulgating the decree. His motivations remain elusive. He might have seen the alienations as too dangerous to Mexico’s fragile peace, he could have (like Santa Anna) soured on liberal nostrums across the board, or he simply considered it imperative to stay on the good side of the notoriously unpredictable president. In any case, nothing could have been better calculated to whip Chiapans into a fury. Low-country liberals had been building their fortunes for a good twenty years by socking away baldío lands, and now discovered those fortunes to be in peril. Maldonado backed down on enforcing the decree, but the damage had been done, and in September 1855, just one month after the Ayutla Revolution had triumphed at the national level, Chiapan liberal Albino Corzo pronounced in its favor. He then pressured out Maldonado once and for all, and to no one’s surprise immediately repealed all decrees limiting or curtailing baldío grants.43

To Whom We Now Turn  155

Accolades and Exit Strategies Novelistic drama notwithstanding, we cannot escape the historian’s role as hangman, and as such confront critical questions. What should be the final verdict on the proconsular tenures of those frustrating años olvidados? What exactly did the comandancias militares achieve? How did their undersized empires come to an end? And finally, what did the proconsuls—or, in the case of Chiapas, a renewed patricianism—bequeath to future generations? Giving the southeast’s lost-years leadership its due is no easy task. Gentlemen historians vilified them as outsiders and reactionaries, or conversely celebrated them as strong-willed statesmen whom real necessity had turned hard-fisted and implacable. These stereotypical extremes so thoroughly dominate the narratives that finding real common ground can be difficult . . . but not impossible. Any assessment of accomplishments must recognize that leadership in the late 1840s and early 1850s came on the heels of catastrophes. To begin with, the southeastern provinces sat atop emerging economies that just would not quite emerge. Henequen in Yucatán, mahogany in Tabasco, cotton, coffee, and sugar in Chiapas all carried vast potential for profits, but either the international markets had yet to reach their later importance or the internal conditions for their exploitation had still not fallen into place. These pariah provinces resembled trust fund children condemned to never attain their majority, and as such, the lost generation had to improvise to carry out their plans. Nature too set a high bar against the southeast. The comandantes militares of these years had to confront the great cholera epidemic of the early 1850s. In this matter they held few cards since no one had the vaguest idea what the illness was, from whence it came, or how to stop it. Cholera actually aided Rómulo Díaz de la Vega in Yucatán since the last real federalist revolt, which originated in Tizimín, home of the Imán rebellion, failed in no small part because rebels brought cholera wherever they went, hence dulling enthusiasm for their cause.44 Wetlands Tabasco too had serious cause for concern as the first wave of the disease, back in the 1830s, had killed an estimated 8 % of the population.45 Beyond cholera, the proconsuls had to deal with a barrage of illnesses unknown in places like windswept Durango, scourges such as malaria and the dreaded yellow fever.46 Escobar would have endeared himself to modern-day herbalists for his attempts to treat the epidemic through Tabasco’s indigenous plants, but the battle against tropical illness continued to hamstring development here for the duration of his tenure and far after.47 In terms of missed opportunities, lost-year leadership conspicuously failed to change the southeast at the core of its being. Both the centralist proconsulships and renewed patricianism in Chiapas labored fruitlessly to do away with fratricidal quarrels based on personality, locale, and social philosophy. Nor did centuries-old racial cleavages abate. As soon as

156  Terry Rugeley lost-year governance ended, those problems abruptly resurfaced, much in the way that imperial Russia’s many suppressed nationalisms returned with a vengeance once the Soviet Union collapsed in 1991. Comandancia government failed to offer much beyond a temporary analgesic. Still and all, something happened—real, if at times subtle, and occasionally progressive changes did occur despite the inertia. The most significant of these was restoration of order to societies reeling from invasion, filibustering, and ethnic warfare, pains that doubtless required analgesics before any real recovery could occur. Regardless of the place and the peculiarities of circumstance, proconsular leadership tended to focus, much like Porfirio Díaz did between 1876 and 1911, on political stability and administrative cleanup. In terms of economic revitalization, they did not achieve much, nor could they have— emerging economies still proved reluctant to coax out of their shells until global market conditions changed, and Mexican national policy toward foreign investment grew more accommodating. But growth did indeed occur, not through innovation, but rather because they put their houses back in order so that basic farming, commerce, and revenue collection returned to something that resembled normal life. If comandancia governors, as professed conservatives, neither anticipated nor approved of men like Benito Juárez or the Lerdo de Tejada brothers, their tenures assured that post-1848 liberals would inherit something to reform. Given such leanings, the comandantes’ legacy for Church-state relations turned out surprisingly bittersweet. They found the Church poor and left it in pretty much the same condition. The southeastern branch of the Catholic Church—its vast cultural influence notwithstanding—was hardly the wealthy institution that reformers had imagined, particularly as a result of the terrible beatings it had taken in Yucatán when the Imán revolt ended peasant Church taxes and the Caste War radically disrupted parish life. The mortgage system here was in shambles long before Miguel Lerdo de Tejada penned his 1856 law that ordered the disamortization of corporate property, while in Tabasco clerical mortgages never amounted to much, anyway.48 In this regard, the años olvidados amounted to a kind of dismal continuity. What proconsularism did do was leave priests with the impression—not merely false but in the long run dangerous—that an alliance with conservative force of arms might restore the colonial status quo, and perhaps even roll the calendar back to the days before the eighteenth-century Spanish kings had begun to limit Church prerogatives. Strident Catholics found it irresistible to attribute early national Mexico’s chaos to a loss of faith, and given the momentary calm under men like Escobar and Díaz de la Vega, those same religious conservatives succumbed to the temptation of siding with the anti-liberal revolt of Félix Zuloaga (better known as the 1857– 1861 War of the Reforma), and with the even greater failure of that revolt’s revival under French direction (1862–1867). These missteps hardly ended the Catholic institution, but they hampered its viability as a public voice for the next half-century, with anti-clerical northern revolutionaries hammering

To Whom We Now Turn  157 the Church even more stridently than their mid-nineteenth-century predecessors. Political conservatives fell into the same trap and suffered the same consequences. While not victims of exile or mass execution, they were forced to live in a kind of public invisibility for the better part of twenty years for the mistake of following a chimera. The great exception in this account, Chiapas, experienced the 1848– 1853 years as a respite from the days of comandancia militar: Paradise regained, the patricians supposed. Once left to themselves they returned to what they loved best, which was to quarrel about the proper way to subordinate indigenous peoples. In this matter, Tuxtla liberals triumphed decisively over their pseudo-encomendero rivals up the mountain, but like their Guatemalan contemporaries, who gave up their idealism to concentrate on coffee exports, the former crowd abandoned its earlier naiveté that innovations like schools and constitutions would somehow lift all boats.49 The nuts and bolts of the Chiapan reform remain hazy, but one finds little reason to suppose exceptionalism. Exit strategies from the leadership arrangements of the años olvidados varied per province. In Yucatán Rómulo Díaz de la Vega had already been recalled so he could go fight elsewhere, leaving Pedro de Ampudia to oversee the return to civilian government. This he did between February and November 1855 as he faced a Caste War situation that threatened to explode all over again.50 Ampudia then handed over the governorship to patrician Santiago Méndez, who in 1858 passed the baton to a far younger and more modern Liborio Irigoyen Cárdenas (1821–1890), a man considerably closer to modern conceptions of the career politician, right down to his presence in often merciless political cartoons. His term as governor, however turbulent and inconsistent, can justifiably be termed the beginning of professional leadership, qualitatively different from the versions that had come before.51 The line distinguishing this generation from earlier patricians fades at times, but nevertheless remains discernible. Except for the lily-white Irigoyen, the new leaders were often of mixed ancestry: Mayan, African, even a bit of Asian. They had land (more likely purchased than inherited), but expected to spend far more of their time and pick up more of their earnings handling legal briefs or office dispatches, or perhaps by occasionally penning historical novels chock-full of pirates and raven-haired beauties.52 The new leaders grew accustomed to seeing their names and actions retailed on the street in an altogether new format—the newspaper. They enjoyed privilege, not necessarily of the sort dating back to conquistador-ancestors, but rather that peculiar auburn glory that Mexicans call alcurnia. Like Juárez, Irigoyen and his counterparts had matured with no memory of colonial grandeur, so that for better or worse, once and for all, those who governed the land were truly the un-Spaniards. It all sounded beautiful, but Ampudia’s forebodings about future instability did indeed materialize. The Yucatán peninsula exploded all over again, this time aided by the secession of Campeche at the hands of an explicitly

158  Terry Rugeley mid-level strata of actors, epitomized by the racially mixed attorney Pablo García y Montilla (1824–1895). Son of a mulatto seamstress from New Orleans, García found that Campeche’s role as a dynamic city of port commerce, together with its detachment from patrician-ridden Mérida and Valladolid, made it a place where men of talent, approximate replicas of himself, could prosper.53 He thus campaigned to remove the city (wrapped safely within a state that was still mostly a howling wilderness that few port residents had any interest in exploring) out of the hands of the ossified peninsular old guard. As the opening shot in a secession war, declaration of Campeche statehood was hardly the shelling of Fort Sumter, but it sufficed to provoke a war with Yucatán and breathe new life into the Caste War insurgency that did not decline until the mid-1870s. Nevertheless, García’s creation of Campeche state endured, and he remained its de facto leader until after the defeat of the French Intervention. Something similar transpired in Tabasco. Escobar had no serious armed opposition, but rallies in support of the Ayutla Revolution were beginning to jell in towns like Teapa and San Juan Bautista. By now Tabascans recognized nascent mayhem when they saw it, and a commission of liberals and conservatives alike urged him to retire in the interest of public tranquility, and to square the province with the emerging national order.54 The former found its leader in García-clone Victorio V. Dueñas. He too was a mulatto, had picked up an education in the U.S., and returned to a Tabasco where politics offered a path forward to mid-level professionals. No secession here, as no rival entity claimed Tabasco the way that Yucatán claimed Campeche, nor did the state have the upland-lowland split of Chiapas. Dueñas kept a low profile, and that allowed him to assume the governorship as a compromise candidate once liberals were in power at a national level. But if Tabasco lacked some of the tensions of its neighbors, neither did it have an army. Dueñas discovered he could not directly confront the newly appointed comandante militar once the conservative counter revolt began in 1857; he thus had to tack and deal, a tactic that made him as many enemies among liberals as conservatives. But fortune smiled on Dueñas when the comandante experienced an (to us) inexplicable nervous breakdown and simply withdrew from the province, leaving the conservative counter revolt in the not terribly iron fists of a physician, one Simón Sarlat.55 Dueñas ultimately prevailed with the aid of Chiapan Albino Corzo. Professional and almost invariably liberal governance sank only the shallowest of roots, however, and was easily torn up by the winds of a new crisis. Within a short time it gave way to militia leadership, in large part because the dynamics unleashed in the mid-1850s required solutions of force, even when a professional politician like Corzo (actually not at all bad in things martial) stood at the titular head of that force.56 Mild-mannered shopkeeper and music lover Gregorio Méndez Magaña did the job in Tabasco.57 In Yucatán, minor hacendado Buenaventura Martínez y Basto started the resistance, while the more experienced and professional Manuel Cepeda Peraza

To Whom We Now Turn  159 finished it.58 Their ranks overlapped with those of a new sector of urban professionals, and with reason, for they shared much. Both groups tended to belong to a second generation of liberals, men who came of age after the federalist-centralist controversy of the 1830s; they were largely pro-Juárez liberals, and their path opened with the collapse of legitimate authority in the wake of the Reforma War and French Intervention. Their secularizing tendencies were muted early on but grew more pronounced with time; their base of support drew more directly from military exploits, and exclusively from their workforce. New leaders emerged from this caste, men who would guide the southeast well into the Porfiriato (as the Porfirio Díaz regime came to be known) and grow rich in the process. For every one that was appealing, like the self-sacrificing Tabascan patriot Gregorio Méndez, others were overt opportunists—say, Colonel Francisco Cantón of Yucatán, who labored diligently to hammer Maya peasants back into docility, or Policarpo “don Polo” Valenzuela, who made a fortune on a mahogany industry that cut down men faster than it did trees.59 On the whole, it was the self-servers who did best, while high-minded individuals seemed to die prematurely old and ragged.

Conclusion It was not that the southeast lacked for leadership; quite the opposite, it had almost too many options. The progression of power from the social highs to the social lows (first patrician, then militia, then charismatic), to the near decade of emergency governance (usually proconsular, accompanied by the Chiapan recourse to coalition), and on to a wobbly attempt at professional governance were the approximate evolution of political styles that defined the land over toward the rising sun. The most curious fact of this entire issue, though, is that none of these styles ever disappeared entirely. While all five had a universal basis in one form or another of recurring human affairs, conditions in the southeast always seemed to veer toward the anarchic, and in such moments human beings turned to what they knew best. The undying provincial quest for export-driven wealth always challenged central authority by threatening to make politician-capitalists too rich to suborn or intimidate. Similarly, less patrician forms of leadership returned in force with the severe economic downturn of the twentieth century’s first decade. That included more recognizable political figures like radical governor Felipe Carrillo Puerto (Yucatán) and the saint-burning Tomás Garrido Canabal (Tabasco), but also village-level rabble-rousers who in earlier times might have picked up flintlocks in the Caste War, Maya speakers enthused by the possibility of plugging their foes dead in the street.60 But above all it was proconsulship that proved itself a trusty tool for governing southeastern Mexico, and central powers would invoke it time and again once something resembling peace returned after 1876. The comandancia approach, honed to such perfection over the course of the nineteenth

160  Terry Rugeley century, usually operated when conditions in provinces had gotten utterly out of hand and the national government had steadied itself sufficiently to do something about it. Porfirio Díaz curbed Tabascan rowdiness with the iron fist of General Abraham Bandala, although he turned to Emilio Rabasa, an outstanding man of law and letters and a native Chiapan, to govern that somewhat more manageable latter state.61 Yucatán always danced at the very edge of Porfirian control, although for the most part yucatecos (as residents of the state were known) got the message from brief occupations by generals like Guillermo Palomino, and did what they had to in order to keep in the president’s graces. Then, after a failed experiment with open politics at the outset of the 1910 Revolution under President Francisco Madero (1911–1913), the provincial enforcer to whom revolutionary high command now turned was once again the strong man. Proconsulship came back in force after 1915 as the center decided to impose even more radical reforms upon this neo-colonial region. To control the trigger-happy Tabascans, President Venustiano Carranza (1915–1920) relied on General Francisco Múgica, the ideological architect of the Lázaro Cárdenas state (1934–1940).62 General Salvador Alvarado held his controversial court in Yucatán for three years (1915–1918) of wartime henequen boom, allowing him to experiment with programs unimaginable to the hidebound Porfirian crowd of a generation earlier. The Sinaloa-born proconsul ended debt peonage, promoted education and industry, tried to limit Church influence, and created tribunals that promised quicker and more impartial justice for lower-class Yucatecans.63 Less famously, General Jesús Castro attempted, mostly without success, to get the upper hand with Chiapan coffee planters uninterested in progressive policies of any sort, let alone social revolution.64 These men found the southeast every bit as cagey and intractable as it had been seventy-five years earlier. And though parting ideologically with social conservatives like Pedro de Ampudia, they came to appreciate his methods—Spanish-Cuban, perhaps—of governance. Old ways really were the best ways, it turned out, and the lessons of those purportedly años olvidados of 1848–1853 were not as utterly lost as one might suppose. When it came how best to restrain the volatile southeast, many a comandante pined for nothing more than the simplicity of rule by decree and the prudence of a well-armed regiment kept safely at hand.

Notes 1. Maya ethnographies stretch to the horizon, but the starting points remain Redfield and Villa Rojas, Chan Kom; Redfield, The Folk Culture of Yucatán; and Villa Rojas, The Maya of East Central Quintana Roo. 2. At the risk of tiring the reader’s patience, I would suggest Chapters 1 of my Yucatán’s Maya Peasantry, and Rebellion Now and Forever for a fuller layout of society in early national Yucatán. 3. West, Psuty, and Thom, Las tierras bajas, 47–52; and Balcázar Antonio, Tabasco en sepia, 19–28.

To Whom We Now Turn  161 4. For a sampler of readings on Tabasco’s indigenous peoples, see Incháustegui, Chontales de Centla, and Las márgenes del Tabasco Chontal; Foster, “The Mixe, Zoque, Populuca,” in Wauchope, et al. (eds.), Handbook of Middle American Indians; and Palka, Unconquered Lacandon Maya. 5. Ruiz Abreu, Tabasco en la época de los Borbones, 91–94. 6. For a review of the lives and political trajectories of these groups, see Rugeley, The River People, 83–85. 7. Orozco Zuarth, Chiapas: Geografía, 18, and 167–175. 8. Patch, Indians and the Political Economy. 9. Wasserstrom, Class and Society, 119. 10. Heller, Alone in Mexico, 238–239. 11. Wasserstrom, Class and Society, 110–113, and 126. 12. Brief sketches of Yucatán during the independence years are in Rugeley, Yucatán’s Maya Peasantry, 34–60; Sierra O’Reilly, Los indios de Yucatán; and Campos García, De provincia a estado. Regarding Tabasco, see Rugeley, The River People, 78–82; and on Chiapas, see Zabadúa, Breve historia, 89–96. 13. For a whiff of the gentlemanly good life of those times, peruse Barbachano y Tarrazo, Vida, usos y hábitos de Yucatán, best read while lazing in a hammock with a tumbler of rum and a fine cigar. 14. Gordillo y Ortiz, Diccionario biográfico de Chiapas, 113–114; and Gutiérrez Cruz, Joaquín Miguel Gutiérrez, 19–22, 33–36, 94–96, and 111–112. 15. These conflicts, like so much Tabascan history, lack copious documentation. The principal account appears in López Reyes, Historia de Tabasco, 171–173, and 181–184. While his sources are largely unknown, corroborating information emerges in Miguel García’s letter to the Minister of War, Teapa, February 8, 1830, in Archivo Histórico de la Defensa Nacional (hereafter AHDN), xi/418.3/744; and in Gil y Saenz’ profoundly important Compendio histórico, xlix-l, citing from the unpublished memoir of one Loginos Díaz. On the second and even less documented of the two invasions, see Dispatches of the U.S. Consuls, Tabasco, July 25, 1832, Frontera, report of Martín Francisco Arriola. 16. The roster of Imán’s company appears in “Listas nominales y clasificadas de la fuerza de las compañías del Tercer Batallón Activa,” in Archivo General del Estado de Yucatán (hereafter AGEY), Poder Ejecutivo 18, XII, 25, June 5, 1836, Calotmul. Also see AGEY, Poder Ejecutivo 19, Milicia, v.13, exp. 13, Tizimín, April 19, June 6 and 29, 1836; AHDN, Cancelados, “Imán, Santiago,” xi/iii/2–378, 1838–1839, ff. 32–38; June 10, 1850, ff. 26–27; and AHDN, xi/481.3/1493 and xi/481.3/1546, various dates and places, 1838–1840. 17. López Reyes, Historia de Tabasco, 222–223, and 227. Some months earlier, Maldonado had sent Imán a copy of his manifesto; see AHDN, xi/481.3/1620, January 20, 1840, ff. 16–17. 18. Careaga Viliesid, Hierofanía combatiente, 46–69; and Sullivan, Xuxub Must Die, 80–98. 19. For an account of Sentmanat’s meteoric career—including its fiery and fatal conclusion—see Rugeley, The River People, 109-148. 20. Report of Manuel de Lara, captain of the Frontera port, June 7, 1844, in AHDN, xi/481.3/2051, ff. 162–163; Mestre Ghigliazza (ed.), Invasión norteamericana, 331–336; and U.S. National Archives, microfilm roll 56, Commander Mackenzie to Matthew Perry, San Juan Bautista, June 20, 1847. 21. Anna, Forging Mexico, 104–105; and Fowler, Santa Anna, 61–65. 22. The most obvious case of proconsular insubordination in the southeast was Colonel Juan Bautista Traconis, who pronounced against the national government when it chose to arm the notoriously seditious Yucatecans instead of helping him prepare for a U.S. invasion. Rugeley, “The Compass Points of Unrest,” in Fowler (ed.), Malcontents, Rebels, and Pronunciados.

162  Terry Rugeley 23. Fowler, Military Political Identity. 24. See his August 5, 1850 report in AHDN, xi/481.3/2914. 25. AHDN, xi/481.3/3255, September 16, 1850; and AHDN, xi/481.3/3258, May 10, 1851. 26. Díaz’ extensive reports of his campaigns are in AHDN, xi/481.3/3300, February 17, 1852; and AHDN, xi/481.3/3300, May 11, 1852; also see “ ‘Rejoicing among All the Inhabitants’: Rómulo Díaz de la Vega Enters Chichanhá,” in Rugeley, Maya Wars, 60–61. 27. Vega’s October 8, 1851 report from Mérida is in AHDN, xi/481.3/3150. For Díaz’ original orders, issued on April 16, 1851, see AHDN, xi/481.3/3255; his first dispatch from Mérida is in AHDN, xi/481.3/3256, June 8, 1851. 28. See the documentation in Archivo Histórico de la Arquidiócesis de Yucatán (hereafter AHAY], Decretos y Oficios, Mérida, February 26, October 14, and November 19, 1852; November 23, 1853; and January 23 and November 4, 1854; Peto, September 6 and 15, 1851; and March 15, 1852; and Tihosuco, January 13, 1852. 29. For the thread of these events, see AGEY, Poder Ejecutivo 65, Gobernación, August 23, 1852; AHDN, xi/481.3/3505, May 24, 1853; Baqueiro, Ensayo histórico, 2: 445–450; and Archivo General de la Nación, Mexico (hereafter AGNM), Gobernación (unclassified), 1853–1855, February 16, 1853. 30. For an extended exploration of this period, see Rugeley, Rebellion Now and Forever, 110–111. 31. On the torching of San Juan Bautista, see “Relación histórica de la segunda invasión que hicieron los americanos en Tabasco, y de la conducta que observó en ella el Comandante General de aquel Estado Don Domingo Echagaray, escrita por un testigo imparcial y verídico” (Veracruz: J. M. Blanco, 1847), in Mestre Ghigliazza (ed.), Invasión norteamericana, 238–239. 32. Arias G., et al., Tabasco: Una historia compartida, 188–191. 33. Mestre Ghigliazza (ed.), Invasión norteamericana, 291–293, and 315–319. 34. M. E. Molina to the Minister of War, San Juan Bautista, AHDN, xi/481.3/3244, ff. 11–14, April 14, 1851. 35. Mestre Ghigliazza (ed.), Invasión norteamericana, 285. 36. AHAY/DO, March 12, 1853, San Juan Bautista; AHAY/DO, January 2, 1852, Macuspana; AHAY/DO, July 13, 1854, Jalpa; and AGNM, Justicia Eclesiástica, 170, April 9, 1855, 269–277. 37. Arias G., et al., Tabasco: Una historia compartida, 191–193. 38. AGNM, Gobernación (unclassified), 1853–1855, August 1, 1853. 39. AGNM, Justicia, 492, 47, February 8, 1854 (Durango); and AGNM, Justicia, 480, 14, July 6, 1854 (Guanajuato). 40. Trens, Historia de Chiapas, 458–459, 465, 466–467, 477, 480–481, and 487. 41. This would indeed be in keeping with the rash of “rabidly anti-liberal” policies that characterized the final presidency of Santa Anna. Fowler, Santa Anna, 297–303. 42. The decree Maximilian issued was published in the peninsula in the Periódico Oficial, December 13, 1865 (located in the newspaper collection of the Biblioteca Yucatanense). 43. “Juan Alvarez,” in Alvarez (ed.), Enciclopedia de México, 2: 735; and Trens, Historia de Chiapas, 99–101. 44. AHDN, xi/481.3/3698, October 10, 1853. 45. López Reyes, 191–192; “Población y demarcación,” in Arias G., et al. (eds.), Tabasco: Textos de su historia, 1: 147–150. 46. These diseases were, of course, the simultaneous scourge of the circum-Caribbean and its protection against outsiders. See McNeill, Mosquito Empires. 47. AHDN, xi/481.3/3515, November 8, 1853.

To Whom We Now Turn  163 48. For mortgage reforms in Yucatán and Tabasco, respectively, see Rugeley, Rebellion Now and Forever, 156–158; and The River People, 200. 49. Carlsen, The War for the Heart & Soul, 114–115. 50. AHDN, xi/481.3/5339, September 28, 1856. 51. Information on the career of Irigoyen is in Rugeley, Rebellion Now and Forever, 178–187. 52. Ancona’s El filibustero (1864) comes to mind. 53. García’s biography, written by his friend and long-time collaborator Tomás Aznar Barbachano, provides dense if politically partial details. See A la memoria del C. Lic. Pablo García. 54. Mestre Ghigliazza (ed.), Invasión norteamericana, 285. 55. AHDN, xi/481.3/6571, July 28, 1858. 56. For a fuller picture of Corzo’s multifaceted public life, see Nandayaypa Sánchez, Biografía del Gral. Don Angel Albino Corzo. 57. Rugeley, The River People, 230–233. 58. Rugeley, “The Forgotten Liberator.” 59. “Valenzuela, Policarpo,” in Mestre Ghigliazza (ed.), Documentos y datos, 2: 684. 60. On revolutionary politicization in Yucatán, see Wells and Joseph, Summer of Discontent. Regarding the same phenomenon in Tabasco, see Martínez Assad, El laboratorio de la revolución; and Canudas, Trópico rojo. 61. “Bandala, Abraham,” in Mestre Ghigliazza (ed.), Documentos y datos, 1: 48–49; and “Bandala Patiño, Abraham,” in Diccionario histórico, 6: 703–704. 62. Arias, et al., Tabasco, 338–344. 63. Joseph, Revolution from Without, 93–121. 64. Benjamin, “¡Primero viva Chiapas!” in Viqueira Albán and Ruz (eds.), Chiapas: Los rumbos de otra historia, 187–193.

Bibliography Alvarez, José Rogelio (ed.). Enciclopedia de México. 14 vols. Mexico City: Compañía Editora de Enciclopedia de México, 1987. Ancona, Eligio. El filibustero. Mexico City: Secretaría de Educación Pública, 1981, orig. 1864. Anna, Timothy E. Forging Mexico, 1821–1835. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1998. Arias G., María Eugenia, et al. Tabasco: Una historia compartida. Villahermosa: Gobierno del Estado de Tabasco, 1987. ———. (eds.). Tabasco: Textos de su historia. 2 vols. Mexico City: Gobierno del Estado de Tabasco, 1985. Aznar Barbachano, Tomás. A la memoria del C. Lic. Pablo García. Mérida: G. Canto, 1895. Balcázar Antonio, Elías. Tabasco en sepia: Economía y sociedad, 1880–1940. Villahermosa: Universidad Juárez Autónoma de Tabasco, 2003. Baqueiro, Serapio. Ensayo histórico sobre las revoluciones de Yucatán desde el año de 1840 hasta 1864. 5 vols. Mérida: Manuel Heredia Argüelles, 1878–1879. Barbachano y Tarrazo, Manuel. Vida, usos y hábitos de Yucatán al mediar el siglo XIX. Mérida: Maldonado Editores, 1986, orig. 1951. Benjamin, Thomas. “¡Primero viva Chiapas! La revolución mexicana y las rebeliones locales.” In Juan Pedro Viqueira Albán, and Mario Humberto Ruz (eds.), Chiapas: Los rumbos de otra historia. Mexico City: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de

164  Terry Rugeley México, Centro de Investigaciones y Estudios Superiores en Antropología Social, 2004. 175–194. Campos García, Melchor. De provincia a estado de la república mexicana: La península de Yucatán, 1786–1835. Mérida: Universidad Autónoma de Yucatán, 2004. Canudas, Enrique. Trópico rojo: Historia política y social de Tabasco. Los años garridistas, 1919/1934. 2 vols. Villahermosa: Gobierno del Estado de Tabasco, 1989. Careaga Viliesid, Lorena. Hierofanía combatiente: Lucha, simbolismo y religiosidad en la Guerra de Castas. Chetumal: Universidad de Quintana Roo, Consejo Nacional de Ciencia y Tecnología, 1998. Carlsen, Robert S. The War for the Heart & Soul of a Highland Maya Town. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1997. Diccionario histórico y biográfico de la Revolución Mexicana. 8 vols. Mexico City: Instituto Nacional de Estudios Históricos de la Revolución, 1992. Foster, George M. “The Mixe, Zoque, Populuca.” In Robert Wauchope, et al. (eds.), Handbook of Middle American Indians, Vol. VII, Ethnology, Part 1. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1969. 448–477. Fowler, Will. Military Political Identity and Reformism in Independent Mexico: An Analysis of the Memorias de Guerra (1821–1855). London: ILAS, 1996. ———. Santa Anna of Mexico. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2007. Gil y Saenz, Manuel. Compendio histórico, geográfico y estadístico del estado de Tabasco. Mexico: Consejo Editorial del Gobierno del Estado de Tabasco, 1979, fascsimile of 1872 edition. Gordillo y Ortiz, Octavio. Diccionario biográfico de Chiapas. Mexico: B. CostaAmic, 1977. Gutiérrez Cruz, Sergio Nicolás. Joaquín Miguel Gutiérrez: El fulgor de la espada. Tuxtla Gutiérrez: Gobierno del Estado de Chiapas, 1999. Heller, Karl Bartolomeus. Alone in Mexico: The Astonishing Travels of Karl Heller, 1845–1848. Translated and edited by Terry Rugeley. Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 2007. Incháustegui, Carlos. Chontales de Centla: El impacto del proceso de modernización. Villahermosa: Gobierno del Estado de Tabasco, 1985. ———. Las márgenes del Tabasco Chontal. Villahermosa: Gobierno del Estado de Tabasco, 1987. Joseph, Gilbert M. Revolution from Without: Yucatán, Mexico, and the United States, 1880–1924. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982. López Reyes, Diógenes. Historia de Tabasco. Villahermosa: Consejo Editorial del Gobierno del Estado de Tabasco, 1980. Martínez Assad, Carlos. El laboratorio de la revolución: El Tabasco garridista. Mexico City: Siglo Veintiuno Editores, 1979. McNeill, J.R. Mosquito Empires: Ecology and War in the Greater Caribbean, 1620– 1914. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010. Mestre Ghigliazza, Manuel (ed.). Invasión norteamericana en Tabasco (1846–1847): Documentos. Mexico City: Imprenta Universitaria, 1948. ———. Documentos y datos para la historia de Tabasco. 4 vols. Mexico: Universidad Juárez Autónoma de Tabasco, 1984. Nandayaypa Sánchez, V. A. Hermann. Biografía del Gral. Don Angel Albino Corzo: El liberal más prominente de Chiapas. Mexico City: Imprenta América, 1985. Orozco Zuarth, Marco A. Chiapas: Geografía, historia y patrimonio cultural. Mexico City: Ediciones y sistemas especiales, 2005.

To Whom We Now Turn  165 Palka, Joel W. Unconquered Lacandon Maya: Ethnohistory and Archaeology of Indigenous Culture Change. Gainesville: University of Florida Press, 2005. Patch, Robert W. Indians and the Political Economy of Central America, 1670– 1810. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2013. Redfield, Robert. The Folk Culture of Yucatán. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1941. Redfield, Robert, and Alfonso Villa Rojas. Chan Kom: A Maya Village. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1934. Rugeley, Terry. Yucatán’s Maya Peasantry and the Origins of the Caste War, 1800– 1847. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1996. ———. Maya Wars: Ethnographic Accounts from Nineteenth-Century Yucatán. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2001. ———. “The Forgotten Liberator: Buenaventura Martínez and Yucatán’s Republican Restoration.” Mexican Studies/Estudios Mexicanos 19:2 (Summer 2003): 331–366. ———. Rebellion Now and Forever: Mayas, Hispanics, and Caste War Violence in Yucatán, 1800–1880. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2009. ———. “The Compass Points of Unrest: Pronunciamientos from Within, Without, Above, and Below in Southeast Mexico, 1821–1876.” In Will Fowler (ed.), Malcontents, Rebels, and Pronunciados: The Politics of Insurrection in NineteenthCentury Mexico. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2012. 1–21. ———. The River People in Flood Time: The Civil Wars in Tabasco, Spoiler of Empires. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2014. Ruiz Abreu, Carlos Enrique. Tabasco en la época de los Borbones: Comercio y mercados, 1777–1811. Villahermosa: Universidad Juárez Autónoma de Tabasco, 2001. Sierra O’Reilly, Justo. Los indios de Yucatán: Consideraciones históricas sobre la influencia del elemento indígena en la organización social del país. Edited by Carlos R. Menéndez. 2 vols. Mérida: Compañía Tipográfica Yucateca, 1954. Sullivan, Paul. Xuxub Must Die: The Lost Histories of a Murder on the Yucatan. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2004. Trens, Manuel B. Historia de Chiapas. Desde los tiempos más remotos hasta la caída del Segundo Imperio. Mexico: n.p., 1957. Villa Rojas, Alfonso. The Maya of East Central Quintana Roo. Washington: Carnegie Institute, 1943. Wasserstrom, Robert. Class and Society in Central Chiapas. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983. Wells, Allen, and Gilbert M. Joseph. Summer of Discontent, Seasons of Upheaval: Elite Politics and Rural Insurgency in Yucatán, 1876–1915. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1996. West, Robert C., N.P. Psuty, and B.G. Thom. Las tierras bajas de Tabasco, en el sureste de México. Villahermosa: Gobierno del Estado de Tabasco, 1985. Zabadúa, Emilio. Breve historia de Chiapas. Mexico City: Fideicomiso Historia de las Américas, Fondo de Cultura Económica, 2001.

7 Violence, Collaboration, and Population Movements The New United States–Mexico Border, 1848–1853 Marcela Terrazas y Basante (Translated by Suzanne Stephens) The provisions of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo that ended the United States–Mexican War in February 1848 had effects that went beyond merely modifying boundaries. The patterns of interaction between societies on both sides of the border changed, as did the border communities themselves. In the U.S. population density increased as thousands of men and women arrived in the former Mexican provinces of California and New Mexico (more in the former than in the latter), and in the process transformed these large, virtually uninhabited extensions of land into areas of contact between the Indian, Mexican, and American nations. In Mexico, on the other hand, population density either remained the same or declined. Raids into Mexico by indomitable Indians from the southwestern U.S. plains—mainly Apaches and Comanches—greatly contributed to the contraction of the Mexican border.1 These expeditions also involved border residents in what became a thriving, lucrative economic activity—livestock farming and cattle rustling. That business, however, also turned many residents, mostly Mexicans, into victims of the violence that accompanied cattle trafficking, and led to the abandonment of entire villages and hamlets. The U.S. victory over Mexico, in addition to changing the political geography of the two neighboring countries, heightened the Americans’ conviction in their Manifest Destiny, a term that clearly expressed the ideology of expansionism as it held that “the United States was obviously unstoppable in its march forward.”2 This mindset was evident in the writings of U.S. notable Ralph Waldo Emerson, who in 1844, in the midst of a nationalistic, romantic atmosphere that praised individual freedom, man’s unlimited capacity to improve and for self-government (the so-called Young America movement), characterized the U.S. as the country of the future, of projects and expectations, and thus exalted the nation’s energy and youth.3 Such boundless optimism meant that the incorporation of Mexican territory into the U.S. as a result of the war did not satiate the desire for land of all Americans. Those eager to obtain new territories, or at least the amount of land required for a transcontinental railroad, urged U.S. officials to pressure the Mexican government to modify the boundary set in 1848. The objective was achieved five years later with the Gadsden Purchase (also known as the

The New United States–Mexico Border  167 Treaty of La Mesilla) negotiated in December 1853 and ratified in 1854, through which the U.S. acquired a strip of land in the Mesilla Valley located between New Mexico and Chihuahua.4 This chapter discusses how these processes turned the borderlands from a wilderness into a populated region characterized by dense interaction— sometimes peaceful, on occasion violent—between Americans, Mexicans, and indomitable Indians. It examines the troubled conditions of the area, where frontiersmen from both Mexico and the U.S. undertook annexationist and autonomist projects, and reviews the population displacement that characterized the region on either side of the border. The chapter also explores the impact in economic and human terms of the livestock business and its attendant cruelty. Some of the issues studied are relevant to today’s border, such as the criminal associations that were forged between Mexican and U.S. citizens over the trafficking of products (drugs and weapons in the present) in high demand in one or the other country.

Confrontation and Agreement: Indians, Americans, and Mexicans in the New Borderlands The newly drawn U.S.–Mexican border hardly operated as a real frontier in 1848. On the one hand, the respective committees of both countries charged with setting the boundary markers did not promptly perform this task due to inaccuracies concerning the Texas–New Mexico boundary in the map drawn by John D. Disturnell that diplomats used to negotiate the peace treaty.5 Moreover, while a long stretch of the more than 3,300 kilometers (some 2,060 miles) that divided the two countries was marked by the Rio Grande, little was known about the rest of the vast lands that made up the borderlands, which were populated by frontiersmen, and peaceful, as well as marauding, nomadic Indians. For some time prior to the outbreak of war between Mexico and the U.S. this little-known and sparsely populated area had been the scene of numerous transgressions, abuses, and violent acts. These included the taking of captives (including children) by both Indians and frontiersmen, raids by Americans and Mexicans to recover stolen livestock from herds in the neighboring country, expeditions that crossed the border to capture runaway slaves, plundering by crooks on either side of the Rio Grande, and smuggling.6 However, the goriest of all activities immediately after the establishment of the new boundary line was cattle rustling.7 Mexicans, Indians, and Americans were involved in this lucrative occupation, the purpose of which was to obtain cattle or horses intended for sale in U.S. territory either to ranchers or the U.S. army. Many horses were also assigned for the use of Apaches and Comanches, who regarded them as a source of wealth and prestige, and there was no lack of Mexican buyers.8 The roots of this complex matter went back to earlier population movements in what had formerly been northern Mexico. From the 1820s onwards, a flood of Euro-Americans entered the province of Texas, then

168  Marcela Terrazas y Basante part of Mexico. The influx increased in 1845 when Texas, after nearly a decade as an independent republic, was annexed to the U.S. as another state, and again in the late 1840s when settlers attracted by the discovery of gold swarmed into California, by then part of the U.S. These population movements significantly altered the demographics of the new U.S. territories, and interaction between Indian nations —mainly Apaches and Comanches— Euro-Americans and Mexicans became more intense and continuous. This development confirmed what some scholars have observed about violence— that it characterizes frontiers where “rival groups, tribes, nations and states meet and compete for resources and space.”9 The resources at stake in this case were cattle, horses, captives, and territory. The latter was understood by frontiersmen as an asset to be appropriated and exploited, subject to an economy of accumulation, while indomitable Indians conceived of it as a space with fuzzy boundaries, destined for mobility outside the realm of private property, with plenty of resources that could be seized.10 It should not be thought, however, that the border region was entirely lacking in harmony and calm. Residents on either side of the line sometimes engaged in business together, as well as in what one scholar has termed “collaborative violence,” whereby people of different nations—Indian, Mexican, and American—acted in concert against a common enemy or for a common cause.11 Between 1848 and 1853 Americans and Indians often joined forces to plunder the haciendas of Mexicans, whom they regarded as enemies, while at other times Mexicans allied themselves with Americans who stole cattle from corrals south of the Rio Grande. Plundering was often accompanied by killings. The increase in the theft and trafficking of livestock on Mexico’s northern border after the war with the U.S., therefore, combined collaboration and violence. But how novel was the looting of cattle and horses in the border region? Stealing livestock—known as rustling—was a common activity in a pastoral society such as the one that existed in northern New Spain during the colonial period. There the land did not have fences or barbed wire, cattle grazed on common rangeland, and livestock from different owners intermingled in water holes. In such an environment, cattle or horse theft not only formed part of everyday reality, but also lacked the importance it acquired when livestock raising developed within the framework of a capitalist economy. Stealing animals involved a large sector of the inhabitants of the northern regions. Those who engaged in it, the rustlers, usually lived near haciendas that had livestock, and thus could organize the best way to operate. They frequently crossed the border and traded animals with the Apaches, who then sold them to the Americans. Area residents knew them well, were aware of their activities, and sometimes reported them to local officials or even captured them. But rustlers acted in combination with important people and area authorities, thereby guaranteeing their impunity.12 The trafficking and trade of stolen livestock, like the theft of animals, remained a common practice in northern Mexico during the nineteenth

The New United States–Mexico Border  169 century. It intensified with the arrival of Euro-American settlers in Texas and the extraordinary growth of European migration to the southwestern U.S. from the 1820s onwards. Their advance created a demand for horses and cattle, which subsequently increased even more when the livestock business developed. Furthermore, the fact that the area was settled by Euro-Americans meant the displacement of the indomitable Indians, who increased their expeditions into northern Mexico, spent longer periods there, and stepped up their attacks on settlers, causing certain areas of the Mexican border to retreat,13 with the state of Sonora being the clearest example of this trend. Warfaring Indians found cattle rustling and trading to be a source of livelihood and a business.14 According to one scholar, U.S. market demand profoundly transformed the political economy of the Comanches, making them more and more dependent on these raids.15 Cattle and horse rustling therefore increased, particularly after the new boundary was set. It was carried out by, and brought together, Indians on both sides of the Rio Grande, Americans in Mexico, Mexicans in the U.S. (who often acted on the orders of Americans), and “multinational” gangs in which the Indians played an active role.16 Much of the stolen cattle ended up in the corrals of major livestock producers (mainly Americans but also Mexicans), with large portions being sold as cattle and beef. Data on two states, Chihuahua and Sonora, provide a rough idea of the scope of the phenomenon: 5,204 head of cattle were stolen between 1848 and 1853.17 Indians traded cattle, horses and mules for firearms, ammunition, textiles and liquor.18 For them, as Brian DeLay puts it, cattle rustling “turned into gunpowder and lead, dried corn, jackets, mirrors, knives and silver coins.”19 The advance of Euro-Americans, Mexicans, and Indians into the so-called “desert”—the large area that had once separated Mexico and the U.S.—was not free of atrocities. Even before the U.S.–Mexican War, and during the war itself, in the seventeen years from early 1831 to April 1848, Indian expeditions across the Mexican border region claimed the lives of 2,649 Mexicans, while 702 Comanche and Kiowa were slain by Mexicans.20 By comparison, in the five years after the end of that conflict, 635 Mexicans and 176 Indians were killed in just two of the six border states (Sonora and Chihuahua). One can thus infer that there was a high incidence of violence during the so-called años olvidados (forgotten years).21 Moreover, cattle theft data is a compelling indicator of the rise in the looting of horses and cattle, and a parameter of the level of border violence, although in this case we cannot compare it with the numbers of previous years.22 In Sonora and Chihuahua, 5,204 animals were stolen from Mexican ranches between 1848 and 1853. The theft of animals from corrals in Mexico and the U.S, and the ensuing violence, led to harsh confrontations between Mexican and U.S. government officials. The controversy stemmed in part from the fact that cattle traded by the Comanche was the result “of their plundering the towns of a friendly nation [Mexico],” and that such trading was carried out in full

170  Marcela Terrazas y Basante view of U.S. troops, including army officers.23 To deal with this issue, in 1872 the U.S. government formed the Robb Commission to investigate the grievances of Texas cattlemen, who blamed Mexicans for the theft of livestock. In response, that same year the Mexican government created the Enquiry Commission, which undertook its own probe of Mexican and American claims between 1848 and 1872, and to that end invited residents of both Mexico and Texas to file complaints. The result of the painstaking work by the Mexican organization was a collection of reports that served as a response to the U.S. government and the publication of a voluminous account in 1875 that dealt with Indian raids and cattle rustling on the border between the two countries.24 The issues were finally solved in 1882 when Mexican officials signed an agreement with Washington on the reciprocal passage of troops to pursue Indians.25 But cattle and horse rustling were carried out in different ways. In addition to the raids in which only Indians took part, there was another form that involved a collaborative business relationship between Americans and Indians, or rustlers from Mexico and nomadic Indians, who were responsible for marketing the horses or cattle beyond the border. There were also reports of forays by Mexicans or Americans disguised as Indians who looted the herds of haciendas on either side of the line.26 Although the Enquiry Committee declared that the Comanches and Apaches were guilty of stealing cattle, this statement is inaccurate given that Mexicans and Americans were also involved. However, there can be no doubt that the Indians’ participation in the business was extremely effective. Americans were also immersed in cattle theft, although their main roles were as buyers of herds stolen from ranches south of the Río Grande.27 The business yielded sufficient dividends for Americans and Indians, as well as Mexicans and Americans, to establish partnerships, all of whom found such ventures an effective means of obtaining funds given the growing importance of livestock in both the U.S. and Mexico. The lack of control by the federal authorities of both countries contributed to this thriving trade. Finally, relations between Mexican frontiersmen and Indians also included dealings with what were known as peace-loving Indians.28 Some of them left the U.S. to settle in Mexico when the Americans advanced on their lands and only remained there a few more years. A similar phenomenon took place in the U.S., where certain Indian nations settled on reservations, many of whose members conducted raids south of the border to plunder the haciendas’ corrals. In short, although violence was not the only trait characterizing the interaction between Indians, Mexicans, and Americans, it certainly was the most salient one.

The Gold Rush and Indian Displacement While the transfer of territory that took place because of the war between Mexico and the U.S. contributed to the displacement of the Euro-American,

The New United States–Mexico Border  171 Indian, and Mexican populations, in California gold fever became a prime reason that led people from many parts of the world to move there. The discovery of gold in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada in January 1848 caused the growing U.S. population to spill over into the former Mexican province and resulted in its breathtakingly swift settlement. Hundreds of thousands of people (800,000 alone in 1854) came forth in search of the precious metal. Because of the gold pay streaks—sandbanks where streams had deposited gold particles—towns sprang up that vanished, after an ephemeral existence, once the gold ran out.29 These settlements attracted European, Spanish American, Asian and, of course, American miners, prospectors, adventurers, and fortune seekers. Some newcomers obtained a license to exploit the appropriate areas, yet many did not. Disappointed, a fair number started back, but those who remained in California without engaging in any productive occupation helped create an environment conducive to raids, violence, and filibustering. As one would expect, the Mexican workers who arrived in California came from states with a mining tradition: Chihuahua, Durango, Jalisco, Zacatecas, Sinaloa and, above all, Sonora, where this activity was in decline. Thus, by the spring of 1849, the “Sonorans”—as all Mexicans were known—numbered between 5,000 and 6,000. Their mining experience enabled them to contribute their knowledge, introduce techniques (dragging, which made it possible to exploit quartz veins), and find gold with a certain ease. But their success bred envy. Soon, the Americans’ fear of being displaced—together with ethnic prejudice against the “Sonorans” and other foreigners—resulted in laws that excluded them from the mines in various districts. These practices and the depletion of the pay streaks insured that the migration of Mexican miners would end around 1854. A lesser-known aspect of the gold rush was its expansion to Sonora and the Baja California peninsula. Just as thousands of Mexicans had sought their fortune in Upper California, hundreds of American prospectors, dazzled by the rumors and fantastic legends about the mineral wealth of both regions published in U.S. newspapers, did the same in northern Mexico when the gold pay streaks in Upper California were exhausted. The wealth they found was much less than expected, yet nevertheless news about groups determined to go to Sonora and Baja California multiplied. Reports about these departures in the spring of 1849 alarmed residents and local and federal Mexican government officials, as the memory of the recent war with the U.S. led them to regard foreign prospectors as a threat to the country’s national security and territorial integrity. As a result, Mexican authorities tried to restrict the entry of foreigners, while those Americans in Sonora and the peninsula— as with Mexican miners in California—became the object of hostility from residents and various bans by local governments.30 In the end, the mineral riches of the district of Altar, Sonora, and northern Baja California proved limited, meaning that the number of foreign fortune seekers remained small, and calm was restored among residents and authorities as well.

172  Marcela Terrazas y Basante Another aspect of population movements triggered by the new frontier was the upsurge of raids by indomitable Indians—Apaches and Comanches— in Texas and northern Mexico in the years following the war. These nomads, who depended on hunting and gathering, were characterized by their extraordinary fighting skills and horsemanship, which gave them enormous mobility and an advantage over ranchers and farmers. Their sorties were not new,31 but the increase in their number and attendant violence characterized the post-war period. Several reasons contributed to this trend. In 1848 and 1849 cholera and smallpox epidemics decimated their population,32 while the number of bison—the basis of their culture and economy—also declined. Moreover, the encroachment of Euro-American settlers on Indian land indirectly drove them into Mexican territory, where they attempted to meet the growing demand for horses and cattle created at the time due to the departure of residents to California.33 The increase in Indian raids was also triggered by the scarcity of Mexican settlers in the area, the limited presence of military forces to protect them, the futile government efforts to establish military colonies to defend the area,34 the absence of strong Mexican and U.S. states capable of effectively controlling the area, and the total lack of interest by U.S. officials in preventing those incursions. In Mexico this phenomenon led to the contraction of the border, particularly in Sonora, where Apaches and Comanches increased their forays, spending long periods there with appalling consequences for its inhabitants.35 Newspapers in Mexico City highlighted the perilous state of the region due to Indian raids and their calamitous effects. The editors of El Monitor Republicano wrote late in 1851 that every day we receive correspondence from the interior. We tremble when we open the newspapers, due to the well-founded fear of seeing the sorry accounts of the misfortunes caused by the savages’ raids. [. . .] Our brothers from the internal states have their properties and lives continually exposed to the relentless violence of that fierce enemy of civilization [. . .] The State of Chihuahua has already been completely devastated, and those of Coahuila, Nuevo León, Durango and Sonora are quickly advancing to their destruction. Zacatecas and San Luis Potosí are also beginning to suffer frequent, severe attacks.36 For their part, journals in northern states like El Sonorense did the same. It once reported news “of the horrific carnage by the enemy [the indomitable Indians] in the village of Banámichi, Realito of Montepori and the village of Cumpas. The pain and sentiment it caused prevent us from providing details.”37 To alleviate the problem, federal government officials urgently requested funds from Congress to pay the troops who were fighting the Indians. If nothing was done, so argued El Monitor, “complaints from the border states would multiply, and the press would rise up against the government,

The New United States–Mexico Border  173 holding it responsible for damage that cannot be avoided without the necessary elements.”38 Given the “scandalous frequency” with which “barbarian invasions” occurred, none of the border states, nor central ones like San Luis Potosí and Zacatecas, were able to guarantee the safety of their inhabitants, all of which led El Monitor to enquire “why aren’t the troops being used to pursue the barbarians?” The daily also emphasized the urgent need to implement policies that guaranteed the lives and safety of the border population and the territory itself. Mexico’s survival—it said—depended on it.39 In short, the post-1848 rise in the number of Indian expeditions and their extreme cruelty was not only due to the establishment of a new boundary, but also to the advance of Euro-American settlements. The shift of the boundary line displaced nomads from their former lands, forced them into Mexican territory for long periods, and obliged them to engage in cattle rustling. Although Mexicans, Americans, and Apaches had engaged in this trade since the colonial period, its nature changed during the second half of the nineteenth century. The growing number of Apache and Comanche raids was also linked to the capitalist nature that livestock raising acquired in the post-war years in the southern U.S., particularly in Texas and New Mexico. Marauding Indians met the extraordinary demand for livestock, often in partnership with Mexicans or Americans. The upturn in raids was linked to the cattle trafficking that increased due to the demand for horses and cattle by settlers heading for California. Moreover, the colonists’ advance encouraged greater contact with the warfaring Indians and fostered the exchange of weapons, which the former traded to the Indians for cattle and horses. This arms trafficking gave indomitable Indians an enormous edge over the Mexicans and made their attacks more effective.40 The displacement of warfaring Indians, therefore, led to the contraction of Mexican settlements in the northern part of the country. The withdrawal was also due to the inability of governments—both local and national—to prevent those incursions, as well as to Washington’s half-hearted efforts to restrain them pursuant to Article 11 of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo. That clause obliged the U.S. government “to contain Indian raids by force,” and stipulated that no American “would be allowed to purchase the horses, mules, cattle or any kind of thing that [Indians] had stolen within Mexican territory.”41 Although the U.S. showed its willingness to find and rescue some captives and made a limited effort to halt the forays of the so-called barbarians in the months that immediately followed the signing of the treaty, the raids elicited endless claims from the Mexican government. These, in turn, prompted speculation among private individuals and Mexican officials, who hoped that politicians in Washington would compensate victims of the Apache and Comanche attacks with large sums of money. The U.S. government managed to repeal the aforesaid Article 11 when it negotiated the Gadsden Treaty, which insured that the conflict for Mexico and its border would continue for another three decades.42

174  Marcela Terrazas y Basante

Filibusters Indian raids were not the only matter that prevented peace on the border. During the post-war period filibustering groups became a serious problem for Mexican authorities. These adventurers represented a threat to the country’s territorial integrity and the sovereignty of Mexico’s northern states since they sought to break off some territory and attach it to the U.S.43 One such threat came to light in late May 1851, when Baja California authorities informed the Mexican government that U.S. General Joseph Morehead had set sail from San Diego in the Josephine at the head of an expedition intent on annexing the peninsula and the state of Sonora to the U.S.44 The general was sought by California officials for the theft of federally-owned weapons and ammunition at Fort Yuma, which stood alongside the eponymousnamed community in the New Mexico territory near the mouth of the Gila River; he intended to sell that material to obtain funds to charter the Josephine.45 Morehead recruited many adventurers from the U.S. and other countries (including Mexico), as well as fortune seekers who had arrived in California with the gold rush and, disappointed with their luck, were ready to embark on any undertaking that promised them wealth. Things did not get off to a good start, however, as the acquisition of the Josephine and a sloop severely dented Morehead’s finances. Before leaving for Mexico he also learned that California officials were looking to track him down, so his group suffered some desertions and had hasten their departure. The main band and Morehead finally sailed south towards Mazatlán (in the state of Sinaloa),46 but the Mexican minister of foreign affairs, who had been warned of the filibusters’ plans, informed the U.S. consul in Mazatlán that maintaining peace with Mexico would require the expulsion of the expedition,47 a measure the latter accepted. Meanwhile, a second group of adventurers, on their way to Sonora, dropped anchor in La Paz, Baja California, where a hostile population was determined to prevent their entry.48 Members of a third troupe associated with Morehead fared no better. Mexican settlers dispersed the filibusters when they spotted them on their overland journey near Arizpe, Sonora between July and August 1851.49 Despite Morehead’s failure, there were other more serious, longer-lasting filibustering episodes during the 1850s that sought to acquire the mineral wealth of Sonora and take possession of the peninsula of Baja California. The principles of Manifest Destiny, encouraged by the victory over Mexico, drove these raids. Accordingly, the filibusters justified their actions on the grounds of their regenerative mission and their mandate to spread democracy and freedom. The unsatisfied expansionism caused by the new boundary was compounded by the absence of a U.S. nation-state with the means to control and contain such expeditions.50 Conditions in the Mexican borderlands also explain the phenomenon of filibustering. The weakness of the federal government—evident during the war against the U.S.—meant that defense largely became the responsibility of the area’s residents; those

The New United States–Mexico Border  175 who organized it became the “strongmen” of their state. Many northerners, like Chihuahua governor Ángel Trías, bore national authorities a grudge because they felt abandoned by them during the recent conflict, and thus the state legislature attempted to hire mercenaries from the U.S. to resist filibusters. As I discuss later in this chapter, the animosity toward the central government in Mexico City inclined some residents of northern Mexico to engage in separatist projects or filibustering adventures.51 Besides the U.S., the French led other filibustering raids that brought together adventurers of different nationalities, the best known of which took place in Sonora under Count Gaston de Raousset-Boulbon. After squandering his fortune in Europe, he arrived in California in August 1850, drawn by the gold rush.52 Failing to obtain the wealth he had expected, Raousset became involved in a business venture that encompassed colonization and the exploitation of minerals in Sonora. The count obtained the authorization and support of President Mariano Arista, who served as chief executive between January 1851 and January 1853, to bring settlers into the state in February 1852; the company and the settlers would obtain land and half the value of the mineral deposits discovered. The Mexican government, meanwhile, hoped the settlers would serve as a barrier against Indian raids and American expansionism. But the firm founded by the Frenchman, the Compañía Restauradora, had to compete with the powerful Barron, Forbes, and Company, which was linked to San Francisco financiers and was favored by the Sonoran government.53 Raousset then sought support among area residents, to whom he suggested that the state seek its independence. Failing to achieve his goal, he had to confront the state militia. Wounded and sick, he left Mexico in October 1852 intending to return. The following year, after a failed conversation with President Antonio López de Santa Anna (1853–1855), Raousset made plans to achieve Sonora’s independence, but that project turned out to be an utter failure. Troops led by the state’s military commander and governor defeated the Frenchman in mid-July 1853 when he arrived in the port of Guaymas, after which he was tried and sentenced to death. Finally, there were also cases of filibustering raids led by Mexicans, such as those directed by José María Carvajal in the northeastern part of the country, which lasted until 1855. They differed from others because they involved the participation of “bi-national” bands.54 The region had received an avalanche of U.S. goods since the mid-to-late 1840s when U.S. military authorities eliminated the high Mexican tariffs on imports and turned some ports on the Gulf of Mexico into free ports. The considerable commercial activity that ensued forged closer relations between Texans and residents of Tamaulipas, Coahuila, and Nuevo León, who found such business a means of inserting themselves into larger commercial circuits and a way of turning their provinces into thriving trade centers. At the end of the armed conflict in 1848, however, successive Mexican governments established, in general terms, a policy of high tariffs to reduce the paucity of the national

176  Marcela Terrazas y Basante coffers and curb the control over the markets that U.S. merchants and their Mexican partners were attempting to impose south of the new border. This protectionist policy not only caused shortages and increased the cost of the products residents of the borderlands required, but it was also difficult to enforce. As Patricia Fernández de Castro noted, “the Americans were able to offer better prices to border consumers, since the U.S. production and trade system was more efficient than the Mexican one while taxes on domestic trade were lower. This advantage increased in 1852 when the U.S. lifted import taxes if the final destination was Mexico.”55 In the end, the high tariffs levied by Mexico’s central government strengthened relations between Texans and Mexican frontiersmen, who joined forces and took military action against those duties. They sought to establish a free zone or duty-free area, as well as the secession of the region and possibly its annexation to the U.S.56 This, then, was the setting for Carvajal’s raids, who had been linked to entrepreneurs in Texas well before 1836. From an early age, he had developed a relationship with Stephen F. Austin, who first settled American colonists there in the 1820s, and he married María del Refugio, the daughter of Martín de León, a prominent Texas businessman. In the late 1830s he took part in a federalist rebellion that received support from his Texan relatives and friends, and recruited mercenaries in that state.57 Mexican officials characterized the uprising as treacherous given that the Texas and New Orleans press claimed the rebels planned to establish the Republic of the Río Grande, which would consist of Tamaulipas, Nuevo León and Coahuila, and break away from Mexico.58 The insurgents were eventually defeated, and in November 1840 they agreed to an armistice with General Arista, then commander of the federal forces in the area.59 About five years later, during the war with the U.S., Carvajal’s behavior was again cause for suspicion. He supposedly participated in an alleged collaborationist project with U.S. General Zachary Taylor, the commander of the Army of Occupation in northern Mexico, to whom he offered the neutrality of Mexican liberals if the U.S. only annexed Texas.60 On that occasion, Taylor requested a loan in arms and money to fight against the government of General Mariano Paredes y Arrillaga. This scheme was apparently a ruse devised by José María Canales—the strongman of the region, to whom Carvajal was linked—61 to distract U.S. forces. In any case, General Taylor turned down the offer and both Canales and Carvajal then set about organizing guerrilla groups to harass the Americans, a task that allowed Carvajal to extort those traveling along the roads and engage in smuggling.62 Carvajal reappeared in late 1851 when the failure of an expedition organized in the U.S. to free Cuba from Spanish rule left many filibusters eager to fight. Mexican and U.S. officials feared that the adventurers were preparing to join the secessionist movement in northern Mexico, and U.S. President Millard Fillmore issued instructions to prevent the raid. Despite efforts to

The New United States–Mexico Border  177 stop him, Carvajal led the rebellion of La Loba in September 1851, which called for the reduction of the high tariffs, rejected the presence of the Mexican army in the region, and accused the central government of failing to help repel Indian raids. Traders and businessmen in Brownsville, Texas, paid for ammunition, men, and blankets so a small army could be formed. Leading 400 Americans and 300 Mexicans, Carvajal seized some towns and villages in Tamaulipas between late September and late October, where he earned the backing of many residents by reducing tariffs by 40% and permitting the free entry of food. Only when General Francisco Avalos, general commander of Matamoros, reduced the tax to a quarter of the previous rate and allowed the import of various items in December 1851 did support for the rebellion decline.63 Nevertheless, Carvajal and his followers raided Tamaulipas and Nuevo León again in 1852, although on this occasion the band was led by an American named Alfred H. Norton. When Norton returned to Texas, however, he was arrested alongside Carvajal, although neither remained in jail for long.64 Ironically, the man who had put them in prison, Marshal Leman, was jailed when he was accused of having acted illegally.65 In the post-war Mexican and American borderlands, it was hardly surprising that when men such as Carvajal were taken prisoner no one was willing to testify against them. This is understandable given that Americans regarded Carvajal as “a Mexican of intelligence, a dreamer and an ambitious man.”66 His movement had enjoyed broad support from Mexicans and Texan frontiersmen as well; according to the Mexican vice consul in Brownsville, “much of the population of that city [Brownsville] crossed the border at night to join the [Mexican] bandits.”67 His success was compounded, as noted earlier, by the unwillingness of local U.S. officials to confront Carvajal’s men.68 The effects of filibustering were not limited to the borderlands. The 1854 Revolution of Ayutla, led in southern Mexico by Juan Álvarez and Ignacio Comonfort against Santa Anna’s government, took on a new dimension when it found resonance in northeastern Mexico. Santa Anna’s regime quite rightly feared an alliance between Carvajal and prominent Mexican liberals exiled in Brownsville and New Orleans, Louisiana, who included Benito Juárez, José María Mata, Andrés Treviño, Ponciano Arriaga and Melchor Ocampo. This group, which called itself the Revolutionary Committee and was headed by Ocampo as president and Mata as secretary, purchased weapons and recruited volunteers to form armed groups. They also tried to establish an opposition press in Texas between Brownsville and Eagle Pass to encourage area residents to depose the regime, but they lacked the funds to do so.69 Nevertheless, disgruntled denizens there formed an increasingly large group because Santa Anna repealed a tariff issued in early 1853 by the short-lived government of Juan B. Ceballos that had reduced the collection of duties and lifted the ban on the introduction of goods. In its place, Santa Anna moved to control smuggling through a Commercial Code issued in 1854.70 He also established new taxes on foreign trade—including a tonnage

178  Marcela Terrazas y Basante tax on vessels that unloaded goods in Matamoros, Tamaulipas—71 and reinstated the sales tax, all of which adversely affected traders and residents of the border region. Both the exiled liberals and residents of northern Mexico dissatisfied with these measures (especially Carvajal) easily turned into natural supporters of the rebellion against Santa Anna, and proclaimed the Plan of San Lorenzo de la Mesa, which refused to recognize the dictator. Their backing helped insure the growth of the Ayutla movement, which forced Santa Anna to resign on August 12, 1855. This account of events allows us to see the secessionist trend of certain sectors in the Mexican border during the años olvidados, and the impact that the protectionist policy issued in Mexico City had among the inhabitants of the borderlands. The attempts at separation and the filibusters’ raids took place in an environment conducive to adventure, one where federal power was extremely weak. Moreover, during that period, as it had done before and would do so again, Texas served as a major refuge for Mexican dissidents conspiring against the government, in this case Santa Anna’s dictatorship. The combination of filibusters-smugglers-secessionists challenged the authority of the state in the border area, battered and especially weak after the war.

Final Thoughts The demographic changes and population movements triggered by the new frontier not only contributed to driving the Indians into the Mexican north—the decline of their population due to epidemics and the decrease in the number of bison did the rest—but also caused withdrawal in the border regions of Mexico and created new dynamics in the interaction between warfaring and peaceful Indians, Mexicans, and Americans. The links between frontiersmen, it should be noted, were tainted by violence or mediated by what I called collaborative violence, although peaceful relations also existed. Whether violent or peaceful, ties between residents of the borderlands were characterized by growing reciprocal action. Moreover, after the line had been set by the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, the vast barren land that had previously separated the U.S. and Mexico was extraordinarily populated on the American side, albeit with different rates and densities according to the country and the reason behind the settlement. Population movements towards California—unheralded in terms of the number of displacements and their speed—were linked to the gold rush and left a legacy of filibustering. The process in Texas was different. It was already a populated state at the time of the 1846–1848 war, and its boundary with four states in northeastern and north-central Mexico was the perfect breeding ground for more intense smuggling, cattle theft and trafficking for binational filibustering and threatening secessionist and annexationist projects. The latter emerged amid a climate of unrest and American nationalist euphoria, based on the conviction

The New United States–Mexico Border  179 of having a Manifest Destiny, while separatism in northern Mexico was driven by turmoil and the settlers’ animosity towards the weak federal government, feelings that were exacerbated during the war with the U.S. One could say that the inability of the national government in both Mexico and the U.S. to achieve “territorialization”—in other words, to have a presence and effective control over the territory and the flow of people and goods—strengthened local groups who based much of their power and prestige on the settlers’ demand for security, violated by Indian expeditions and raids, and by American or Mexican crooks who plundered both banks of the Río Grande. Much of the strength of elites in Mexico’s border states was related to the geographical location of those lands and their proximity to the U.S. Both conditions allowed them to blackmail or threaten the federal government with secession. Although there were several important separatist plans, none materialized, and neither did the U.S. annexationist project, which demonstrated how far both countries’ governments were from consolidating the nation-state through territorial control. Thus, during the years following the war between Mexico and the U.S. the border was marked by violence, turmoil, and insecurity. However, collaboration between societies on both sides of the boundary line, including “collaborative violence,” increased as Americans advanced over the newly incorporated territories. The link between the two countries largely reflected the conflicting coexistence on the border. Communication between officials in Washington and Mexico City highlighted many of the problems experienced in the borderlands, and the tone of the disputes often turned surly, as borne out by the correspondence between the two governments and their representatives.72 The threat of further armed confrontation between the two countries was present throughout 1848–1853, caused by issues such as the dispute over the concession to build a road in Tehuantepec, and the line agreed upon in the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo.73 Although a conflagration never materialized, the threat remained extant until the early 1860s when serious internal conflicts in the neighboring countries resulted in separate wars: the U.S. Civil War, and the French Intervention in Mexico. During the años olvidados both sides of the border region began to acquire new features. The interaction between its neighbors and trade grew, and freight traffic, both legal and illegal, also increased because of the emergence of new U.S. and Mexican populations in certain border areas. This was particularly evident on the banks of the Rio Grande, where cities like Reynosa, Camargo, Mier, and Nuevo Laredo all became prosperous trading centers some years later. Moreover, the movement of locals towards both sides of the line also intensified. At the same time, the establishment of the Mexican military colonies and U.S. forts—which went from Brownsville to Franklin (now El Paso)—speaks of the concern of the two governments about defense and their desire to be present in the region. Neither of them managed to solve the problems that plagued them during that period.

180  Marcela Terrazas y Basante The troubled situation on the border undoubtedly stoked old national problems and was instrumental in defining matters concerning the whole country, as was the case of its residents supporting the Revolution of Ayutla that ousted Santa Anna from power in 1855. The region was also a sounding board for the conflicts of each of the republics. Clashes between political factions at the national level were reflected at the regional level; such was the casewith the struggle between liberals and conservatives in Mexico,74 and the discussion of the Gadsden Purchase in the U.S. Congress where the NorthSouth conflict was addressed. In short, the años olvidados were critical to the development of the region, and even more so for each of the republics. They also decisively impacted the relationship between Mexico and the U.S. Collaboration between residents on either side of the Rio Grande was not unprecedented. It dated back to an 1812 expedition led by José Bernardo Gutiérrez de Lara-Magee to make Texas independent from Spanish rule,75 and continued intermittently through the Revolution of Ayutla; the rebels might have lost had it not been for the weapons obtained by Mexican exiles with the support of their Texan neighbors. Moreover, the integration of the Mexican and U.S. economies, which took place in the last quarter of the nineteenth century, took its first decisive steps during this period. Studying the borderlands during the 1848–1853 period thus deserves our attention, even if for these reasons alone.

Notes 1. I have adopted the term “indomitable Indians” to refer to those Indian nations that were not subjugated by the Spanish; I will use it interchangeably with rebellious, nomadic, free, or warfaring Indians. Popular Spanish expressions in the late eighteenth century referred to the Indians in these same terms, and were used “to describe Native Americans who lived beyond the limits of Christendom.” Weber, Bárbaros, 33–34. Nineteenth-century documents in Mexican archives commonly refer to them as savages or barbarians. 2. Stephanson, Manifest Destiny, 40. 3. Johannsen, “La joven América.” 4. The treaty was negotiated amid a bitter struggle between two companies with binational capital interested in building a road through the Isthmus of Tehuantepec that were competing with those who wanted to expand U.S. territory. See Mauck, “The Gadsden Treaty”; Suárez Argüello, La batalla por Tehuantepec, and El camino de Tehuantepec; and Terrazas y Basante, Inversiones, especulación y diplomacia. 5. Griswold del Castillo, The Treaty, 56–57. 6. Blyth, Chiricahua and Janos, ix. For additional information on the captives taken by the Indians, see Rivaya-Martínez, “A Different Look”; and Cramaussel, “La violencia,” in Medina Bustos and Padilla Calderón (coords.), Violencia interétnica. Further details on the contraband trade are in Bernecker, “Contrabando.” 7. Scholars differ as to when the violence associated with this endeavor began. For Brian DeLay, the turning point came when the Comanches, Kiowas, Apaches, Navajos, and other groups reneged on the peace treaties signed with Mexican officials in the early 1830s. See his War of a Thousand Deserts, xv. Another author states that an 1835 Apache attack on a ranch near Parral, Chihuahua,

The New United States–Mexico Border  181 marked the start of the most violent period in the war against the Indians, and a third posits that the cruelty increased with the 1843 arrival of the Comanches in the Florido River basin (in what is now the municipality of Jiménez, Chihuahua). See, respectively, Cramaussel, “La violencia,” in Medina Bustos and Padilla Calderón (coords.), Violencia interétnica, 198–199; and Velasco Ávila, “Milicias en El Carrizal,” 67–70. 8. Sources have recorded the presence of Apaches in what is now the state of Sonora from 1684 onwards. Thereafter area residents perceived them as a threat, possibly because of their nomadism and belligerence, as well as the theft of livestock attributed to them. Almada, et al., “Casos de despueble,” in Medina Bustos and Padilla Calderón (coords.), Violencia interétnica. 9. MacLeod, “Some Thoughts on the Pax Colonial,” 6. 10. Almada, et al., “Casos de despueble,” in Medina Bustos and Padilla Calderón (coords.), Violencia interétnica, 237. 11. González Quiroga, “Cooperative Violence,” forthcoming. 12. Ortelli, Trama de una guerra conveniente, 140, 182–186, and 212. 13. Nieto Camacho, Defensa y política, 37. 14. During their westward advance, American settlers established a friendly business relationship with Apaches and Comanches that continued until the early 1860s. Apaches stole cattle from Mexicans living in New Mexico and Arizona, which they then sold to European Americans heading for California. Utley, The Indian Frontier, 31–32. 15. The introduction of firearms, the U.S. invasion of Indian lands, and increasing competition for natural resources, horses, and manufacturing also drove the Comanches to war. Rivaya-Martínez, “A Different Look,” 394. 16. Nieto, Defensa y política, 60. 17. The information on cattle theft is drawn from a detailed review of thousands of documents comprising the Proof Notebooks of the Enquiry Commission found in the Historical Archive of the Mexican Foreign Affairs Secretariat. It is difficult to compare these figures with previous years given the lack of accurate data. DeLay’s study only reviews the information on Chihuahua. It provides figures on “Dead Mexican animals,” in other words the cattle slaughtered to sell their meat, rather than on those transported live or “on the hoof” to the United States. The figure is vague, since it uses two hashtags when the source speaks of “a large number” and one hashtag if the source refers to “a few.” DeLay reports that cases of animals killed between 1843 and 1847 only occurred in the state of Durango. This is logical, since the distance between this state and the border must have made it difficult to transport animals “on the hoof.” DeLay, War of a Thousand Deserts, 313–340. 18. Nieto, Defensa y política, 54. 19. DeLay, War of a Thousand Deserts, 88. 20. DeLay, War of a Thousand Deserts, 318. 21. The information comes from the Proof Notebooks of the Enquiry Commission for the states of Sonora and Chihuahua. The file reports by various authorities about the depredations of the barbarians and armed invasions by American citizens between 1849 and 1875. Historical Archive of the Mexican Foreign Affairs Secretariat, 20–9–1/14. The italics are mine. 22. According to the statistics provided in the “Table of Indian Encounters,” there were 7,404 instances of cattle and horse theft in Chihuahua between 1843 and 1847. These figures, although the result of a thorough investigation, could not be ascertained due to the inaccuracy of the sources. Griffen, Utmost Good Faith, 251–253. 23. Mexico, Comisión Pesquisidora de la Frontera norte, 4.

182  Marcela Terrazas y Basante 24. Informe de la Comisión Pesquisidora. Also see Negrete Salas, “La frontera texana.” 25. Hatfield, Chasing Shadows, 2. 26. See the Informe de la Comisión Pesquisidora. 27. The information in this and the following paragraph comes from a review of the Proof Notebooks of the Enquiry Commission contained in the Historical Archive of the Mexican Foreign Affairs Secretariat. 28. On the project to colonize peace-loving Indians, see Nieto Camacho, “Relaciones entre indios y no-indios,” in Olmos Aguilera (comp.), Fronteras Culturales, Alteridad y Violencia. 29. Taylor Hansen’s “El oro que brilla,” served as the basis for this section. 30. For example, when the national government heard that gambusinos (scavengers of mines) and foreign colonists were entering northern Baja California in growing numbers, it ordered local commander generals to arrest them and force them to return to their place of origin; that, however, did not happen. Taylor Hansen, “El oro que brilla,” 54. 31. The bellicosity of the Apaches, observed since the 1750s, came about because they had to rely on looting as their main source of livelihood; the fur trade in North America had disrupted their hunting grounds. Aboites Aguilar, “Nómadas y sedentarios,” in Hers, Mirafuentes, Soto, and Vallebueno (eds.), Nómadas y sedentarios en el norte de México, 616. 32. On the effects of cholera and smallpox, see Rivaya-Martínez, “Incidencia de la viruela,” in Cramaussel, Magaña, and Carbajal López (eds.), El impacto demográfico de la viruela; and “A Different Look.” A smallpox vaccine had been introduced in Chihuahua in the early 1800s, so that disease did not affect residents of that state as much it did the Indians. Cramaussel, “Epidemias y endemias,” in Cramaussel, Magaña, and Carbajal López (eds.), El impacto demográfico de la viruela. 33. On the declining bison population, see Flores, “Bison Ecology and Diplomacy”; West, The Way to the West, 51–83; Isenberg, The Destruction of the Bison; and Hämäläinen, “The First Phase of Destruction,” 110–111. 34. These settlements formed a defensive line with cavalry units to chase bellicose Indians, while foot soldiers fulfilled, at the same time, the role of colonists. They were implemented in the hopes of forming population nuclei able to contain the advance of “indomitable” Indian tribes. Military colonies largely copied the presidio model established during the colonial period, which consisted of small fortified communities along the routes that linked the different mining ventures in the present-day state of Zacatecas with the center of the viceroyalty. Nieto, Defensa y política, 105–107. 35. Almada, et al., “Casos de despueble,” in Medina Bustos and Padilla Calderón (coords.), Violencia interétnica. 36. El Monitor Republicano, September 17, 1851. 37. El Sonorense (Hermosillo, Sonora), March 16, 1848, in El Monitor Republicano, April 17, 1848. 38. El Monitor Republicano, August 13, 1850. 39. El Monitor Republicano, November 20, 1855. 40. Almada, et al., “Casos de despueble,” in Medina Bustos and Padilla Calderón (coords.), Violencia interétnica, 233–234. 41. Vázquez, México y el mundo, 199. 42. Terrazas y Basante, “Efectos del nuevo lindero,” 86; Terrazas y Basante and Gurza Lavalle (coords.), Imperios, repúblicas y pueblos, 375; and Garber, The Gadsden Treaty, 102–104, and 131.

The New United States–Mexico Border  183 43. On filibusters, see Brown, Agents of Manifest Destiny; and May, Manifest Destiny’s Underworld. 44. A certain Ebbets, an American schooner captain who anchored in San José del Cabo, conveyed the news to the Mexican authorities. Rafael Espinosa, political chief of Baja California, to the Minister of Foreign Affairs. La Paz, Baja California, May 26, 1851, in Archivo Histórico de la Secretaría de Relaciones Exteriores de México (hereafter cited as AHSREM), FIL-6-(I). 45. Morehead fought in the 1846–1848 war against Mexico with the regiment of New York volunteers stationed in California, where he was subsequently appointed army intendant. Stout, The Liberators, 42. 46. Stout, The Liberators, 42–43. 47. Macedo, Foreign Affairs Secretary, to the U.S. consul in Mazatlán, August 26, 1851, in the National Archives, Records of the Department of State, Dispatches from the United States Ministers to Mexico 1823–1906, vol. 14, microfilm roll 15. 48. Espinosa, political chief of Baja California, to the Minister of Foreign Affairs, La Paz, Baja California, July 2, 1851, AHSREM, FIL-6-(I). 49. Although the fate of Morehead and his men is unknown, some of them probably joined William Walker, another famous U.S. filibuster, in his expeditions to Central America in the mid-to-late 1850s. Stout, The Liberators, 44–45. Walker’s earlier outings into Baja California (1853–1854) opposed the policies designed by U.S. officials in Washington; they stymied James Gadsden’s diplomatic negotiations to modify the border and drove Mexican authorities to strengthen the defense of Sonora’s ports. 50. The spirit of Manifest Destiny was shared by many U.S. citizens, including some members of President James K. Polk’s cabinet like Treasury Secretary Robert J. Walker and Secretary of State James Buchanan. Before the outcome of the peace negotiations reached Washington, they called for the annexation of all of Mexico or the establishment of a U.S. protectorate over the country. Pletcher, The Diplomacy, 553–554. These men were disappointed with the terms of the treaty signed by Nicholas P. Trist since they considered that the annexation of Alta California and New Mexico failed to offset the costs of war in both human and material terms, and that Mexico had been a shrewd negotiator. Johannsen, “La joven América,” 277. Thus, although the movement to annex most or all of Mexico quickly collapsed after the terms of the peace treaty were announced, the feeling that the U.S. had not received as much territory as it deserved permeated certain segments of U.S. society. This unsatisfied expansionism was reflected in both the filibustering expeditions and U.S. President Franklin Pierce’s efforts to acquire additional Mexican land. Mauck, “The Gadsden Treaty.” 51. Jáuregui, “Chihuahua en la tormenta,” 154–155; and Terrazas and Gurza (coords.), Imperios, repúblicas y pueblos, 319. 52. Glantz, Un folletín realizado, 15. 53. Terrazas y Basante, Inversiones, 37, and 44. 54. See Chance, José María de Jesús Carvajal; Shearer, “The Carvajal Disturbances”; Davenport, “General José María de Jesús Carvajal”; and Terrazas y Basante, “Disidencia entre las elites,” in Castro and Terrazas y Basante (coords. and eds.), Disidencia y disidentes. 55. Fernández de Castro, “Comercio y contrabando,” 25. 56. This is Octavio Herrera’s definition of a free zone. See his La Zona Libre, 11; and Terrazas y Basante, “El contrabando,” 28–29. 57. Terrazas y Basante, “El contrabando,” 20. 58. Brown’s Agents of Manifest Destiny, 148, supports this interpretation. A contrary view is in Vázquez, “La supuesta República.”

184  Marcela Terrazas y Basante 59. Terrazas y Basante, “Disidencia entre las elites,” in Castro and Terrazas y Basante (coords. and eds.), Disidencia y disidentes, 264. 60. Terrazas y Basante, “El contrabando,” 21. 61. Both men were part of an influential and powerful border clan in Tamaulipas during the early nineteenth century, and participated in a federalist rebellion in November 1838. Terrazas y Basante, “Disidencia entre las elites,” in Castro and Terrazas y Basante (coords. and eds.), Disidencia y disidentes, 263. 62. Herrera Pérez, “Tamaulipas ante la guerra,” in Vázquez (coord.), México al tiempo de su guerra, 549. 63. According to Cosío Villegas, the “Carvajal tariff levied on cotton was 30%; colored and printed cotton items 25%; woolen goods 40%; silk items 44%; toys 60%; groceries not classified as staples 14%; silver and gold for export 1.5%; snuff, $3 for every four arrobas [(a unit of weight, in this case nearly 100 pounds)] while wood was tax-free. The Ávalos tariff, as it was called, permitted the importation of threads, yarns, and cotton fabrics, all kinds of garments, undyed wool, cloths, serapes, blankets, starch, brass wire, raw cotton, sulfur, boots, shoes, buttons, metal, copper paste, cumin, tortoiseshell, horn, epaulets and cotton of all kinds, tanned hides, soap, toys, ordinary earthenware, trade documents, forms, molasses, and so on.” See his La cuestión arancelaria, 31. Also see Herrera Pérez, La Zona Libre, 99–100. 64. Terrazas, “Disidencia entre las elites,” in Castro and Terrazas y Basante (coords. and eds.), Disidencia y disidentes, 267–271. No information is available on who paid the fine that insured their release. 65. Del Castillo Negrete, Mexican viceconsul in Brownsville to Foreign Secretary, Brownsville, April 10 1853, AHSREM, FIL-7 (VI), f. 46 (reserved note 9). 66. Rippy, “Border Troubles,” 96. 67. Buenaventura Alcalá to the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Brownsville, Texas, November 8, 1851, in AHSREM, FIL-7 (I), f. 96; and Brigadier General Francisco Ávalos to the Minister of War [no place] [undated], also in in AHSREM, FIL-7 (I), fs. 98–99. 68. This was also reported by the Mexican diplomatic representative in Washington, Luis de la Rosa, to Daniel Webster, Secretary of State, Washington, November 12, 1851, in AHSREM, FIL-7 (I) f. 112. 69. Case, “La frontera texana,” 416. 70. Lira and Staples, “Del desastre a la reconstrucción,” in Velázquez García, et al., Nueva historia general de México, 448. 71. This tax had to be repealed by the end of 1853. Herrera, La Zona Libre, 105–106. 72. See Terrazas y Basante, “Efectos del nuevo lindero”; Terrazas y Bazante, Inversiones; and both volumes of Bosch García’s Documentos de la relación de México that are listed in the bibliography. 73. On the concession of Tehuantepec, see the references in endnote 4 of this essay. The problem of setting up boundary markers, as mentioned before, led the governor of the territory of New Mexico to send troops into the disputed area of the Mesilla Valley, and confront the governor of Chihuahua, Ángel Trías, in the first half of 1853. Garber, The Gadsden Treaty, 70–73. 74. The movements in which Carvajal participated and those he led are part of this struggle. 75. Henderson, “The Magee-Gutiérrez Expedition.”

Bibliography Aboites Aguilar, Luis. “Nómadas y sedentarios en el Norte de México. Elementos para una periodización.” In Marie-Areti Hers, José Luis Mirafuentes, María de

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186  Marcela Terrazas y Basante González Quiroga, Miguel Ángel. “Cooperative Violence on the Rio Grande Frontier (1830–1880).” In Andrew Torget, and Gerardo Gurza (eds.), Violence in the U.S.– Mexico Borderlands. Dallas: Southern Methodist University Press, forthcoming. Griffen, William. Utmost Good Faith: Patterns of Apache–Mexican Hostilities in Northern Chihuahua, 1821–1848. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1988. Griswold del Castillo, Richard. The Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo: A Legacy of Conflict. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1990. Hämäläinen, Pekka. “The First Phase of Destruction: Killing the Southern Plains Buffalo, 1790–1840.” Great Plains Quarterly 21 (Spring 2001): 101–114. Hatfield, Shelly Bowen. Chasing Shadows: Indians along the United States–Mexico Border, 1876–1911. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1998. Henderson, Harry McCorry. “The Magee-Gutiérrez Expedition.” Southwestern Historical Quarterly 55:1 (July 1951): 43–61. Herrera Pérez, Octavio. “Tamaulipas ante la guerra de invasión norteamericana.” In Josefina Zoraida Vázquez (coord.), México al tiempo de su guerra con Estados Unidos (1846–1848). Mexico City: Secretaría de Relaciones Exteriores, El Colegio de México, and Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1997. 524–558. ———. La Zona Libre: Excepción fiscal y conformación histórica de la frontera norte de México. Mexico City: Secretaría de Relaciones Exteriores, 2004. Informe de la Comisión Pesquisidora de la Frontera Norte al Ejecutivo de la Unión, en cumplimiento del artículo 3° de la ley del 30 de septiembre de 1872 (Monterrey, mayo 15 de 1873). Mexico City: Imprenta del Gobierno, 1877. Isenberg, Andrew C. The Destruction of the Bison: An Environmental History, 1750–1920. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000. Jáuregui, Luis. “Chihuahua en la tormenta, su situación política durante la guerra con los Estados Unidos. Septiembre de 1846-julio de 1848.” In Josefina Zoraida Vázquez (coord.), México al tiempo de su guerra con Estados Unidos (1846– 1848). Mexico City: Secretaría de Relaciones Exteriores, El Colegio de México, and Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1997. 134–156. Johannsen, Robert. “La joven América y la guerra con México.” Historia Mexicana 47:2 (October-December 1997): 261–284. Lira, Andrés, and Anne Staples. “Del desastre a la reconstrucción republicana, 1848–1876.” In Erick Velázquez García, et al., Nueva historia general de México. Mexico City: El Colegio de México, 2010. 443–486. MacLeod, Murdo J. “Some Thoughts on the Pax Colonial, Colonial Violence, and Perceptions of Both.” In Susan Schroeder (ed.), Native Resistance and the Pax Colonial in New Spain. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1998. 129–142. Mauck, Jeffrey Gordon. “The Gadsden Treaty: The Diplomacy of Transcontinental Transportation.” PhD diss., Indiana University, 1991. May, Robert E. Manifest Destiny’s Underworld: Filibustering in Antebellum America. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2002. Mexico. Comisión Pesquisidora de la Frontera norte encargada de estudiar las reclamaciones por las invasiones de los indios bárbaros de los Estados Unidos de América. Informe de los trabajos realizados por esta comisión a cargo de los señores Ignacio Galindo, Antonio García Carrillo y Francisco Valdés. Mexico City: Imprenta de Ignacio Cumplido, 1873.

The New United States–Mexico Border  187 Negrete Salas, Martaelena. “La frontera texana y el abigeato (1848–1872).” Historia Mexicana 31:1 (July–September 1981): 79–100. Nieto Camacho, Ana Lilia. Defensa y política en la frontera norte de México, 1848– 1856. Tijuana: El Colegio de la Frontera Norte, 2012. ———. “Relaciones entre indios y no-indios en Coahuila en el siglo XIX.” In Miguel Olmos Aguilera (comp.), Fronteras Culturales, Alteridad y Violencia. Tijuana: El Colegio de la Frontera Norte, 2013. 173–196. Ortelli, Sara. Trama de una guerra conveniente. Nueva Vizcaya y la sombra de los apaches (1748–1790). Mexico City: El Colegio de México, 2007. Pletcher, David M. The Diplomacy of Annexation: Texas, Oregon, and the Mexican War. Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 1973. Rippy, J. Fred. “Border Troubles along the Rio Grande, 1848–1860.” Southwestern Historical Quarterly 23:2 (October 1909): 91–111. Rivaya-Martínez, Joaquín. “Incidencia de la viruela y otras enfermedades epidémicas en la trayectoria histórico-demográfica de los indios comanches, 1706–1875.” In Chantal Cramaussel, Mario Alberto Magaña, and David Carbajal López (eds.), El impacto demográfico de la viruela en México de la época colonial al siglo XX. Zamora, Michoacán: El Colegio de Michoacán, 2010. 63–80. ———. “A Different Look at Native American Depopulation: Comanche Raiding, Captive Taking, and Population Decline.” Ethnohistory 61:3 (August 2014): 391–418. Shearer, Ernest C. “The Carvajal Disturbances.” Southwestern Historical Quarterly 55:2 (October 1951): 201–230. Stephanson, Anders. Manifest Destiny: American Expansionism and the Empire of the Right. New York: Hill and Wang, 1995. Stout, Joseph A., Jr. The Liberators: Filibustering Expeditions into Mexico, and the Last Gasp of Manifest Destiny. Los Angeles: Westenlore Press, 1973. Suárez Argüello, Ana Rosa. La batalla por Tehuantepec. El peso de los intereses privados en la relación México–Estados Unidos, 1848–1854. Mexico City: Secretaría de Relaciones Exteriores, 2003. ———. El camino de Tehuantepec. De la visión a la quiebra (1854–1861). Mexico City: Instituto Mora, 2013. Taylor Hansen, Lawrence Douglas. “El oro que brilla desde el otro lado: Aspectos transfronterizos de la fiebre del oro californiana, 1848–1862.” Secuencia, Revista de historia y ciencias sociales 77 (May-August 2010): 41–58. Terrazas y Basante, Marcela. “El contrabando, los filibusteros y el liberalismo en el bajo Bravo entre 1848 y 1855.” Históricas 53 (September-December 1998): 17–29. ———. Inversiones, especulación y diplomacia. Las relaciones México–Estados Unidos durante la dictadura santannista. Mexico City: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, 2000. ———. “Disidencia entre las elites. Rebelión y contrabando en el nororiente de México, 1848–1853.” In Felipe Castro, and Marcela Terrazas y Basante (coords. and eds.), Disidencia y disidentes en la historia de México. Mexico City: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, 2003. 257–276. ———. “Efectos del nuevo lindero. Indios, mexicanos y norteamericanos ante la frontera establecida al término de la guerra entre México y Estados Unidos.” Norteamérica 11:1 (January-June 2016): 75–96.

188  Marcela Terrazas y Basante Terrazas y Basante, Marcela, and Gerardo Gurza Lavalle (coords.). Imperios, repúblicas y pueblos en pugna por el territorio. Las relaciones México-Estados Unidos, 1756–1867, vol. 1. Mexico City: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México-Secretaría de Relaciones Exteriores, 2015. Utley, Robert. The Indian Frontier of the American West, 1846–1890. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1984. Vázquez, Josefina Zoraida. “La supuesta República del Río Grande.” Historia Mexicana 36:1 (July–September 1986): 49–80. ———. México y el mundo. Historia de sus Relaciones Exteriores. México y el expansionismo norteamericano, tomo I. Mexico City: Senado de la República, 1990. Velasco Ávila, Cuauhtémoc. “Milicias en El Carrizal: Los hombres bravíos y el miedo a los indios, 1825–1836.” Historias 87 (January-April 2014): 67–90. Weber, David. Bárbaros: Spaniards and Their Savages in the Age of Enlightment. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2005. West, Elliot. The Way to the West: Essays on the Central Plains. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1995.

8 Truth and Reconciliation in Front of the Firing Squad Trials and Executions in Post-War Mexico Everard Meade Some saw it as God’s plan for the United States to extend its territory from the Atlantic to the Pacific oceans, others considered it the “sheerest deception,” but most commentators agreed that the U.S. invasion of Mexico in 1846 unleashed forces beyond the control of any individual political cabal or movement. Outside observers, from Great Britain’s Duke of Wellington to German philosophers Friedrich Engels and Karl Marx, viewed the ensuing war with a pronounced sense of inevitability, whether that of the political transformation promised by the European revolutions of 1848, the march of the Industrial Revolution, or the rise of a new global order of white supremacy.1 The signature scenes of the conflict—the hellish, houseto-house siege of the city of Monterrey, Nuevo León; the massive armies sweeping across the mountain pass at La Angostura in Coahuila state; the indiscriminate bombardment of Veracruz, Mexico’s principal eastern port; and the fiery fall of the last redoubt at Chapultepec Castle just outside of Mexico City where teenage cadets allegedly hurled themselves to their deaths rather than surrender to the U.S. army—largely confirmed the impression of the modern military conquest of a proud but backwards nation by an emerging world power. The shock and awe of modern warfare and the meta-narrative of conquest, however, obscured a messier reality. Among U.S. forces, both volunteers and regulars, desertions outnumbered battlefield deaths by nearly five to one (6,725 versus 1,429),2 while between 1846 and 1848 some 132 pronunciamientos (a widespread insurrectionary model in early republican Mexico) fragmented the Mexican side of the conflict into a series of local rebellions and civil wars.3 Furthermore, the nature of the occupation and the fighting ignited a cycle of atrocity and reprisal—looting and rape were common in occupied areas—that was only just beginning when the last U.S. forces pulled out in June 1848. This war of pillage, heists and holdups, conspiracy, rebellion, and banditry among neighbors, rivals, and countrymen lasted for twenty years, and formed the backdrop for Mexico’s Liberal Revolution (the Reforma) and conservative counterrevolt of the 1850s, and the massive French Intervention the country endured during the 1860s.

190  Everard Meade In the immediate aftermath of the war, therefore, Mexican authorities at the national, state, and municipal levels pursued the trial and execution of alleged traitors, collaborators, rebels, and ordinary criminals (who thrived in wartime chaos) in hopes of reinforcing the peace, redressing wrongs, and assigning responsibility for the enormous suffering caused by the conflict. Many such prosecutions used the war as a pretext to rehash long-standing disputes that had little to do with the invasion or perceived threats to national sovereignty, and they produced bitterly ironic results. The leaders of some of the most effective resistance to U.S. forces faced the firing squad for rebellion in 1848. Tabasco’s strongman Miguel Bruno, who had repulsed Commodore Matthew Perry’s riverine invasion in 1846, and rebel priest Celedonio Domeco de Jarauta, who harassed U.S. convoys around Veracruz and united the Mexico City poor against the occupying forces in 1847, were but the most notable cases.4 Their killings marked post-war continuity with the spectacular public executions carried out by the invaders in cases like the Xalapa Martyrs and the San Patricios. In the former instance, two young Mexican lieutenants, Ambrosio Alcalde and Antonio García, were shot in Xalapa on November 24, 1847 for organizing guerilla resistance in Veracruz state after they had signed a pledge to lay down their arms. For their part, the San Patricios belonged to a brigade of U.S. deserters, most of them Catholic, who fought for Mexico, thirty of whom were hanged in the outskirts of Mexico City at San Ángel in a massive ritual designed to coincide with the U.S. victory at Chapultepec Castle on September 13, 1847.5 Meanwhile, bandits, collaborators, and mercenaries who made expedient political alliances or whose legal cases dragged on long enough to outlive the governments that originally prosecuted them received judicial protection. In terms of its impact on national institutions, the most important judicial proceeding of the post-war period was that of Roque Miranda, a native of Mexico City and an infamous criminal sentenced to death for collaborating with U.S. forces. His case is widely acknowledged as the first instance in which a writ of amparo (a constitutional protection like habeas corpus) spared an individual from execution in Mexico. It reveals the false choice between mano dura (firm hand) and impunity coursing through Mexican politics and letters ever since, one that the historiography of modern Mexico has often encouraged through an overemphasis on categories like political modernity and state-building. A persistent focus on imperfect, weak, or non-existent concepts—liberalism, individual rights, citizenship, the rule of law, etc.—has often obscured the cultural and social norms that mediate the legitimacy of the exercise of power in less formal but often more consistent ways than constitutional law, norms that have determined things like the difference between a death sentence and an actual execution. The point is not to ignore the law, but rather to think of it more holistically— the law as interpreted and practiced in the bulk of individual cases over time, the outcomes it produced and what they meant in context, rather than just doctrine. Of course, proving a case about the cultural foundations of

Trials and Executions in Post-War Mexico  191 the law is beyond the scope of an examination of any one legal case or micro-period like 1848–1853. Nevertheless, a close reading of the Miranda case and its contemporaries through the lens of individual rights and in the context of modern debates over crime and punishment obscures the experience of war that produced it in the first place. Similar oversights pervade the literature on the War of the Reforma (1857–1861), the French Intervention (1862–1867), the so-called Porfiriato (1876–1911), the Mexican Revolution (1910–1920), the Cristero Rebellion (1926–1929), Mexico’s participation in World War II (1942–1945), and even Mexico’s recent “war on drugs” (c. 2006–present). Little is known about the ordinary experience of armed conflict and violence in these episodes. Whole categories like shellshock and trauma, occupation and atrocity, and media and mass death, remain largely unexplored in comparison to contemporary armed conflicts elsewhere in the world. What we do know is largely anecdotal, and the experience of violence is treated as specific and symptomatic rather than causal or in any way an agent of historical change; think about trying to write a history of the post-bellum American South without dealing with the Yankee occupation, or that of 1920s Europe without confronting the legacies of trench warfare and battlefield trauma from World War I. The immediate aftermath of the U.S.–Mexican War is an opportune place to begin such an exploration in Mexico precisely because of the unprecedented nature of the U.S. occupation and the two decades of armed conflict it ushered in, and the way in which their legacies shaped the struggle to implement a host of modern liberal institutions. Regardless of their political affiliations, the men who tried to prosecute seasoned rogue Roque Miranda coveted the legitimacy of the law and the courts, and sought to use the war with the U.S. to conceal a series of inconvenient truths. The formal sovereignty of the national state was fractured long before the invaders arrived. During the thirty years that followed independence in 1821 there were more than fifty national governments in Mexico; civilians governed the country for no more than 947 days, and a mix of archaic Spanish decrees and emergency legislation prescribed the death penalty for a wide variety of offenses.6 Efforts to rein in highway robbery were mired in scandal and corruption—the fall of Juan Yáñez, who in 1835 served as the leading military assistant to then president General Antonio López de Santa Anna when he was caught running a massive crime syndicate, and who committed suicide four years later—was but the most high-profile case, celebrated in contemporary media and memorialized for generations in The Bandits from Río Frío (1891), Mexico’s quintessential romantic novel.7 Indeed, when chroniclers of the Porfiriato reflected back upon the chaotic decades that followed independence, they often lumped Miranda together with Yáñez and contemporary bandit anti-heroes like Jesús Arriaga, better known as Chucho el Roto.8 Local and regional governance, however, were far more stable than the national state, and strong cultural and social norms, mediated by the

192  Everard Meade legal system and the Supreme Court, determined which crimes were truly beyond the pale (and thus worthy of execution), regardless of the harsh justice demanded by the emergency decrees issued by dozens of fleeting governments. Even the most tenuous regimes tended to follow the orders and clemency recommendations of the Court, especially in cases where the condemned had neither self-consciously entered the domain of politics nor committed a particularly heinous act. An exhaustive review of clemency petitions and other judicial records reveals that more than half of the death sentences (52.6%) handed down from 1836 to 1846 resulted in clemency for the condemned, up from 44.9% in the decade immediately following independence.9 The impact of the pronunciamientos among the men who fueled the game of musical chairs in the National Palace was relatively limited in scope. Much of the population sat on the sidelines, and lethal violence was largely confined to soldiers and politicians who actively contested political power, and to the unlucky civilians who occasionally got in their way.10 To enter the realm of politics was to risk being branded a rebel or a traitor, and sentenced to death when one’s enemies gained the upper hand. Ordinary civilians did not exactly enjoy robust individual rights, but they did benefit from an informal system that protected them from the worst excesses of power, especially those wrapped in the mantle of the law. For the general population, the war that began with the U.S. invasion in 1846 was more about the massification of what had been relatively limited political violence than it was about patriotism, political revolution, or revanchism.11 It meant living at the mercy of armed men who were not subject to the constraints that had guided political affairs during the early republic or limited the scope of war. It was about the coming of modern war, defined less by technological advances than by the scale of occupation and atrocity, and its disarticulation from coherent social causes and movements. In this context, the failure of visionary post-war projects was less about their precocity in a ‘backwards’ country where the masses demanded harsh exemplary justice, and more about the fact that these projects offered little in the way of redress or reconciliation for the violence of the conflict. Indeed, reformers who sought to impose modern criminological categories on that ferocity missed a grand opportunity to acknowledge both existing notions of justice and humanity that survived the war and the abandonment of the actual population in favor of “imaginary citizens,” ideal types that they aspired to create from the rough human material that surrounded them.12 From this perspective, the relative impunity that Roque Miranda enjoyed was less a triumph of individual rights or a failure of exemplary justice than a sign that political elites could control neither the social forces unleashed by the occupation nor their cultural interpretation. The extreme acts of violence that post-war trials attempted to redress point to the underdeveloped theme of post-war reconciliation in the existing historiography. Understandings of atrocity, civilian immunity, occupation, reparation, and reconciliation played out in these hearings, but without the

Trials and Executions in Post-War Mexico  193 formal apparatus, or the language, of modern humanitarianism. They were critically important to the definition of legitimate and illegitimate combatants; suffering that could be acknowledged or which had to be suppressed; and ultimately to the definition of citizenship, both in the formal legal meaning and in the classical sense of civic participation. While most such phenomena played out over a longer time horizon, the 1848–1853 years set critical precedents which in large measure have been obscured by subsequent events and ignored by the historiography. Even in the most ordinary cases, the experiences of the war with the U.S. percolate through the appeals, clemency petitions, and descriptions of executions. Miranda’s case and these other proceedings offer a unique, intimate view of the efforts of Mexican civil and military leaders to impose narrative coherence on a chaotic experience, the limits of these efforts in shaping collective memory over time, and the institutional legacies of a proxy war on the scaffold for conflicts yet to come.

Roque Miranda Random acts of violence occurred with alarming frequency in Mexico City during the months that followed the U.S. occupation of the capital in September 1847. Sniper fire and roof tiles continued to rain down upon unsuspecting policemen and pedestrians, while half-burned barricades blocked major intersections. Members of the U.S. army and ordinary brigands alike, often posing as priests, soldiers, and government officials to catch their prey unawares, carried out every imaginable kind of kidnapping and assault in broad daylight. They kicked down doors, rappelled into patios, and tunneled under walls into banks, churches, and private homes.13 U.S. officers ordered local men and women flogged in front of large crowds for insulting, attacking, and stealing from occupying troops. General Winfield Scott, commander of U.S. forces in Mexico, in turn ordered several U.S. soldiers and camp followers hanged for raping civilians, and locked up many more for robbery and arson. A handful of Mexican civilians were sentenced to death by U.S. military tribunals as well; Luz Vega, for instance, was condemned and shot for inducing a U.S. private to desert with money and other promises.14 Attacks against property and persons in the capital continued despite these efforts to restore order, and some of the most spectacular such incidents involved unseemly collaborations between Mexican criminals and U.S. troops. In mid-March 1848 a mixed group of U.S. soldiers, camp followers, and Mexican bandits tried to rob the Parish of San Pablo, an attempt that ended in a shootout with U.S. military police and the arrest of a black civilian contractor.15 Far more important for purposes of this chapter, given that it brought Roque Miranda to center stage in the struggle over how to deal with presumed collaborators and criminals in the aftermath of the war, was a daring robbery attempt in the heart of Mexico City by a crime syndicate

194  Everard Meade coordinated by U.S. officers during the early morning of April 5, 1848. The burglars crossed rooftops from the Bella Unión Hotel, the residence of dozens of U.S. officers, and rappelled into the patio of Mariel Brothers, a Spanish merchant house on Calle de la Palma, with ropes and bed sheets to avoid the military police stationed in the streets and the fortified front door. They shot and killed bleary-eyed sales clerk Manuel Zorilla when he approached them with his pistol drawn. Several witnesses saw the robbers flee the scene with bags of money in their arms, and others testified to hearing footsteps and voices on their rooftops that morning.16 U.S. authorities moved quickly to find and punish the culprits. The U.S. officers were identified and arrested within two weeks, and a special military commission was convened to try them. The defense team tried to disqualify eyewitness Francisco Marquas because he was a mulatto and thus could not testify against a white man under U.S. law, but the judges ruled him “a Mexican” and hence able to bear witness in defense of Mexican civilians, a rather absurd outburst of North American racial logic in a Mexico City courtroom. In the end, four of the robbers were sentenced to death— Lieutenants Isaac Hare and B. F. Dutton, both volunteers from Pennsylvania, Lieutenant T.B. Tilden from Massachusetts, and John Laverty, a Canadian contractor.17 On May 25, The American Star reported that the four men would be hanged that morning in the Ciudadela, the city’s armory and a major military headquarters. The Sociedad Filantrópica de México (Philanthropic Society of Mexico), arguing that there already had been enough killing, begged General Scott to grant clemency, and the petition apparently produced the desired results. One day later El Siglo XIX declared that Scott had suspended the sentence the evening before due to the ratification of the peace accord (the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, signed on February 2, 1848) and the imminent U.S. withdrawal.18 Roque Miranda, who had provided the robbers with inside information on the location of the safe and operated the stash house where they kept the money, was not as fortunate. On June 28, a police officer recognized Miranda—then thirty-three years old, married, and working as a pulque vendor, an alcoholic beverage made from the maguey cactus—as a member of the Puebla counterguerillas, and arrested him on the street. Headed by the notorious outlaw Manuel Domínguez, who had been captured by U.S. troops in April 1847 and given a secret officer’s commission, the counterguerillas— whose members were largely recruited from jails and prisons in occupied areas—functioned as small ad hoc units tasked with hunting down local insurgents, bandits, and anyone who harassed or resisted the occupying forces, particularly along the highways between Mexico City, Puebla, and Xalapa. They also served as spies, and embedded themselves in various Mexican military units and crime syndicates.19 Before authorities could figure out what to do with him, on July 11 Miranda scaled one of the jail’s walls and dashed out of the main gate along with José María Montaño (also known as El Moro), but they were

Trials and Executions in Post-War Mexico  195 surrounded and recaptured in a tussle of fists and rifle butts a few blocks away. Thirteen days later, Judge José Gabriel de la Peña sentenced Miranda to death for murder, escaping from jail, and fighting with the counterguerillas during the war with the U.S. Defense counsel José Guadalupe Perdigón y Garay, a respected lawyer and militia colonel who had fought against the invaders and had been taken prisoner at the August 20, 1847 Battle of Churubusco, appealed the case to the Supreme Court.20 On July 28, that tribunal revised the sentence to ten years in the presidio at San Juan de Ulúa in the port city of Veracruz. Despite Miranda’s reputation, a three-judge panel of the Supreme Court found that the evidence presented proved only that Miranda was guilty of intentional (but not premeditated) homicide and participation in a robbery; it did not ascertain he had committed treason as defined by law. The public chorus of disapproval was immediate. El Siglo XIX howled, “The sentence is equivalent to complete impunity,” and accused the court of “turning society over to its executioners.” Regardless of how the Court tried to justify it, “the inexorable ruling of public opinion” held that Miranda was the most brazen of criminals and the vilest of traitors.21 Also disgusted by the decision were eleven national guard officers in Mexico City, who on July 31 threatened to resign and refused to leave their barracks until the government established a modicum of order.22 General José Joaquín de Herrera, who had assumed the presidency nearly two months prior, took notice and demanded that the full Supreme Court examine the decision that reduced Miranda’s sentence. The Tribunal Pleno (the full court sitting in plenary session) defended the independence of the Court, and its duty to decide every case on the merits as presented, not on public sentiment nor the reputation of the accused. The justices sympathized with the desire to punish all crimes swiftly and severely, and even with “the total extermination of . . . the villains who attack the lives and property of peaceful and honorable citizens, disturbing the peace and tranquility of the society in which we live.” But to declare that sentencing Roque Miranda to ten years in the presidio was “equivalent to impunity,” the Court asserted, was a “vulgar and crass error.” “We must not lose track of the fact that the better judge is neither he who convicts, nor he who absolves the greatest number of prisoners,” the justices warned.23 Justice Minister Juan Gómez Navarrete then asked the Court to forward the case file for his examination. The Court complied but warned it would not recognize any judicial decision that came from the executive branch.24 After reviewing the case file, Gómez Navarrete forwarded it to Congress, and the Chamber of Deputies convened a grand jury to investigate the matter. To vacate Miranda’s sentence (so he could be given a harsher punishment), the grand jury would have had to find that the Court acted with what amounted to criminal negligence in altering the sentence through procedures that entailed an impeachment of the panel of judges in question. Facing this reality, the Chamber backed down, and the Senate reached a similar impasse in the spring of 1850. While many legislators likely sympathized with the

196  Everard Meade public’s indignation over Miranda’s sentence, they were loath to censure the Supreme Court, or to play the inquisitorial role that Congress had taken on in mid-1833 with the so-called Ley del Caso, a law that expelled from the country fifty-one prominent politicians—including former president General Anastasio Bustamante—and others yet to be determined, on penalty of death if they returned. Legislators knew that powerful people and institutions would jump at the chance to strengthen the executive branch at the expense of the principle of separation of powers, or simply to ride roughshod over constitutional rule. As traditional and conservative as the Court could be on doctrinal matters, it had proved itself fiercely independent, self-limiting, and largely above the partisan fray over the past twenty-five years. As a result, the Court enjoyed unparalleled legitimacy among government institutions, even if it took a short-term hit with the Miranda appeal.25 Given the uncertain post-war atmosphere that threatened to shatter General Herrera’s tenuous grip on power, the last thing Congress wanted to do was to attack a bulwark of constitutional rule to punish one particular criminal, as brazen as he might be. Historians of the Supreme Court celebrate the Miranda case as a forceful defense of judicial independence in the face of public hysteria regarding presumed collaborators, and an important precursor to the granting of individual writs of amparo to unpopular defendants.26 It is worth noting that a substantial body of evidence suggested Roque Miranda was indeed a career criminal within the very case file produced by the Court, even if much of it was circumstantial or related to things other than the specific charges made in 1848. The fact that Miranda was very likely the killer and thug that critics of the Court alleged at the time underscores the Court’s principled stand, but also suggests that public indignation over the case was quite reasonable and specific. It was not an aimless bellow of rage or a blind desire for blood vengeance in the wake of a humiliating occupation, but rather a cry for justice, for someone to fully acknowledge and to take responsibility for ending the institutional failures represented by Miranda’s nefarious career. Miranda’s file contains a broadsheet calling for his execution back in 1835, published by Mexico City pamphleteer Hipólito la Garza, which vividly illustrates this point. It claimed that by the time he was twenty Miranda had been arrested for robbing a store in cahoots with a policeman, but was released from the ex-Acordada (an eighteenth-century prison where hundreds of highwaymen had been executed by Spanish authorities) because of his youth. Miranda had also killed a man in a fight at a pulquería, but was freed when he agreed to enlist in a civic artillery (e.g., national guard) unit. He then escaped from the barracks and stabbed Joaquín Beristain to death in the billiards room of his palatial house after breaking in, but was again released when his mother convinced Beristain’s family that he was only a petty thief trying to avoid capture. Finally, Miranda and two other men killed María Dolores Rosas in an act of jealous revenge, but he was once more let go, this time on the orders of a Mexico City regidor

Trials and Executions in Post-War Mexico  197 (alderman) who enlisted him into the public safety squadron (soldiers who policed the streets at night) and acted as his “protector.” In the middle of these escapades, Miranda had gotten into an argument with Jesús Patiño, a young man of eighteen, and challenged him to a fight. Patiño refused, but Miranda slashed him twice with a knife anyway, wounding him seriously. Miranda ended up in jail but was soon discharged—the police report characterized the assault as a drunken row between a patron at a pulquería and a public safety officer, and no charges were filed. A few months after his release, Miranda walked into the Pulquería de Jesús and spotted Patiño’s older brother, who tried to hide and run away. He could not do so; Miranda chased him down and stabbed the unarmed man to death in the street. Miranda claimed Patiño had pulled the knife, and that he had acted in self-defense. The only witness who would come forward was Miranda’s lackey, a simpleton who could not speak without smiling and drooled over his master’s every whim. La Garza also implicated Miranda’s mother in his criminal activities and reiterated the accusation that various police officials had connived to assure that he was never punished. He concluded with a plea to then-president General Santa Anna to stop drafting policemen from the jails.27 An 1848 review of jail records completed by the prosecutor (and presented to Judge de la Peña) picked up where the broadsheet left off. These documents show that Miranda had been arrested for a multitude of offenses—the robbery of a church in 1834, stealing from a pawn shop on the Royal Highway in 1835, wounding with a knife in 1842, assault and murder in 1843, statutory rape in 1844, and fighting with an illegal weapon in 1845. In each case he had been released for lack of evidence, or on grounds that the underlying violence was the result of a fight or in selfdefense, for which he received the benefit of the doubt as a public safety officer. For his part, Miranda persistently claimed that his enemies were behind these accusations. He declared that Patiño’s family had paid for the 1835 broadsheet mentioned above (the lead investigator in the case alleged that they had offered him a bribe and suborned other witnesses).28 Judicial records show that Miranda was acquitted for the Patiño murder by a military tribunal and then by a military appellate court (the victim’s family made it sound like he was never tried), and that the statutory rape charge was filed by his de facto mother-in-law after he beat up María Soledad Estrada, whom he had lived with for ten years “as if they were married.” These same records, however, also implicate the short, dark denizen of bullfights and pulquerías, who tried to pass himself off as a humble cobbler and volunteer policeman, in at least two other murders and numerous robberies and shakedowns. Renderings of the slim dagger with which he stabbed Patiño appeared in numerous unsolved crimes, like a sinister trademark.29 As an editorial in El Mosquito Mexicano had noted more than a decade earlier, Miranda was such an “infamous criminal” it was a wonder he had survived.30

198  Everard Meade While Miranda did manage to survive, the chain of events that finally landed him behind bars in late June 1848 was set in motion on September 11, 1847, three days before U.S. forces poured into the capital. On that date, in the Plazuela (small plaza) of San Pablo, seven blocks south of the Zócalo (Mexico City’s main square), Miranda speared Evaristo Ortiz to death with a sword. According to Miranda, Ortiz had fired a pistol at him and he had stabbed him in self-defense. He did not explain why, by his own admission, he charged across the plaza towards Ortiz after he fired, rather than running away from him. Witnesses from shops in and around the Zócalo testified that they had seen Miranda standing over the dead man, walking away from him with blood on his sword, or hurrying out of the plaza shortly afterwards, but no one saw him stab Ortiz (or was willing to admit it). Many others testified they “had heard” that Miranda was the killer, and even that he had bragged about it. The victim’s friends claimed Ortiz and Miranda had been enemies for seven years, ever since Ortiz had an “illicit relationship” with Miranda’s then girlfriend, and Miranda did not deny it.31 The rapid advance of U.S. troops saved Miranda from jail this time. On September 13, just after authorities called him in for questioning in the death of Ortiz, the commanding officer of his national guard unit dispatched the troops to the watchtower at San Cosme, in the northwest corner of the capital. U.S. forces blasted through the city’s defenses that afternoon, overwhelming the hodgepodge of soldiers, guardsmen, and improvised civic brigades at a cost of more than 3,000 lives. As they advanced, Santa Anna ordered his troops to fall back to Peralvillo, the gate at the northern edge of the historic center of the city. According to the military prosecutors who investigated his case afterwards, Miranda was ordered to distribute ammunition to nearby neighborhoods so that they could harass and slow down the invaders. Once U.S. soldiers penetrated points just north of the city center, however, Miranda retired to his home to get out of the line of fire.32 A few days later, when the cannons went quiet and the devastated capital was fully occupied by U.S. forces, Miranda got a knock on the door from an old criminal world acquaintance, a Spaniard named Abraham de los Reyes, who had apparently been freed from jail to fight the invaders and then drafted to police the streets during the occupation. The crafty crime boss had avoided his own execution for five years and become a trusty within the jail. Amidst a physically and psychologically crushed and cratered city, local officials must have felt much like the popular slogan ‘better the devil we know than the devil we don’t.’33 De los Reyes brought Miranda before Manuel Reyes Veramendi (the acting senior alderman, whom U.S. officials left in place along with the rest of the municipal government), who then handed him over to Domínguez, the head of the Puebla counterguerillas. According to Miranda, this was an arrest, not a career move, and he escaped from their barracks twenty days later. Nevertheless, several witnesses testified that they had seen Miranda around

Trials and Executions in Post-War Mexico  199 town with other armed men, wearing a green officer’s cockade with the red ribbon of the counterguerillas pinned on it. The counterguerillas were also paid twenty U.S. dollars a month, five or ten times the salary of ordinary Mexican soldiers (when they were actually paid), making it hard to believe that he would have left.34 Whatever the nature of this association, Miranda seems to have used it to his advantage, and he became the local fixer for the robbery syndicate led by the three U.S. officers and the Canadian contractor who rappelled into the Spanish merchant house and killed the sales clerk in the incident mentioned earlier. When the military commission prosecuted the robbers, it concentrated on the ringleaders and the three U.S. officers. Lieutenants Hare, Dutton, and Tilden had embarrassed Scott, and he wanted to set an example for other U.S. forces in Mexico. Miranda thus managed to escape the episode unscathed, and his connection to it never got much attention, although two witnesses interviewed during the 1848 investigation described the carpentry shop he used for the stash house and his connection to the robbers in considerable detail. After U.S. forces pulled out of Mexico City around mid-June 1848, Miranda found work as a pulque wholesaler and horse trader, professions where his criminal connections no doubt proved useful. He was transporting a load of pulque across town with his wife on the sunny afternoon of June 28 when the police officer recognized him and hauled him off to jail.35 At long last, in February 1849, after he had escaped, was recaptured, sentenced to death, and then had his sentence revised by the Supreme Court igniting the controversy described above, Roque Miranda was sent to the presidio at San Juan de Ulúa. To provide for his upkeep in the tropical dungeon his family advertised the sale of his horse, a musket, a rifle, and some pistols, hoping that the criminal’s cachet would command a premium.36 Over the next few years Roque Miranda became a catch-all symbol of the evils that had taken root in Mexico. “The abandoned roads, the populations in which people tremble at the mention of his name, [and] the graveyards where the victims of his ferocity lay”—noted El Siglo XIX in mid-1848— laid bare his terrible legacy.37 Journalists also brought up his name in discussions over the threats posed by “insurrectionism,” filibustering, and banditry; the definition of “political offenses” for which the death penalty could not be applied; and the standards of personal conduct to which public officials should be held, always as an infamous counter-example.38 Finally, El Siglo XIX quipped in early May 1853 that Mexicans, if suffrage were made too broad or the requirements for serving on town councils too low, would end up governed by so many Roque Mirandas, rogue opportunists who would plunder and kill with impunity.39 The yearning for harsh, exemplary punishment for criminals (as well as a militaristic patriotism in the face of foreign threats to Mexico’s territorial integrity) were one factor that inspired Santa Anna’s supporters to bring him back to power from exile in Colombia in the spring of 1853, and he

200  Everard Meade quickly moved to address those concerns. On May 4, Santa Anna issued a circular letter that instructed military commanders to seek out and prosecute former members of the counterguerillas. Few such individuals were identified,40 but Roque Miranda’s renown as both a criminal and a collaborator provided the new government with an exemplary case, and the War Ministry reopened the treason case against him. Prosecutors went out of their way to justify the action, claiming they were only bringing charges related to counterguerilla operations, and thus not retrying the questions already considered by the Supreme Court. To complement the legal proceedings, Santa Anna’s War Minister and right-hand man, General José María Tornel, orchestrated a publicity campaign to revive the memory of patriotic resistance to the U.S. invasion that included reburying the remains of the rebel priest Jarauta in the city of Guanajuato. The campaign also sought to vilify alleged collaborators, and thus Tornel ordered the “cowardly” Roque Miranda permanently shackled in the dungeon at San Juan de Ulúa.41 Legal proceedings against Miranda, nevertheless, failed to gain traction. Although he admitted in an 1854 interrogation that he had been a member of the Puebla counterguerillas (but claimed that he had been forcibly conscripted and deserted as soon as the opportunity arose—the same story he told in back in 1848), investigators had a difficult time locating credible witnesses against him; bystanders feared retribution and former counterguerillas worried about exposure. Still, on February 6, 1855, the War Ministry told investigators to quit dragging their feet as Miranda’s crimes were “public and notorious.” The only relevant charge was his involvement with the counterguerillas. Santa Anna’s government had passed a series of emergency decrees prescribing the summary execution of rebels and bandits which applied retroactively and involved minimal legal proceedings.42 In theory, such legislation meant that military prosecutors only needed to verify Miranda’s identity and he could be shot on his reputation alone.43 By January 1855, however, Miranda was chronically ill from being constantly chained up in the cold and dank fortress, unable to sit properly or to lie down, and military commanders in the field viewed a sickly prisoner already locked away in a presidio as a low priority given the rapidly expanding coalition of actual rebels out to overthrow Santa Anna. Ten months earlier, on March 1, 1854, an uprising that called for Santa Anna’s ouster, supported by prominent Mexican liberals such as Juan Álvarez, Benito Juárez, and the brothers Sebastián and Miguel Lerdo de Tejada, had erupted in southwestern Mexico. The insurgency catalyzed a series of regional revolts—known as the Ayutla Revolution—that toppled Santa Anna’s government in midAugust 1855 before Miranda could be re-tried. A key element of the return to constitutional rule entailed the elimination of summary justice, a hallmark of Santa Anna’s regime. Consequently, on September 21, 1855 the new government issued a decree that abolished all the laws and regulations for the administration of justice passed since 1853, and in November mandated that only those prosecutions brought under

Trials and Executions in Post-War Mexico  201 military law could be tried by military tribunals or be in any way subject to military justice.44 By the same token, the new liberal administration was sensitive to accusations that they had failed to vigorously defend the homeland against the U.S. invaders in the mid-to-late 1840s, and had incorporated bandits and highwaymen into their forces, a sensitivity that did not bode well for Roque Miranda. The legal case against him unfolded amidst these changing, somewhat uncertain circumstances. That process began on November 1, 1855 when Miranda’s mother, Francisca Romero, begged government officials to grant her son a pardon. He had suffered “terrifying torture . . . in the middle of the vicissitudes that the country has passed through” in the terrible seaside dungeon. For good measure, she also asserted that her son was “innocent” of the “vile slanders” hurled against him. Despite her pleas, and even though Justice Minister Benito Juárez was well-acquainted with conditions at San Juan de Ulúa (Santa Anna had imprisoned him there before sending him into exile in 1853), on November 23 he signed a document whereby the government denied clemency. Miranda’s mother made a second appeal the following month but was again rebuffed. On February 1, 1856 Miranda himself wrote to President Ignacio Comonfort, asking him to commute the remainder of his time in the presidio in light of his good conduct and deteriorating health.45 When the chief executive asked for an update, prosecutors replied they were just beginning to mount a case against “the celebrated Miranda,” and that they would proceed as soon as they received his case file from the Supreme Court (which had refused to relinquish control of the dossier after Congress had returned it in 1850). A series of reports from officials in the presidio praised Miranda’s “industrious and obedient” conduct over many years, noted his hard work in the cobbler’s workshop, and claimed that his recent behavior had set “an example of obedience and submission” for the other prisoners. Then, on April 8, 1856, Ignacio de la Llave, governor of the state of Veracruz, wrote Comonfort on Miranda’s behalf. He attested to his role in thwarting a rebellion by the soldiers stationed at San Juan de Ulúa in the fall of 1855, as well as in carrying out “delicate commissions” that helped to put down a small mutiny among the guards the previous February. De la Llave did not specify the nature of these actions, but stated that he had explicitly offered his pardon recommendation in exchange for these services. Miranda repeated his request for exoneration one day later, and on July 4 Comonfort granted him an indulto (a formal pardon), this one signed by new Justice Minister Ezequiel Montes. Whether Miranda was ever set free, however, remains unclear. On July 30, his mother filed another indulto request,46 while on December 22 the Supreme Court forwarded all of Miranda’s files to the regular criminal court in Mexico City. In the end, further prosecution of Roque Miranda would have been a moot point. First, a key task of the government that had emerged from the Ayutla Revolution was to write a new constitution for Mexico (Santa Anna suspended the 1824 charter shortly after taking office, and by late 1853 his

202  Everard Meade regime had evolved into a dictatorship), and a congress charged with that duty first met in February 1856.47 The ensuing transition, however, created all kinds of jurisdictional headaches for the prosecution of collaborators from the war with the U.S. The conflict had been fought by a hodgepodge of soldiers from the regular army, national guardsmen, volunteers off the street, prisoners freed from jails, deserters from U.S. forces like the San Patricios, and even known bandits. Military commanders in Puebla and Veracruz appealed jointly to their state legislatures and together they came up with a solution on how to handle cases against alleged counterguerillas (who were not regular soldiers subject to military law) that had been dismissed by changes in the law since the fall of Santa Anna. Such lawsuits, henceforth, could be prosecuted anew under state jurisdiction so long as new or better evidence could be brought to bear, and so long as the accused had not been formally absolved by a court or court martial.48 For Roque Miranda, whose alleged offenses took place in Mexico City, this implied he would have to be tried as a civilian, in the capital, and only for offenses that were not part of the initial prosecution. Given the various crimes mentioned in the original case file, and the fact that Judge de la Peña and then the Supreme Court had explicitly ruled on the two most recent murders and on the question of treason, it would have been a difficult case to sustain. Furthermore, even if prosecutors successfully argued that the original Supreme Court decision was inherently limited to the counterguerilla question, it would be more a statement of what treasonous acts could be proved against him at the time than a definitive ruling on the question of whether he had participated in any counterguerilla activities. In any case, after a series of communications verifying his receipt of a pardon in August 1856, Roque Miranda vanished from the military and judicial archives. The next mention of him in the Mexico City press (which had followed his case very closely) offers but a tantalizing rumor. Late in September 1858 La Sociedad reported that Miranda had been captured with a band of nineteen freshwater pirates in Texcoco, a municipality located some twelve miles northeast of the capital. After serving out his sentence, the paper claimed, he had formed a syndicate that robbed freight canoes in the canals leading into Mexico City.49 There were, however, no follow-up stories, and it seems unlikely that the arrest of such a large group, captained by such an infamous character, would have gone unnoticed. Investigators had found him in very poor health since 1854, and San Juan de Ulúa was, for all intents and purposes, akin to a death trap, so Miranda probably died in the presidio even though one cannot know for sure (or exactly when he passed away). Whatever fate befell him, the part of his life that shaped the collective memory of the U.S.–Mexican War was over. Roque Miranda was a pure pícaro—a crafty scoundrel who flaunted authorities at every turn. Like many infamous bandits and ordinary criminals in post-independence Mexico, he outlasted several regimes that condemned him and avoided execution while many principled patriots faced the firing squad. Miranda’s fate, however, was hardly the “complete impunity”

Trials and Executions in Post-War Mexico  203 alleged by critics of the Supreme Court back in 1848. As his mother pointed out, “every government that has been able to make my son suffer has done so.” But the ease with which he manipulated the judicial system over a long period of time to avoid execution confirmed the conventional wisdom— politicians would rather stab each other in the back rather than deal with threats to the security of ordinary people, or the sovereignty of the nation. Of course, for many lawyers, judges, and civic leaders the Miranda case was a grand embarrassment, the next Juan Yáñez thumbing his nose at the integrity of the justice system.50 Indeed, the humiliation of defeat and occupation at the hands of the U.S. helped spur new efforts to contain ordinary pícaros, some of them quite visionary. The same frustration, as one might expect, would lead others to ever more brutal and summary measures to deal with crime and banditry.

The Fruits of War Over and above the incredible picaresque nature of the Roque Miranda affair, there seems to have been little appetite for executing ordinary criminals as the U.S. invasion closed in on Mexico City. On May 31, 1847, for instance, the Supreme Court recommended clemency in the case of Vicente Arroyo, sentenced to death for the murder of Lorenzo Ávila in 1844 despite a strong and detailed plea from the prosecutor who argued that clemency would obstruct the “good effect” the legislature intended when they imposed the death penalty for aggravated homicide. He added it would give other assassins the “hope or certainty” that, if they killed, they too would be spared, and cited many “sad examples of unpunished murders” in the capital. The Court explained that the details of the case were murky at best, so leaving Arroyo in prison did not seem to pose a threat to the public good.51 The U.S. intervention also added to existing delays caused by internal civil conflicts and created enough distance and doubt to prevent the execution of condemned individuals. During a routine visita de cárcel (jail inspection) in 1846, prisoner José María Montiel told federal officials that he had been sentenced to death eight years earlier and was still waiting for the disposition of his clemency request. The Supreme Court ordered an inquiry, and after some finger-pointing among civilian and military authorities the Comandancia General (the office that oversaw military affairs) located a case file according to which Montiel had been convicted and sentenced to death on January 18, 1838 for the murder of Nabor Reyes in September 1836. Reyes had been stabbed repeatedly and his body was found lying naked in the street in front of Montiel’s house, with his innards hanging out. Montiel’s landlady came across the likely murder weapon and some bloody clothing stashed in the house, and several witnesses testified that Montiel had acted strangely that day. Five days after his conviction, Reyes was taken out of la capilla (literally “the chapel,” or place for final reflection, and figuratively the last twenty-four hours of a prisoner’s life before his execution), pending

204  Everard Meade a request for clemency. The Supreme Court had recommended against clemency in 1838, citing the gruesome nature of the crime, but the executive branch never issued a ruling and Montiel was left in limbo. In 1846 the original trial judge, José María Puchet, claimed that he barely remembered the case (although his signature appears on most of the original documents), but did recall he had believed Montiel was mentally disturbed. Puchet’s response suggests that some of the delay might have resulted from officials who realized that Montiel’s case did not fit well under the emergency decree for murderers and thieves under which it was brought, but did not know what else to do with him. This time around, the Court recommended clemency, and the executive agreed.52 In other cases, neither the government nor the courts had the final say in execution dramas. The hanging of rebel cabecilla (ringleader) Hilario Galván for the atrocities he committed during a rebellion in the Huasteca (the heavily indigenous northernmost region of Veracruz, which overlaps with the states of San Luis Potosí and Tamaulipas) was a community affair. On November 25, 1847 mutineers led by Galván attacked the town of Uzuluama, hacked and beat local judge Manuel Mora to death, burned the archive, freed prisoners from jail, and locked up all the notable citizens. The rebellion spread to Tamiahua, Amatlán, Tepetzintla, and many pueblos in between. Although Galván was captured on February 15, 1848 in Temapache, he escaped en route to the jail in Huachinango. He and his followers then burned the towns of Tantima and Tamalín to the ground, and attacked several haciendas on the outskirts of the port of Tampico. At the end of the war with the U.S., as officials in Veracruz prepared to subdue the rebellious region, Galván’s own followers accused him of killing innocent civilians and lynched him in the plaza of Uzuluama. Nevertheless, the rebellion continued until national guard units defeated the remnants of Galván’s forces in July. Military tribunals sentenced dozens of rebel leaders to death, but all such sentences were commuted by a general amnesty the following April.53 The reticence to carry out actual executions tempered the zeal for revenge expressed by post-war death sentences in other cases. In early May 1849 local officials in Santa Inés Zacatelco, Tlaxcala, asked federal authorities for assistance in carrying out the execution of a band of thieves since the town had neither a garrote (a post with an iron collar that, as it tightened around the victim’s neck, crushed the windpipe and snapped the spinal cord), nor an executioner to operate it.54 The Supreme Court ordered federal authorities to send both immediately. When neither materialized after several weeks, the Court advised local officials they could arrange for a firing squad instead, and cited recent cases from the capital and the state of Colima for such improvisation. The executions went forward on May 24 and 26.55 In the Colima case to which the Court referred, local judge Bartolomé Quintero had refused to execute José Plácido, condemned for murdering his wife, “an unhappy indígena [indigenous woman].” The judge at first feigned illness, and then hid from federal investigators before resigning in protest, leaving

Trials and Executions in Post-War Mexico  205 the state militia to carry out the death sentence.56 Likewise, in June 1851 Simón Aguilar and three accomplices were executed as highwaymen on the outskirts of Mexico City despite a complaint from the judge that the punishment seemed unduly harsh.57 A similar reticence, or at least an ambivalence to dispense harsh punitive justice, was shared by General Mariano Arista, who had firsthand experience fighting provincial rebellions and had commanded the army in northern Mexico during the early stages of the war with the U.S. He succeeded Herrera as president in early 1851, and that April 11 his government amnestied insurgents who participated in the 1848 uprising for which Jarauta had been executed; one year later Arista granted clemency to some deserters and to General Victoriano Canas, a former rebel who had been sentenced to death in Chiapas in 1844.58 But neither time nor the trauma of occupation could cleanse certain crimes, particularly within local communities. Household servant Germán de Jesús Cumplido was sentenced to death in Tlaxcala on February 12, 1847 for murdering his master, Manuel Hernández. While the case was on appeal, local officials released Cumplido to fight against the U.S. invasion in the state militia. He was re-arrested in September 1849, and new proceedings throughout 1851 revived the crime’s gory details—Cumplido had bound and gagged Hernández while he searched the house for a knife, and then slit his throat. Cumplido left Hernández to bleed to death and retired to his lover’s shack, where police found bloody clothing and other physical evidence. The Superior Court confirmed the sentence on November 21, 1851. On December 3, the governor denied clemency, and three days later Cumplido was executed at the scene of the crime.59 At the same time, Mexican policymakers—likely influenced by the memory of jails emptied to support the war effort, bandits turned into patriotic guerillas and then bandits once again, and local heroes hauled before the firing squad—looked for ways to curtail criminal behavior in the aftermath of the U.S. occupation. On October 7, 1848, legislators decreed the construction of a penitentiary in the Federal District for the detention of the accused, the correction of youthful delinquents, and the incarceration of sentenced criminals; additional provisions were made to provide asylum for those freed after serving time in prison.60 The following day, Mariano Otero, then serving as both Interior and Foreign Relations Minister, issued an order stating that said penitentiary would be modeled along the Philadelphia system, which was based upon strict solitary confinement and personal reflection.61 A few years earlier, Otero had convinced Jalisco governor José Antonio Escobedo to build a large new penitentiary in the city of Guadalajara.62 In addition, another prison modeled on the Cincinnati Penitentiary (which emphasized the redemptive power of work and the skilled trades) had been in the works since 1834 in Puebla when the state legislature ordered its establishment at the site of a former Jesuit monastery. Construction began in 1840, and while the U.S. invasion delayed its completion the project remained active through the 1850s.63

206  Everard Meade Perhaps the most remarkable reform effort of the period occurred in Mexico state, where civic leaders took steps to organize a penitentiary by private conscription beginning in 1849. With the support of Governor Mariano Riva Palacio, construction began a year later. Proponents cited the famed Italian penal reformer Cesare Beccaria and other luminaries, but their primary concern seems to have been civic—the creation of institutions to deal with pressing social problems. At the same time, the chief justice of the state superior court, Mariano Villela, introduced a new penal code that abolished the death penalty for all offenses except for highway robbery.64 A similar penitentiary initiative passed in Michoacán under Governor Gregorio Cevallos, funded by a new property tax on larger farms and ranches.65 Support for these projects was not limited to utilitarians steeped in the literature of social reform, and included such voices as the conservative La Voz de la Religión, a weekly publication that staunchly defended the rights and privileges of the Catholic Church in Mexico through the 1850s. Its editors backed “the absolute abolition of the death penalty and the construction of a penitentiary regime” in accordance to the dictum ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.’66 Other commentators followed in the tradition of Ignacio Cumplido, the Mexican journalist and political commentator who had lobbied against the death penalty in the 1830s and defended the substitution of exile for execution as a means of reducing political violence. Cumplido had visited several innovative penitentiary projects in the U.S., including Cherry Hill outside of Philadelphia. He published vignettes of penal reformers John Howard and Charles Lucas, and cited from Beccaria, Jeremy Bentham, Alexandre Dumas, Gaetano Filangieri, Victor Hugo, and others. But rather than emphasize their specific theoretical contributions and the political movements that had adopted them, Cumplido stressed the way in which these thinkers empathized with condemned prisoners and exposed their basic human suffering.67 Likewise, and no doubt inspired by Hugo’s 1829 novella The Last Day of a Condemned Man, poet José María Esteva underscored the emotional torment of one such individual and the fundamental contradiction of society executing a man in cold blood who had himself killed in a fit of passion.68 One of Esteva’s patrons, the jarocho (as those from Veracruz were known) journalist and politician Manuel Díaz Mirón, criticized arguments for penal reform that worked by “negation,” or which blamed religious faith and ideas of social communion for sustaining “barbarous and tyrannical punishments” like the death penalty. It was precisely because society was a “moral and collective body . . . with its own will and its own life,” an interdependent whole, that it had neither the interest nor the right to take the life of one of its members. He lamented the “cancer of division,” rather than the cancer of crime or even banditry, and further argued that the death penalty resulted from such a cancer, which thrived in times of revolution and attacked any kind of social communion “like the vices of the body.”69

Trials and Executions in Post-War Mexico  207 Like Díaz Mirón, many of his contemporaries of diverse ideological stripes knew that much of the banditry and bloodshed they sought to remedy by more humane means than the firing squad was the result of political violence and war. While they borrowed from cosmopolitan thinkers in the U.S. and Europe who were deeply engaged in the building of modern states to complement the new social forces unleashed by the Industrial Revolution, they faced a fundamentally different problem. Otero and his cohorts believed they might remove some of the social fuel for political violence by containing criminals like Roque Miranda and even refashioning them into modern citizens, a very different project than that of their sophisticated contemporaries. But they never really came to grips with the crisis of political legitimacy that made the employment of men like Miranda a necessary evil for those who sought to seize or hold political power. Crime was a symptom of the cancer of division, not the other way around. Santa Anna had similar aspirations for harsh punitive justice during his 1853–1855 dictatorship— he authorized more than 175 executions—in the sense that he proposed to contain or eliminate a whole class of his countrymen rather than address the underlying social and political divisions that fueled conflict. Both projects failed, as did the draconian decrees passed by Benito Juárez (1862) and Emperor Maximilian of Hapsburg (1865) that attempted to criminalize all association with their enemies. They collapsed because the categories they created—bandits and rebels, facciosos and foragidos—were largely fictive and arbitrary given that their sole purpose was to criminalize their political enemies, while the desire for some kind of justice and redress after the U.S. invasion was very real indeed.70 Most individuals caught up in the punitive mechanisms deployed in the name of law and order over the next generation were either combatants in what would become a prolonged civil war, or civilians simply trying to survive. As such, their experience and the legacy it left behind is much better examined through the categories created by contemporary humanitarians like Henri Dunant, Francis Lieber, or even Leo Tolstoy, rather than the social thinkers behind the penitentiary movement or the critics of modern criminology. Their story has more War and Peace than Crime & Punishment—a grand narrative of military occupation and the violent coming of political modernity rather than an examination of the psycho-social origins of violent crime and redemption. Tolstoy’s protagonist Pierre, a patriotic Russian officer captured by Napoleonic forces in the early 1800s, reflects upon the nature of justice in modern war while facing what turns out to be a mock execution: Who was it, finally, who was executing, killing, depriving of life, him— Pierre—with all his memories, longings, hopes, thoughts? Who was doing it? And Pierre felt that it was no one. It was the order of things, the turn of circumstances.71

208  Everard Meade Post-war trials for treason and other serious crimes offered a last fleeting hope for justice in mid-nineteenth-century Mexico, one that kept alive historical norms for humane treatment at the expense of executive and even military power. For the civilians who survived the U.S. invasion and the multitude of provincial rebellions that it helped ignite, however, the order of things devolved inexorably into a permanent state of civil war, a turn of circumstances that would render claims of harsh or arbitrary justice white noise in the partisan din.

Notes 1. Abraham Lincoln used the quoted phrase in his first full-length congressional speech on January 12, 1848. Greenberg, A Wicked War, 252. This book offers an excellent account of the politics of the war in the U.S. For a broader portrait of outside observers’ interpretations of the war, see Dunkerley, Americana, especially 481–526. Wellington praised U.S. General Winfield Scott’s lightning advance to Mexico City from Veracruz in the spring and summer of 1847 as an act of military genius (which he had assumed impossible and followed on a map that he updated daily), and from the outset declared Mexico’s defeat at the hands of the U.S. a foregone conclusion. Wright, General Scott, 195– 196. As U.S. forces marched on Mexico City that August, however, Wellington declared that Scott was “lost”; he did not believe he could capture the capital nor withdraw to his base in Veracruz. Greenberg, A Wicked War, 208. In “The Movements of 1847,” Engels described his and Marx’s reaction to the U.S. invasion.They noted that America had “rejoiced” at the conquest of Mexico, and characterized that country’s downfall as “an advance” because Mexico, which “hitherto [had] been exclusively wrapped up in its own affairs, perpetually rent with civil wars, and completely hindered in its development” was now “forcibly drawn into the historical process.” Mexico’s future interests, they added, would best be served if it was “placed under the tutelage of the United States.” The essay was first published in the Deutsche-Brüsseler-Zeitung, on January 23, 1848. Accessed on March 28, 2017 from http://marxists.anu.edu.au/archive/ marx/works/1848/01/23.htm 2. Foos, A Short, Offhand, Killing Affair, 85. 3. Recent research has shown that pronunciamientos, rather than simple barracks’ revolts, were a pervasive and effective mechanism to conduct politics involving a variety of historical actors and interest groups (e.g., civilian politicians, army officers, rural municipalities). Their instigators expressed discontent with government policies in a written text in the hope that ensuing negotiations would compel authorities to redress those perceived grievances. Fowler, Independent Mexico. Fowler’s project at the University of St. Andrews in Scotland has so far identified more than 1,500 pronunciamientos for the period 1821–1876. Http:// arts.st-andrews.ac.uk/pronunciamientos/index.php 4. Mestre Ghigliazza (ed.), Invasión norteamericana, 107; “Pronunciamiento de la guarnición de Tabasco, 19 de Noviembre de 1846,” in The Pronunciamiento in Independent Mexico, 1821–1876, Stable URL: http://arts.st-andrews.ac.uk/ pronunciamientos/database/index.php?id=1463 (accessed February 20, 2017); El Siglo XIX, December 28, 1848; and Archivo Histórico de la Secretaría de la Defensa Nacional (hereafter cited as AHSDN), XI/481.3, exp. 2273. On Jarauta, see Roa Bárcena, Recuerdos de la invasión norte-americana, 162, and 252; Lerdo de Tejada, Apuntes históricos, 579–583; Molina Álvarez, La pasión

Trials and Executions in Post-War Mexico  209 del padre Jarauta, 33–35; Clary, Eagles and Empire, 338, 342, 376, 383, 396, and 418; and AHSDN, XI/481.1, exp. 3030. 5. Roa Bárcena, Recuerdos de la invasión norte-americana, 262–264. Francisco Sosa claimed Alcalde yelled “¡Viva la República mexicana!” (Long live the Mexican republic!) as he was shot. This assertion, however, was likely a postReforma improvisation. See his Biografías de mexicanos distinguidos, 29; and Dunkerley, Americana, 517–519. On the San Patricios, see Wynn, The San Patricio Soldiers; Stevens, The Rogue’s March; and Miller, Shamrock and Sword. 6. González Pedrero, País de un solo hombre, xxxix. 7. Flores (ed.), Extracto de la causa formada al excoronel Juan Yáñez; Frazer, Bandit Nation, 36; and Payno, The Bandits from Río Frío. 8. See, for example, “Al correr de la pluma: Hipocresías,” La Patria, January 15, 1896; and “El desastre mexicano 1846–48 y el debacle francés 1870–71,” El Siglo XIX, August 20, 1896. A brief account of Arriaga’s life appears in Frazer, Bandit Nation, 192–193. 9. Meade, La Pena Máxima. 10. Fowler, “Civil Conflict,” in Earle (ed.), Rumours of War. 11. Revanchism here refers to “the principle or practice of seeking retaliation or revenge; spec. a policy of seeking to recover a nation’s lost territory,” or other spoils of war. Oxford English Dictionary (OED) Online. December 2016. Oxford University Press. http://0-www.oed.com.sally.sandiego.edu/view/Entry/ 241896?redirectedFrom=revanchism (accessed February 20, 2017). 12. Escalante Gonzalbo, Ciudadanos imaginarios. 13. El Monitor Republicano, February 12, March 2, 16, 26, and 30, and April 5, 1848; and The American Star, March 2, April 13 and 20, and May 12 and 26, 1848. 14. U.S. officials also brought Mexican citizens to justice in other locales. Encarnación Jain, Margarito Soto, and Miguel Torres were convicted and hanged for robbery in the main plaza of the city of Puebla. Clary, Eagles and Empire, 379, and 393–394; The American Star, January 22, and February 12, 1848; and El Monitor Republicano, March 13, 1848. 15. El Monitor Republicano, March 16, 1848. 16. The American Star, April 6, 7, and 13, 1848; and Foos, A Short, Offhand Killing Affair, 127, and 193, n. 25. 17. The American Star, April 13 and 23, and May 4, 1848. 18. The entreaty was published in El Siglo XIX, June 7 and 8, 1848. 19. El Siglo XIX, July 1, 1848; Levinson, Wars within Wars, 32; and Clary, Eagles and Empire, 320. 20. Reinstatement of the 1824 federal constitution in August 1846 removed most criminal cases from federal jurisdiction, and thus from the existing courts in the departments that had replaced the states when Mexico became a centralist republic in 1835. However, until superior courts were reestablished in all states and the Federal District, the various salas (courts within the Court, or standing panels of judges) of the Supreme Court acted as de facto superior courts (e.g., appeals courts) with the authority to reconsider evidence and modify sentences on broad substantive grounds, rather than on the much narrower statutory and constitutional grounds of a constitutional appeal or amparo. Tena Ramírez, Leyes fundamentales, 203; and Cabrera Acevedo, “Iniciativas de leyes reglamentarias,” in Colección histórica, 53. 21. El Siglo XIX, July 22, 1848. 22. The men were Miguel Orellana, Rafael Herrera, Francisco Pérez de Lara, Francisco Pacheco, Encarnación Pastrana, Juan Landecho, Benito Suárez, Enrique Schut, V. López, Lorenzo Landecho, and Manuel Rosel; they had been stationed at the 23rd Precinct. El Siglo XIX, August 6, 1848.

210  Everard Meade 23. Archivo General de la Nación, Suprema Corte de Justicia de la Nación/Asuntos Económicos (hereafter cited as AGN, SCJN/AE), 1848, exp. 22389. 24. The full text of the correspondence between the Justice Minister and the Supreme Court was reprinted in El Siglo XIX, August 12, 1848. See also “La causa de Roque Miranda,” in González de Cossío and Oñate Salemme (eds.), Homenaje de la Suprema Corte. 25. Arnold, Política y justicia; Arnold and Vericat, “La política de la justicia”; Cortés Salinas, “Sobre el origen”; and Arenal Fenochio and Speckman Guerra (coords.), El mundo del derecho, xv–xx. 26. Cabrera Acevedo, “Iniciativas de leyes reglamentarias,” 53; and Beltrán Gaos, “Las garantías del inculpado,” in Cárdenas Gutiérrez and Speckman Guerra (coords.), Crimen y justicia. 27. “Diario del ahorcado Roque Miranda: Soldado del escuadrón de seguridad pública,” printed by Hipólito la Garza, Mexico City, 1835, in AGN, SCJN/AE 1848, exp. 22389. 28. Archivo General de la Nación, Justicia (hereafter cited as AGN, J), 1847, vol. 372, exp. 19. 29. AGN, J, vol. 244, exp. 24; vol. 366, exp. 40; vol. 372, exp. 19; vol. 610, exp. 257; AGN, SCJN, Penal 1845, exp. 30; and AGN, SCJN/AE, 1842, exp. 5436; 1844, exps. 7678, and 6132; 1846, exp. 7620. 30. El Mosquito Mexicano, February 20, 1835. 31. AGN, SCJN/AE, 1853, exp. 20185. There are many duplicates of the narratives of these crimes within the various post-1848 SCJN files, but this one from 1853, which includes the military justice proceedings, has much clearer calligraphy than the others. 32. AGN, SCJN/AE, 1853, exp. 20185. For an excellent account of the fighting at the gates of Mexico City, see Johnson, A Gallant Little Army, 227–241. 33. The prosecutors’ reports on Miranda in the civil and military case files note that de los Reyes was released after the U.S. occupation, but do not specify by whom or under what conditions. 34. Caruso, The Mexican Spy Company, 155. 35. El Siglo XIX, July 1, 1848. 36. El Monitor Republicano, February 15, 1849. 37. El Siglo XIX, August 14, 1848. 38. El Siglo XIX, September 5, 1848, and May 3, 1853; El Universal, April 8, 1853. 39. El Siglo XIX, May 3, 1853. 40. The communiqué is in AGN, SCJN/AE, 1853, exp. 20185. Governors throughout the country reported that most counter guerillas had fled, and that a handful was in various jails awaiting trial on an assortment of criminal offenses, but no evidence exists that they were retried by military tribunals. The governor of Tlaxcala identified counter guerilla Dionisio Pérez (also known as “El Huicho”) in the municipal jail but claimed he had a pending case in the Supreme Court. AHSDN, XI/481.3, exp. 3476. 41. AGN, SCJN/AE 1853, exp. 20185. Additional details on how the government sought to memorialize Jarauta are in Dublán and Lozano, Legislación mexicana, 6: 627. Santa Anna abandoned this campaign within two years when he realized such observances would “draw attention to his failed defense of the capital.” Van Wagenen, Remembering the Forgotten War, 56. 42. An April 8, 1853 decree issued by Interim President Manuel María Lombardini subjected “thieves of all classes and all their accomplices” to summary military justice, regardless of whether they were captured by soldiers, police, or “any private person.” The only exceptions were for rateros (petty criminals) and those arrested by regular judges or their immediate personnel. Prisoners were to be

Trials and Executions in Post-War Mexico  211 tried and sentenced within three days. Absent a competent military or civilian judge, the sentence was to be reviewed by “any lawyer” chosen by the ranking officer and executed within forty-eight hours, regardless of any pending clemency petitions. The preamble to the decree claimed the measure was a response to the “public clamor” for lawfulness. Chronic judicial delays had fostered the “impunity” and “intolerable audacity of criminals,” and the only remedy was prompt, exemplary justice. Dublán and Lozano, Legislación mexicana, 6: 358–359. On May 25, Santa Anna validated Lombardini’s decree and added new provisions demanding the immediate execution of salteadores de caminos (highwaymen) captured in fraganti or who had “caused death or serious injury,” and barring all highwaymen from receiving clemency. Dublán and Lozano, Legislación mexicana, 6: 425–426. Then, on July 9, Santa Anna decreed the death penalty for national traitors, and on August 1 passed a sweeping law against conspirators that authorized the summary trial and execution of anyone who led an uprising or declared—verbally or in print—against the government, as well as of anyone who met for such purposes in public or in private, or who provided plotters with any kind of assistance. Dublán and Lozano, Legislación mexicana, 6: 594, and 624–625. 43. AGN, SCJN/AE, 1853, exp. 20185. 44. Dublán and Lozano, Legislación mexicana, 7: 563, and 598–606. 45. El Universal, December 1, 1855; AGN, J, 1855–56, vol. 540, exp. 4. 46. AGN, J, 1855–56, vol. 540, exp. 4. 47. Sinkin, The Mexican Reform, 55–56; and Tenembaum, The Politics of Penury, 122. 48. AGN, SCJN/AE, 1856, exps. 19668, 19669, and 20066. 49. La Sociedad, September 25, 1858. 50. Flores (ed.), Extracto de la causa formada al excoronel Juan Yáñez, 50. 51. AGN, SCJN/AE, 1847, exp. 9727. 52. AGN, SCJN/AE, 1846, exp. 8183. 53. El Siglo XIX, July 6, 1848; and “Conclusión de las noticias estadísticas de Tuxpan,” in Boletín de la Sociedad de Geografía, 4: 263–265. 54. The garrote was the only prescribed method of execution permitted under civilian authority. In January 1812 the Spanish Cortes had abolished hanging as “a spectacle overly repugnant to humanity and the character of the Spanish nation,” and substituted the garrote for all executions. The Spanish crown reiterated the prohibition on hanging even after dismissing the Cortes two years later, and the substitution of the garrote was included in the various compendia of laws in force immediately after Mexican independence. AGN, IV, Bandos, 1812, box 1058, exp. 007. See also Amnistía Internacional, La pena de muerte, 41. 55. AGN, J, 1849, vol. 370, exp. 49 56. AGN, J, 1848, vol. 462, exp. 34. 57. El Universal, June 10, 1851. 58. Dublán and Lozano, Legislación mexicana, 6: 46–47; and AGN, J, 1852, vol. 411, exps. 9 and 10. 59. AGN, J, vol. 411, 1851, exp. 6. 60. Rodríguez Manzanera, Penología, 233. 61. Dublán and Lozano, Legislación mexicana, 5: 483–484; and Buffington, Criminal and Citizen, 90–92. 62. El Siglo XIX, June 11, 1845; and Gibbon, Guadalajara, 193–195. 63. Carrión, Historia de la ciudad de Puebla, 193–197. Also see Cruz, “Los encierros de los ángeles,” in Contreras (ed.), Espacios y perfiles. 64. See, by Timmons, “Seed of Abolition,” in Sarat and Boulanger (eds.), The Cultural Lives of Capital Punishment, 80; and “The Politics of Punishment,” 41–44. Also see El Siglo XIX, August 25, 1848.

212  Everard Meade 65. El Universal, December 30, 1848; Romero Flores, Historia de la ciudad de Morelia, 140. 66. La Voz de la Religión, March 28, 1849. Contributors included Juan Rodríguez de San Miguel, Juan Bautista Morales, José María de Jesús Diez de Sofiano y Dávalos, Manuel Carpio, José Laureano Zubiría, and Bishop José Antonio Laureno de Zubiría y Escalante of Durango. Agüeros de la Portilla, El periodismo en México, 9–11. 67. Timmons, “Seed of Abolition,” 78; and, by Cumplido, El Mosaico Mexicano, 6: 42, 127, 236, 494, and 1772–1773, and Las prisiones de estado. 68. Esteva, Poesías de don José María Esteva, 137–144. 69. Reproduced in El Siglo XIX, April 7, 1845. 70. Faccioso, literally a member of a political faction or someone who disturbed public order, was used to describe the members of rebel movements, whereas foragidos, an archaic form of “fugitive,” was applied to bandits or roaming criminals. Núñez de Taboada, Diccionario de la lengua castellana, 1: 689, and 715. 71. Tolstoy, War and Peace, 963–965.

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Trials and Executions in Post-War Mexico  215 (eds.), The Cultural Lives of Capital Punishment: Comparative Perspectives. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2005. 69–92. Tolstoy, Leo. War and Peace. Translated by Richard Pevear, and Larissa Volokhonsky (with an introduction by Richard Pevear). New York: Vintage Classics, 2008. Van Wagenen, Michael Scott. Remembering the Forgotten War: The Enduring Legacies of the U.S–Mexican War. Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2012. Wright, Marcus Joseph. General Scott. New York: D. Appleton, 1893. Wynn, Dennis J. The San Patricio Soldiers: Mexico’s Foreign Legion. El Paso: Texas Western Press, 1984.

9 “Looking for Virtuous Citizens by the Lamp of Diogenes” Governance, Moral Regulation, and Hegemony in Guanajuato, 1849–1853 Daniel S. Haworth In April 1850, in the town of Irapuato, in the state of Guanajato in central Mexico, twenty-one-year-old María Soledad Alcántara drew the government into her long-running conflict with her widowed mother, Dolores Lanuza. María Soledad had agreed to marry Francisco Tejeda, an aspring lawyer from a family of shopkeepers. By outward appearances he made a promising match, but Dolores did not consent to the marriage. According to family laws in force at that time, the daughter of a widow could marry without her mother’s permission at age twenty-three. María Soledad, therefore, would remain subject to her mother’s authority for another two years. The law, however, also permitted the child to appeal to the governor for authorization to marry without parental consent, and thus María Soledad— perhaps with the help of her legally trained fiancé—filed an appeal with a local magistrate. Three days later, the magistrate went to the Lanuza home where he had María Soledad, who lay in bed ill with cholera, confirm that she appealed for emancipation of her own free will. He then instructed Dolores to inform the governor why she opposed the marriage. In her reply, Dolores alleged that Francisco Tejeda was a neer-do-well who liked to gamble more than practice law, and who had bankrupted his family’s business. She closed her letter with a rhetorical flourish, lauding the governor’s probity as “the Supreme Magistrate, the incorruptible Guardian of the law, who exercises his paternal authority to ensure the prosperity of the State and the happiness of the citizens.” Her determination to thwart María Soledad’s marriage to Francisco, she claimed, was consistent with the aims of a government “searching for virtuous citizens by the lamp of Diogenes.”1 Dolores Lanuza’s words attest to a hegemonic pact that people of all walks of life—men and women, minors and adults, rich and poor, rural and urban—forged with their local government as they litigated the terms by which a young person traversed the juridical boundary between minority and adulthood. This chapter explores the articulation of that pact as revealed in 116 case files documenting appeals for prenuptial emancipation made in Guanajuato between 1849 and 1853. The case files belong to a wider category of civil and ecclesiastical sources concerning the adjudication of premarital disputes that scholars have mined for insight into

Governance, Moral Regulation, Hegemony  217 the social history of Latin America during the colonial and early national eras.2 All but a handful of appeals (109, or 94%) concerned young women. Female petitioners accounted for eighty-four appeals (72%), while another twenty-five appeals (22%) involved either the suitor or the suitor’s father (eighteeen and seven, respectively) asking the governor to emancipate the young man’s novia (girlfriend). In addition, seven appeals (6%) came from young men seeking to emancipate themselves. Most petitions (112) arose from conflicts over marriage choice between children and their father or his surrogate. Four appeals, two by orphans, and two others by Spanish immigrants, came from minors over whom no one held patria potestad (parental rights).3 Every plea generated a stream of correspondence among officials and between officials and the interested parties. When a case came to a close, the documentation it generated was compiled into a loosely bound bundle of papers that preserved a record of the deliberations leading to the governor’s eventual ruling, or, in twenty-seven cases, to the point at which either the petitioner or their parents desisted. All parties involved in an appeal—youths, parents, extended family, community members, and government officials—regarded moral regulation of the population to be the state government’s sovereign right. Hence, the sources upon which this chapter is based shed light on the hegemonic relationship between the state and society in Guanajuato. Florencia Mallon argues that hegemony connotes both a process through which power is contested, legitimated, and redefined, as well as an outcome by which a balance, a contract, or an agreement among contesting forces is maintained. Analyses of hegemony in early national Mexico fall into two schools of thought. One, first conceptualized by Antonio Annino, conforms to Mallon’s definition, but maintains that hegemony was constructed from the top-down by way of an oligarchic pact that prevailed among Mexico’s political class despite their quarrels over the issues of the day. He argues that the struggles for power among the elite, traditionally understood as a contest between federalists and centralists that evolved into one between conservatives and liberals, connoted the renegotiation and thus reaffirmation of oligarchic rule within the republican framework. The other school of thought, which Mallon pioneered and upon which other scholars have elaborated in studies of popular political culture in rural Mexico, holds that hegemony was constructed from the bottom-up. These historians show that villagers who ostensibly mobilized to support elite political objectives in reality asserted their own agenda, forcing elites to acknowledge it in return for cooperation or allegiance. In other words, the rural masses negotiated the terms of a hegemonic pact that represented their interests. Notwithstanding the distinction between these two interpretations, both locate hegemony in political debates that played out across every level of society and transcended the boundaries of class, ethnicity, and region into which Mexico was otherwise divided.4 The emancipation appeals in mid-nineteenth-century Guanajuato, however, identify a different hegemonic force at work, one that originated in family politics. Parents and

218  Daniel S. Haworth youths forged a hegemonic pact with the government by pressing moral claims before the governor, expecting he would see things their way and rule accordingly. They acknowledged his authority, which was something they had to do to access the power of government to override or reinforce patria potestad. Thus, as it regulated public morality, the local government in Guanajuato derived legitimacy from its interaction with the citizenry. Popular accceptance of the government’s power to morally regulate the citizenry bound the state and society in Guanajuato in a hegemonic relationship that at once preserved and was enabled by institutional continuity. The chapter elucidates this thesis through a fine-grained analysis of the emancipation appeals. A sketch of the structural features of daily life and governernance in Guanajuato through the 1846–1848 United States–Mexican War and the post-war years opens the discussion. Thereafter the chapter explores how family laws laid the groundwork for the hegemonic pact, and then the different means by which youths and parents alike invoked it. A final section assesses how local government confirmed the terms of the pact. The chapter reveals another means than those delineated above, one grounded in the normative function of local government, by which nineteenth-century Mexicans constructed hegemony. Analyzing the intimate relationship between the state and society in Guanajuato enhances understanding of the post-war years by showing that the aftermath of the U.S.–Mexican War neither precluded nor disrupted political stability at the local level. Circumstances in Guanajuato contrasted with the tumult of national politics. Mexico’s war with the U.S. sowed doubt and intensified ongoing disagreement about the direction of the republic. Not even the orderly transition from the presidential administration of General José Joaquín Herrera (1848–1851) to that of General Mariano Arista (1851–1853) dispelled the pessimism that colored the impressions of elite literati like General José María Tornel. Writing in 1852, he warned of “a definitive and tragic cataclysm that may bring an end to our political existence.” A former minister of war, Tornel was also a leading public intellectual and ardent nationalist. At the beginning of his career in civic life in the 1820s he had supported decentralized government, but his despair over the outcome of the U.S.–Mexican War completed his transition into a proponent of authoritarian rule. It was, Tornel believed, the only antidote to social dissolution.5 His alarm signified how the war dispirited elite Mexicans, yet the emancipation appeals analyzed below bear no trace of the conflict. Instead, they present a picture of normalcy underwritten by social, cultural, and institutional continuity that endured despite the war and its attendant disruptions.

The Setting: Mid-Nineteenth-Century Guanajuato At the time of the war with the U.S., Guanajuato was densely populated and productive. Just over 800,000 people lived in the state as of 1852 according

Governance, Moral Regulation, Hegemony  219 to a census conducted by the Guanajuato legislature. In ethno-racial terms, most guanajuatenses (residents of Guanajuato) identified themselves as mexicanos (Mexicans), the descendants of European and indigenous peoples who had intermingled following the discovery of silver in the 1540s and the consequent influx of Spanish settlers to the area. From that point on, silver mining, agriculture, and commerce sustained a vibrant economy.6 A boom in silver production, underway since the 1830s, energized the mining settlements nestled among the uplands of northern Guanajuato. Otherwise, population concentrated in the Bajío, a fertile plain that stretched across the southern half of the state. There haciendas, ranches, and farms divided the land into a patchwork of rural holdings interspersed with towns and hamlets. By mid-century the local economy had largely recovered from the devastation wrought by Mexico’s long struggle for independence (1810– 1821), in which Guanajuato, where that war began, suffered as a theater of recurrent violence between insurgents and royalists. Guanajuato thereafter enjoyed three decades of peace apart from the Battle of El Gallinero in 1832, where federal forces crushed a rebellion against the repressive regime of General Anastasio Bustamante. A decade later, the U.S.–Mexican War shatterered the peace. Guanajuato’s wartime experience exemplified the heavy toll that the conflict inflicted on Mexico as a whole. Though it lay outside the theaters of military engagement between Mexico and the U.S., Guanajuato endured both deprivation and violence. The Mexican war effort drained Guanajuato of arms and soldiers, money and materiel. In the summer of 1847, even as U.S. forces advanced on Mexico City, the state government refused to comply with a federal mandate to raise more troops, claiming that Guanajuato had exhausted its resources. Coping with two local uprisings in reaction to the war made matters even more difficult. The first broke out in January 1847 when indigenous villagers in the Sierra Gorda mountain range of northeastern Guanajuato took up arms to protest the federal government’s confiscation of communal woodlands to support the war effort. Then, in June 1848, General Mariano Paredes y Arrillaga seized the state capital to make it the base of his revolt against the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, the peace accord that had formally ended hostilities between Mexico and the U.S. Loyal elements of the military sent by the federal government drove Paredes y Arrillaga out of the city after a pitched battle, and then moved on to suppress the Sierra Gorda rebellion.7 The end of armed conflict in 1849 returned Guanajuato to peace, and it would remain calm through the rest of the post-war years. Local government formed a coherent and, in most respects, effective administrative unit that ensured stability. The four largest population centers in Guanajuato—León in the west, Celaya in the south, San Miguel Allende in the northeast, and the eponymous state capital in the north—served as the administrative seats of districts called departments (or, as of 1853, prefectures), each one overseen by a jefe de policía (his duties made him more of a magistrate than a police chief as the term implies). For the department

220  Daniel S. Haworth of Guanajuato, the vice governor served concurrently as the jefe de policía. Departments were in turn divided into partidos (districts), territorial units encompassing a cabecera (head town) and the smaller communities under its jurisdiction. A compliment of magistrates, referred to interchangeably in the documents as alcaldes or justices of the peace, handled minor civil and criminal cases in the partidos. Lettered adult males from the community held these posts. Jefes de policía and magistrates served at the discretion of the governor, but there is no evidence in the sources of turnover in local administration arising from the governor’s office changing hands. The number of magistrates in a jurisdiction depended on its size; the largest municipalites had four, and all but the smallest communities had at least two.8 The importance of local authorities in everyday life surpassed that of the distant and perennially weak federal government. Most people in Guanajuato, aside from muleteers and itinerant tradesmen, lived out their lives in the community where they were born or where they had settled. They, like people everywhere else in Mexico other than those in and around the national capital, experienced the state almost exclusively through interaction with local officials. Geography reinforced that exclusivity. It took one week to reach Mexico City under optimal conditions on horseback traveling the old Camino Real, the colonial era road that linked western and northern Mexico to the center.9 Political instability and chronic penury likewise limited the federal government’s influence in local affairs. Between the 1820s and the 1850s, national politics saw a sequence of presidents, constitutions, and political systems come and go in dizzying succession. The ephemeral nature of federal administration reinforced the importance of local government as the one institutional constant in the lives of most people other than the Catholic Church. This reality confirms Timothy E. Anna’s observation that Mexico was forged after independence through the conflation of the local with the national in everyday governance.10 It also explains in part why Dolores Lanuza, the distressed mother mentioned at the start of this chapter, envisioned the governor, not Mexico’s president, as the “Supreme Magistrate” who safeguarded the interests of “the citizens,” by which she referred to her fellow guanajuatenses. Her right to address the governor, and his authority to decide the case, demonstrated the significance of an institutional continuity unaffected by the recently concluded war with the U.S., namely marriage laws dating from the Spanish colonial era.

The Legal Foundation of the Hegemonic Pact An exchange between local officials and Blas Riegas, a Spanish immigrant who lived in the town of Silao, illustrates this legal continuity. Blas sought emancipation in the summer of 1850 after becoming engaged to Dominga Pesquera. Being twenty-three years old, and thus two years shy of the age of majority, he needed his father’s permission to marry. The problem was that

Governance, Moral Regulation, Hegemony  221 his parents lived in Spain. Given the time and inherent uncertainty involved in trans-Atlantic communication from landlocked Guanajuato, appealing for emancipation offered Blas an expeditious means of securing the consent he needed. Blas first appealed to a magistrate in Silao, who refused to hear the case because he lacked the authority to decide it. Blas then went up a rung on the administrative ladder and directed a carefully worded letter to Antonio Bribiesca, the vice governor of the state and jefe de policía of the department of Guanajuato. Here Blas spelled out what he regarded as the legal basis for Bribiesca to act in his capacity as jefe de policía, namely Article 74 of the law of March 20, 1837, an omnibus measure implemented pursuant to the centralist Mexican constitution of 1836. Blas also cited a colonial law called the Royal Pragmatic on Marriage of 1776. The connection between the former and the latter, he claimed, was that the Royal Pragmatic enabled civil authorities in New Spain to emancipate underage Spaniards in Mexico whose parents resided in Spain; Article 74 of the law of March 20, 1837 transferred that authority to district administrators called prefectos (prefects). Bribiesca responded with a detailed rebuttal in the left-hand margin of Blas Riegas’s letter. The jefe contended that the law of March 20, 1837 was no longer in effect because of the reimplementation of federalism in August 1846, resulting in the restoration of federal and state legislatures abolished under the constitution of 1836. Bribiesca claimed that neither the federal Congress nor Guanajuato’s legislature had issued a relevant ruling in the interim.11 Therefore he cited an act passed by Guanajuato’s first state legislature in 1824, as well as a treatise concerning an earlier law promulgated in June 1813 by the Cortes of Cádiz, the parliament that briefly governed the Spanish empire during the French occupation of Spain and consequent supression of the Spanish monarchy (1808–1814). All those legal sources, Bribiesca concluded, reserved for the governor the authority to emancipate a minor to marry without parental consent, so Blas should direct his appeal to the governor and not to the jefe de policía.12 The sequence of laws described in this exchange reconstituted the colonial pact between the Spanish crown and its subjects as one between civil authorities and the citizenry in Guanajuato after independence. Blas and Bribiesca reconstructed the legal basis of the pact by undertaking what has been called an “archaeology of the law.” This practice was an adaptation to the peculiar nature of jurisprudence in early national Mexico. From independence until the promulgation of the Civil Code of 1870, Mexican lawmakers replaced Spanish imperial law in piecemeal fashion and otherwise updated colonial era laws only as necessary. Judges, lawyers, lawmakers, and laypersons like Blas Riegas dug into a vast accumulation of Spanish imperial edicts augmented by Mexican legislation to find the law or laws most relevant to the issue in question.13 Bribiesca took pains to clarify for Blas Riegas what the law, resting as it did on colonial edicts, rendered ambiguous.

222  Daniel S. Haworth A brief survey of the legal evolution of marriage law in Mexico between the 1770s and the 1840s clarifies the picture. What remained unchaged was that in order to marry, a minor (defined as anyone younger than twenty-five) had to be over the age of fourteen, and have permission from their father or, in his absence, the father’s surrogate. The Royal Pragmatic of 1776 reiterated this requirement, but also allowed the minor to challenge their father’s decision by appealing to a civil court, thus ending the longstanding practice of adjudicating such conflicts in ecclesiastical tribunals. Subsequently the Spanish crown issued a decree on April 10, 1803 that made the age of majority conditional according to the sex of the minor and the stucture of their natal household. Henceforth, for children whose fathers retained their parental rights, males reached the age of majority at twenty-five, and females at twenty-three. For children of households headed by someone other than their father, the law reduced the age of majority according to who held the father’s authority. The reduction ranged from one year (twenty-four for men and twenty-two for women) for the children of unmarried widows, and to three years (twenty-two and twenty) for orphans. The 1803 edict also restricted the adjudication of prenuptial disputes between parents and children to the highest colonial court, the judicial bodies called audiencias.14 Subsequently the Cortes of Cádiz promulgated the law of June 23, 1813. This decree expressed the devolution of power to local authorities by a parliament determined to limit the prerogatives of the monarch. It made local jefes políticos (political chiefs) responsible for deciding if a minor could marry without parental approval but did not repeal the conditional age of majority enacted under the 1803 edict. Blas, therefore, confused the Royal Pragmatic on Marriage of 1776 with its final amendment by the Cortes of Cádiz in 1813. His confusion reflected the evolution of marriage law in Mexico after independence. Mexican lawmakers incorporated the law of April 10, 1803 into Articles 74 and 75 of the law of March 20, 1837. In a nod to the fact that independence had abolished the audiencias, Article 74 directed minors to appeal to the prefectos (redesignated jefes de policía after 1843). Article 75 allowed minors to bypass the prefecto and appeal directly to the governor, thus indirectly referencing the law of June 23, 1813 and its empowerment of jefes políticos. The term, however, carried multiple meanings, denoting anyone from a local official up to the governor, that Articles 74 and 75 aimed to resolve. Meanwhile, as Bribiesca’s rebuttal of Blas’ claim demonstrates, in Guanajuato if not elsewhere, the governor’s office assumed sole authority to determine the outcome of marriage-related emancipation appeals.15 The governor did so regardless of the finer points of the law. In other words, he assumed the place of the “father king” as originally described in Spanish imperial jurisprudence.16 Like the king before him, the governor of Guanajuato presided as a meta-patriarch with the capacity either to reinforce or to override the private authority of the father over his household. The governor also substituted for the father in cases involving orphans and children separated from their parents.

Governance, Moral Regulation, Hegemony  223 The very act of appealing for emancipation conveyed conciousness of the law, and by extension, of the pact the law upheld. Blas Riegas was one of five petitioners who cited specific legal provisions. The other four were María Soledad Alcántara and Sanjuana García, who based their appeals on the law of April 10, 1803; and María Ventura Rodríguez and Benigna Juárez, who referenced the decree of March 20, 1837.17 More often petitioners invoked the law in oblique terms to underscore their dependence on the governor’s protection, the merit of their appeal, or both. For example, Francisca Aranza, a young woman from the town of Yuriria, appealed for emancipation to marry Luciano Moreno in 1851 to prevent her father from forcing her to wed someone else, “counting on the law and the indulgence of our paternal Government.”18 Parents made similarly oblique references to the governor’s legally derived authority in the manner of Dolores Lanuza, whose quarrel with her daugher María Soledad Alcántara is described in the introduction to this chapter. If the emancipation files suggest a broader awareness of the law and of the governor’s role as its “incorruptible Guardian,” to quote Dolores Lanuza, the documentation is less clear on the source of this awareness apart from interaction between the public and local officials. In 1849, for example, the senior magistrate of the town of Congregación (now Uriangato), Trinidad Gordillo, worked with the parish priest to eliminate what they regarded as the threat to public morality posed by youthful passion. From time immemorial, Gordillo expounded in a letter to the state governor, youths had resorted to eloping to circumvent their parents. He and the priest agreed that this practice had become epidemic, so the two men worked out a straightforward solution. The priest would use the pulpit to encourage young parishioners who were determined to marry without parental approval “to resort to the authorities as the law required.” Presumably, the message reached its intended audience.19 In other instances, youths learned of their right to appeal by interacting with local officials. When the father of María Reyes Hernández did not allow her to marry Ignacio López, the couple went before a magistrate in their hometown of León to ask him to intervene. The magistrate jailed them for acting without the consent of María’s father, but freed them upon the completion of their short term in confinement on the condition that María would “ask the Governor if he would kindly sort out the situation.”20 In Salvatierra in 1852, months of conflict between Guadalupe Abascal and her parents over the prospect of her marrying Vicente Sosa climaxed with her father forcibly relocating her to another town. Vicente then asked a local magistrate and the parish priest to intervene. After hearing her father’s reasons for opposing the marriage, the magistrate informed him, and subsequently Guadalupe, that she could seek emancipation.21 Marriage laws laid the foundation of the hegemonic pact in Guanajuato in two respects. They established a framework that allowed the government to mediate the passage of an individual from one legal category to another,

224  Daniel S. Haworth from that of a minor to that of an adult. Such decrees, moreover, defined the minor as an individual endowed with the conditional right to secure emancipation, and the governor as a meta-patriarch who judged whether the minor satisfied the moral conditions necessary to exercise that right. The moral order and the political order entwined to form a structural symbiosis, the one perpetuating the other.

The Pact and Sexual Virtue For youths like those described above, mobilizing the apparatus of government required acknowledging and working within the moral order on which the government’s legitimacy rested. Nineteenth-century Mexicans envisioned public morality as an outward expression of private virtue. Literature conveys the depth and intensity of moral preoccupations among its readers. Albeit few in number in an era of limited literacy, the reading public was just that, part of a wider public that subscribed to common cultural values reflected in the literature of their day. Throughout the nineteenth century, authors returned time and again to the theme of youthful indiscretion as a moral hazard. In a tract published in 1819, two years before Mexico became independent, the moralist Pedro Septién Montero decried the susceptibility of youth to all manner of outside influences that threatened to pervert or mislead them.22 To motivate readers to embrace morality and justice, in the 1840s novelists created a genre known as costumbrismo that focused, often satirically, on foibles, vices, and defects in Mexican life. Youth was a costumbrista subject from the very start of the genre. The first costumbrista novel, Manuel Payno’s El fistol del diablo (1845–1846), tells the story of Arturo, aged twenty-two, who returns to his home country after years of education in England, only to find himself unprepared to navigate the realities of Mexican life. Payno and fellow writers like Francisco Zarco and Pantaleón Tovar penned fiction as social comment on the consequences of libertine behavior, especially by the young.23 Etiquette manuals prescribed courtesy, deference, and buenas costumbres (good habits) to eliminate barbarism and immorality. The most popular such handbook, the Venezuelan author Manuel Antonio Careño’s Manual de urbanidad y buenas maneras para uso de las escuelas de ambos sexos, was published in 1854; schools throughout Mexico continued to use it for decades thereafter.24 These works convey a mentality that transcended the narrow confines of the reading public. Such concerns echoed in the words and attitudes of youths, parents, and officials alike. When it came to conjugal relationships, whether actual or potential, the moral order operated according to a system of honor embedded in local culture. References to honor in the emancipation appeals defined it in terms of behavior; it was also primarily—but not exclusively—a matter of sexual virtue. The honor system in Guanajuato, as elsewhere in the Americas, created sharply different expectations for male and female youths. A male

Governance, Moral Regulation, Hegemony  225 demonstrated his honorable status by being a productive, morally upstanding individual fit to become the head of a household. His sexual virtue had little impact on his social standing. Indeed, sexual mores encouraged males to be sexually assertive and even promiscuous. For a female, social standing and sexual virtue went hand in hand. First and foremost, she had to be sexually pure. Any deviation from that requirement, whether actual or suspected, damaged her social standing regardless of her behavior. The taint of sexual impurity brought shame not only to the female, but to her family as well. In other words, a female had no control over her honor other than to protect it, and should she lose it through an inappropriate relationship with a man, the social consequences radiated outward from her. This system of honor did not preclude pre-marital sex so long as the couple wed. In that case, marriage erased the stain of sexual impropriety.25 In 1850, in the town of Dolores Hidalgo, María Quirina Luna and Refugio López used their otherwise illicit sexual relationship, and the moral hazard it represented, as leverage to secure her emancipation. After Refugio promised to marry her, he and María Quirina sealed their commitment by having sex in her home while her mother was away. María Quirina’s mother was a widow who had inherited her late husband’s status as head of household, meaning that the underaged María Quirina needed her mother’s permission to marry. This was María Quirina’s first sexual encounter, and she became pregnant as a result. Her pregnancy forced the issue, but when Refugio broached the subject of marriage with María Quirina’s mother, she refused to permit it. The couple thereupon presented themselves to a magistrate knowing that he would penalize them for committing estupro, a sexual crime denoting premarital sex with a minor. Refugio seized the opportunity to appeal to the governor for María Quirina’s emancipation. His petition explicitly referenced the risk of damage to María Quirina’s honor. He admitted that they had “fled so that her mother would consent to our marriage as [this was] the only way to recover María Quirina’s honor, although we would have to suffer whatever punishment the authorities imposed.” Refugio acknowledged that he and María Quirina had breached the moral order to coerce her mother, but since the woman would not relent he now beseeched the governor to clear the way for he and María Quirina to mitigate the risk. At risk, of course, was not only María Quirina’s honor, but also that of her mother as the head of household. María Quirina’s mother soon bowed to the pressure and reversed her stance while the official inquiry was underway. In this hegemonic transaction between the governed and their local government, María Quirina’s honor served as the currency.26 The same was true for female petitioners who cited domestic abuse as the rationale for seeking emancipation to marry. Gabina Yebra and her fiancé Camilo Ramírez surrendered to authorities in Romita in the hope that the official investigation of her case would vindicate her desire to flee from her natal home. Her plight was no secret in Romita. The town’s síndico procurador (attorney general) informed the governor’s office that Gabina’s

226  Daniel S. Haworth parents wanted her to marry her paternal uncle; six days later the governor authorized her emancipation.27 A female applicant could also advance her case by charging her parents or other family members with the intent to prostitute her, which implied compelling her to enter an illicit sexual relationship. This was an especially explosive charge and ocurred only in two cases, presumably because a spurious accusation carried grave consequences for the petitioner. María del Rosario Trujillo claimed that her parents were “conniving to prostitute me,” and thus marriage to Cesario Arrillaga was the only means to “remove the stain from my credit and honor.” María de Jesús Pichardo alleged that her mother would prostitute her, a charge that her neighbors in the town of Silao confirmed. Her future, she declared, hung in the balance—“either dishonor and abandonment, or a marriage that my heart desires and that will rehabilitate me in society.”28

Rapto and Depósito: Youths Invoke the Pact Mexican law recognized three categories of sexual crime—rapto (abduction), estupro, and violación (rape)—29 with the former being the least serious such offense. The legal definition of rapto held the suitor responsible for the removal of his underage fiancé without the consent of her parents, regardless of the young woman’s complicity. Youths intentionally resorted to rapto for the same reasons María Quirina Luna and Refugio López engaged in premarital sex; namely, to seal their promise to wed, and to create a moral hazard that would ensure government intervention in their case. Thus, part of the significance of rapto as a courtship practice lay in the balance of risk and reward inherent to the crime. Virtually every instance of rapto mentioned in the sources was a carefully planned, premeditated act that involved the couple who perpetrated it willingly surrendering to a local magistrate as had María Quirina and Refugio. The magistrate would punish them in accordance with the law, and then initiate emancipation proceedings for the minor involved, especially if the minor was female. This attests to an unspoken intention to ensure the integrity of the moral order by seeing to it that the case received careful evaluation by male authorities in accordance with marriage law. By resorting to rapto, as well as estupro, youths created a moral hazard that only marriage could undo. They simultaneously invoked the hegemonic pact and upheld it by engaging in proscribed behavior, a strategy similar to what Steve Stern observed about the way women in colonial Mexico resorted to scandal to sway male authorities to act. In this regard the practice of rapto and reactions to it by both officials and the public at large in Guanajuato conformed to patterns described in studies of courtship and marriage elsewhere in nineteenth-century Mexico.30 In other words, rapto in Guanajuato underscored the difference between the letter of the law and popular attitudes that conditioned how the law was interpreted and applied. The law proscribed rapto, but popular attitudes excused the offense so long

Governance, Moral Regulation, Hegemony  227 as it was preliminary to marriage. Youths in Guanajuato understood the difference and acted accordingly. Examples abound in the sources under study of young women who admitted risking their honor to achieve their objective, as in the following instances from 1853. Twenty-two-year-old María Librada Torres left her family home on the hacienda de la Trinidad with José Flores, who lived on a neighboring rancho (ranch), for a nearby town in central Guanajuato, where they surrendered themselves to local authorities. Shortly after being taken into custody, Librada appealed to the governor for emancipation, lamenting that she “had no choice but to jeopardize my honor” to overcome her father’s resistance. Francisca Zamora willingly left her family home in San Miguel Allende with Luis Durán, yet she portrayed herself as the victim in her letter to the governor. Not only was this in accordance with patriarchal custom, it also underscored the moral hazard posed by her action. She recognized that Luis had dishonored her, and that if she could not marry him it would be difficult for her to find another spouse. A fifteen-year-old resident of the mining town of Santa Ana, María Eufemia Rodríguez, was even more emphatic. She admitted to acting without “the delicacy that the honor of a girl my age demands, and having fled with my fiancé, I can only recover my honor if I am allowed to marry him.” She begged the governor to emancipate her, and warned him that if he did not, “I will be exposed to criticism by many people, and I may yet commit another crime.”31 In the town of Pénjamo, twenty-four-year-old María Feliciana Castro, unaware that she had attained the age of majority, fled her family home with Domingo Villegas. In her petition for emancipation, she characterized herself as “compelled by passion, or in other words, without pausing to reflect,” and “imprudently believing that this would iron out the arrangements for my marriage.” Yet she held her parents accountable for the risk she had taken, claiming that “only by their resentment does my honor remain vulnerable.”32 One noteworthy aspect of rapto is that the crime never disqualified the appeal. This could be attributed in part to gendered assumptions by male officials that marriage would expunge the taint of illegitimacy. By submitting to judgment, couples initiated a transaction with the government whereby they had to pay the penalty for their impropriety in return for officials considering the applicant’s petition for emancipation. Custom, if not also law, mandated that a couple guilty of rapto be reprimanded before the underage partner’s appeal for emancipation could be considered. Magistrates routinely implemented the punishment by ordering the couple to be confined separately, with arrangements for the emancipation appeal proceeding concurrently with the couple serving their sentence. If the governor did not have proof of the couple being punished, he would remind the magistrate handling the case to provide confirmation. Serving time in confinement for committing rapto was tantamount to a show of good faith to carry through on the promise to marry. By allowing the appeal for emancipation to proceed, officials signaled to the perpetrators that, so long as they upheld their

228  Daniel S. Haworth side of the bargain, so too would the government. Both parties were bound to each other in a mutual promise to make whole a moral order violated by youthful indiscretion. The length of time an individual remained confined for perpetrating rapto depended on the circumstances of the crime. As noted above, in keeping with patriarchal custom, officials held the suitor responsible for rapto even if his novia characterized it as her idea or acknowledged her complicity. Ordinarily the length of a young man’s imprisonment for rapto depended on whether he and his fiancé had entered into carnal relations. Félix Contreras spent only three days in the municipal jail of Yuriria in 1853 for his part in the rapto of María Antonia García, who apparently remained a virgin. By contrast, because Atanacio Gómez and María Lorenza Olaez confessed to estupro, a magistrate in León sentenced Atanacio to three months’ imprisonment in 1852.33 In two other cases magistrates had their sentences reviewed by Guanajuato’s highest court, the Supreme Tribunal of Justice, to confirm the legality of the punishment. In 1849 magistrate Luis Ramírez of Romita referred the case of María Ignacia Bonilla and José de la Luz Morín to a criminal court for sentencing because of its delicate nature. Not only had they resorted to rapto after engaging in consensual premarital sex, but María Ignacia was barely fourteen years old, the minimum age for marriage.34 In another case, immediately upon sentencing María Jesús Pichardo and Pedro Hornelas to three months of incarceration in 1851, a magistrate in Silao notified the Supreme Tribunal of Justice. Why the magistrate took this exceptional step remains unclear given that she had admitted to consensual sex with Pedro. The magistrate’s decision forced María Jesús and Pedro to endure a legal proceeding that dragged on for six months before María was finally able to appeal for emancipation.35 Magistrates could be lenient if the punishment promised to create excessive hardship. In 1851 Desiderio López, magistrate for the town of Purísima del Rincón, released Cesario Arrillaga on two occasions, first for eleven days, and later for another eight days, to help his family cultivate their land ahead of the coming rainy season. The magistrate’s only requirement was that Cesario guarantee his return by contracting with a bondsman. Cesario’s underage fiancé, eighteen-year-old María del Rosario Trujillo, remained all the while in protective custody.36 Local officials incarcerated all these youths while their appeals were decided to punish the couple as required by law, and to protect the young women should her case involve allegations of domestic abuse. A young man would be jailed, but the young woman would be placed in protective custody in a private home. This practice, known as depósito, was a variant of the traditional form of female enclosure known as recogimiento.37 Unlike rapto, which was a juridical construct, depósito was a gender-specific cultural practice intended to protect females vulnerable to threats to their virtue, their personal safety, or both. While in custody the female remained apart from all those who might influence her decisions or statements. Female youths frequently counted on depósito to ensure that their plans would go

Governance, Moral Regulation, Hegemony  229 forward. Hence depósito gave youngsters another means of invoking the hegemonic pact with their state government. A couple could evade charges of rapto if the suitor arranged for his girlfriend to be confined. Those who did followed a premeditated strategy like that of Crecencia Tovar and Francisco Gutiérrez. Because Crecencia was only sixteen, she and Francisco knew they needed her parents’ permission to wed. To that end, Francisco went to the parish priest of Dolores Hidalgo and asked him to approach Crecencia’s parents. Meanwhile, as a precaution, Francisco made plans for a magistrate to remand Crecencia to depósito.38 In many instances, a young woman seized the initiative and voluntarily submitted to confinement either to demonstrate her moral probity, to evade her family, or both. Cipriana Padierna, a schoolteacher in the town of Jerécuaro, asked a local magistrate to remove her to depósito so she could appeal for emancipation to marry Juan Escamilla. Others, like Genoveva Díaz, resorted to depósito to protect themselves from being mistreated by their parents; she sought protection because her mother beat her. All three female petitioners mentioned in this paragraph used depósito to change their lives.39 Depósito, then, did more than just satisfy patriarchal concern for female propriety. It also established a reciprocal relationship between the petitioner and the government, whereby she submitted to confinement in return for official consideration of her case. A magistrate forged that relationhip when he removed a girl from her natal home and placed her in depósito. Magistrates did so to ensure that the girl exercised free will in accordance with Catholic doctrine, or if he believed her to be in peril. Juan Santoyo, magistrate for the town of Yuriria, took María Francisca Aranza into protective custody fearing that her father would mistreat her when he learned that she and her suitor had defied him. In San Miguel Allende, magistrate Vicente Sánchez removed Juana Muñoz from her natal home after learning from her suitor that her parents intended to send her away to thwart her marriage.40 A more dramatic example of a magistrate using depósito to defend a young woman’s free will occurred in Uriangato in 1849. The incident followed a confrontation between Guadalupe Silva and the family of his sweetheart, Simona Villalobos. Guadalupe’s request for permission to marry Simona, which he made in person to her father, enraged him and Simona’s brothers, who angrily chased Guadalupe from their rancho. Incensed at this treatment, Guadalupe went straight to Uriangato’s magistrate, Trinidad Gordillo, to file a complaint. Later that same day, Gordillo rode out to the rancho to investigate. Two assistants accompanied him, one of whom led an extra horse to ferry Simona back to town where she was to remain in depósito until the dispute was resolved. Gordillo interviewed Simona with her father’s permission and then, convinced of her genuine desire to marry Guadalupe, made ready to leave with her. But as the magistrate turned for the door, Simona’s father and brothers blocked the exit. They pulled Simona away and expelled Gordillo from the rancho just as they had Guadalupe,

230  Daniel S. Haworth assailing the magistrate with threats and insults. Gordillo responded to this affrontery by returning to the rancho with twenty armed men and conveying Simona to depósito. In a diplomatic touch intended to mollify her father, Gordillo allowed him to choose where she would be held.41 Depósito reproduced the hegemonic pact by confirming the gendered norms of the patriarchal order. For the male, confinement of his intended bride mitigated the impact of his defiance of patriarchal norms. Here we arrive at an important aspect of the rapto cases discussed in the previous pages—none of them involved the young man forcibly abducting the young woman. Support for this observation comes from the fact that, in every case, the parents of the young woman involved never alleged that her suitor had acted in this manner; subsequent inquiries by local officials also failed to turn up allegations of abduction. The evidence suggests that young men, like young women, recognized the value of playing by the rules after violating them. Even when rapto was not involved, and a young woman voluntarily submitted to confinement while her request for emancipation was considered, the implication for the suitor was the same. When the government took his intended bride into custody, it signaled the young man’s acceptance of patriarchal norms, as well as his willingness to assume his place as a husband and head of household, with all the attendant rights and responsibilities. At that moment the young man acknowleged both the moral order as well as the legitimacy of the political order that upheld it. In other words, depósito integrated the young man into the hegemonic pact between the local government and the populace. For the young woman, depósito cemented a partnership with a paternalistic, patriarchal government. This arrangment facilitated female selfdetermination within patriarchal boundaries. Moreover, confinement in a private residence, under the supervision of an adult known and trusted by a magistrate, protected female virtue and therefore public morality. Depósito refined the linkage between the one and the other in a moment fraught with uncertainty. Once in custody, the female youth would be free of outside influence by family or friends, protected from the possibility of parents infringing on her exercise of free will, and, above all, prevented from running off with her suitor. As the aforementioned examples attest, female youths anticipated and even sought being placed in protective custody to escape what they regarded as the oppressive authority of their parents. Enfolded within the protective mantle of a paternalist government, they were free to chart their passage into an adulthood circumscribed by the institution of marriage. By entering depósito they implicitly agreed to the terms of the hegemonic pact. They appropriated the power of government to secure a chance at self-determination, and in return acknowledged the legitimacy of a paternalist government as well as the patriarchal order it upheld.

Parents Invoke the Pact Thus far this essay has considered the strategies by which minors initiated the emancipation process, and how doing so drew them into the hegemonic

Governance, Moral Regulation, Hegemony  231 pact. The process, however, incorporated parents into that pact as well. Most parents engaged the government to thwart their child’s attempt to override the otherwise insuperable power of patria potestad. State officials did not take that prospect lightly, and therefore strove to account for the perspective of the adult who the minor sought to defy. Officials could go to great lengths to contact parents. For instance, the father of Cipriana Padierna, the schoolteacher mentioned above who asked to be placed in depósito in Jerécuaro, left town the day before she filed her appeal. The magistrate handling the case not only alerted his counterparts in towns along Cipriana’s father’s route to be on the lookout for him, but also notified his counterpart in the city of Morelia, over fifty miles away in neighboring Michoacán state.42 Ordinarily, once an appeal by or on behalf of a minor had been filed, officials gave the minor’s parent or parental surrogate—that is, the head of the minor’s household—fifteen days to explain why they refused to consent to the marriage. To defend their prerogatives, a parent opposed to their child’s marriage had to respond. Those who did called on officials to assist them in upholding the government’s mandate to preserve the moral order. The same was true in seven cases where a father asked that their son’s underage fiancé be emancipated so the youngsters could wed. In these ways the emancipation process drew parents and parental surrogates into the hegemonic pact. Cases of prenuptial conflict between a daughter and her parents amounted to the most common scenario that compelled parents to engage the government. In such instances, parents often couched their rationale for opposing the match in allegations against their daughter’s suitor, especially by labeling him a vago (vagrant). This term signified that the suitor was licentious, undisciplined, without gainful employment, or somehow living contrary to the behavior expected of an honorable head of household. For example, Rafaela Hornelas dismissed her daughter’s beau as “a vago who supports himself by gambling and associating with a group of thieves.” In a similar vein, though he did not use the term vago, Luis Sánchez impugned the masculinity of his daughter’s suitor by describing him as “a youngster without position or industry of any kind, who lives off the work of his mother and brothers.” Guadalupe Fonseca objected to his daughter María Salvadora marrying Refugio Ramírez because the young man did nothing to support himself, was an infamous drunk, and his obnoxious behavior was “so shameful as to be indecent to describe.”43 Parents also alleged deviant behavior, especially sexual profligacy, to cast the suitor as a threat to female virtue. Antonio Muñoz and Vicenta Velázquez recited a litany of recriminations against their daughter’s boyfriend, Miguel Molina, including that he was a womanizer. María Quirina Luna’s widowed mother told the parish priest of Dolores Hidalgo that she refused to allow her daughter to marry Refugio López because he was involved with another woman who he would not abandon.44 Parents also cast their opposition as an attempt to protect their daughter from a hazard posed by her suitor’s family. Silveria Vázquez had promised

232  Daniel S. Haworth to marry Pedro Moreno, but her father, Miguel Vázquez, declared that he rejected their marriage to shield Silveria from moral, and possibly physical hazard. When interviewed by a justice of the peace in Silao in 1849, Miguel warned the magistrate that Pedro Moreno had robbed a young woman and would surely follow in the footsteps of his father, a man notorious for his misbehavior. Elogio Gómez worried that his daughter Cándida might marry a young man whose brother, Elogio claimed, had beaten a woman to death.45 Fears of moral hazard echoed insecurities other parents voiced about the possibility that marriage might pose a physical danger to their daughters by exposing them to a deadly infection. Epidemic disease, especially cholera and tuberculosis, was a fact of life in nineteenth-century Mexico. Recall that María Soledad Alcántara, whose case opens the introduction to this chapter, contracted cholera while her appeal for emancipation was underway in 1850. She was one victim out of the multitude sickened in an epidemic that spread through central Mexico that year. People recognized the threat of contagion even if they did not understand how and why it spread. Lack of understanding made the threat much more menacing.46 Thus the parents of María Victoriana Cevallos tried to block her marriage to José María Nuñez on grounds that his first wife had died of tuberculosis. José María, they feared, might pass the dreaded respiratory ailment to María Victoriana (local officials strove to verify that allegation, as I discuss below). In contrast, officials made no effort to verify Francisco Abascal’s claim that his daughter risked contracting leprosy from Vicente Sosa, perhaps because Abascal explained that Rafael Bermúdez, a physician and magistrate in Dolores Hidalgo, had confirmed the diagnosis. Warning that their child risked marrying someone tainted by a history of licentious behavior or infectious disease enabled Abascal and other parents like him to portray themselves as working in concert with the government to uphold the moral order.47 Their allegations confirmed their acceptance of the hegemonic pact. In a handful of cases (seven in all), the father of a suitor requested that the young man’s fiancé be emancipated, and in effect invited the government to intervene in an inter-family conflict. The beau’s father, in most such instances, asked the government to right the wrong committed by the father of the novia, who abused his power by irrationally or indefensibly opposing the marriage. In two cases the suitor’s father acted to mitigate the moral hazard arising from their son’s behavior. Gerónimo Gutiérrez appealed for the emancipation of María de Jesús Méndez on behalf of his son, Refugio, in 1849. Her parents, Gerónimo alleged, wanted to marry her to someone else against her will. María de Jesús had fled her family home in Dolores Hidalgo that of a sympathetic relative, who then took her to the local priest. Gerónimo appealed to the governor because the priest had ordered that María de Jesús be returned to her parents, but the gambit failed when his son’s reputation came to light. During the inquest local officials dismissed Refugio Gutiérrez as a notorious lowlife; the priest claimed that Refugio had had “illicit relations” with another woman. Meanwhile, Refugio and

Governance, Moral Regulation, Hegemony  233 his brothers dashed their father’s hopes by storming into the Méndez home in middle of the night, beating María de Jesus’s brother, and making off with her.48 In the other instance, the father of Canuto Losa made a similar bid to legitimate the relationship between his son and María del Refugio Morillo, only to see them flee from their hometown of Piedra Gorda to Morelia, Michoacán. On this occasion misbehavior kept alive hope for the proposed marriage. The vice governor, who oversaw the preparation of an appeal for the governor’s consideration, informed local officials in Piedra Gorda that the petition would be considered once the couple was apprehended and punished.49 While parents had to engage the government to have any hope of officials upholding their authority, that choice ceded to authorities the right to decide the case. Parents who could not or would not participate relinquished any say in the proceedings, with the government supplanting them by default. Either way, parents found themselves coerced into accepting the government’s authority to act in loco parentis (in the place of a parent). Their assent legitimized an idea implicit in the appeals process, namely, that the government’s right to rule rested on public officials preserving the integrity of the moral order. State administrators, of course, actively participated in the process. Assessing the government’s role in the pact requires focusing on what transpired after the governor accepted an appeal for consideration.

The State Confirms the Pact The adjudication of an appeal cast the governor as a meta-patriarch who played an essentially ceremonial part in an undertaking otherwise shaped and guided by the array of state functionaries answerable to him. Of these, local magistrates and an advisory body called the Council of State (in effect, the governor’s cabinet, chaired by the vice governor) proved the most influential because they handled the administrative details that decided the outcome of an appeal. Once the magistrate who originated the case had gathered the relevant documentation, and if necessary had confined the female to depósito and punished the couple for rapto, he would forward the appeal to the governor’s office. The governor then would order civil and ecclesiastical authorities in that jurisdiction, ordinarily the magistrates and the parish priest, to report what they knew about the circumstances of the appeal, and their understanding as to whether the proposed marrage promised “funestos resultados” (grave results). Local authorities evaluated reasons for, or against, emancipating the applicant. If they did not know the particulars of the case, they would call on members of the community, often referred to only as “trustworthy persons,” for background information. Upon receiving the requested documentation, the governor would refer the case to the Council of State. After review, this body would send the governor a detailed summary of the councilors’ findings along with a recommended ruling, which the governor adopted in every instance consulted for this study. Most

234  Daniel S. Haworth often the Council of State would ratify the conclusions of local officials, but it also had the power to overrule them. Ultimately, of course, the governor had the final say. No minor could be emancipated to marry without his authorization. This collective act of deliberation perpetuated the secularization of governance initiated in Mexico and the rest of the Spanish empire in the late colonial era, but also marked a significant change. In her pathbreaking history of marriage choice in colonial Mexico, Patricia Seed noted that securing permission to wed without parental consent became more difficult after the crown appropriated the Church’s right to adjudicate prenuptial disputes in the 1770s.50 In contrast, a minor in mid-nineteenth-century Guanjuato willing to endure the time, uncertainty, and emotional burden incurred while their appeal wound its way towards conclusion had a statistically significant chance of success. Of the 116 cases, the governor denied ten appeals (9%), while fifty-four (47%) resulted in the minor securing emancipation. In thirteen cases (11%), the minor’s parent capitulated under the pressure of official scrutiny and consented to the marriage in question. Sixteen cases (14%) saw petitioners drop their appeal, and in three cases (3%), the petitioner ran away with their romantic partner before the process concluded. The files for twenty cases (17%) are incomplete, with no resolution recorded. The discussion among state and local officials preserved in each emancipation file confirms what the percentages suggest, namely that the outlook of local officials in nineteenth-century Guanajuato differed from that of their colonial predecessors. Colonial laws established the framework for considering an emancipation appeal, but the Spanish crown’s determination to enforce royal absolutism by reinforcing the father’s authority over his household had given way to an alternative expression of patriarchy. Paternalism, as opposed to absolutism, characterized the logic of government action in nineteenth-century Guanajuato. By implication, the hegemonic pact rested on a paternal state ensuring what officials time and again referred to as a “just outcome,” that is, a result in keeping with law and morality. Officials based their decisions on gendered assumptions inherent to the logic of patriarchy. Their overriding objective was to resolve every appeal in a manner consistent with a moral order grounded in the reproduction of the patriarchal household. For this reason, therefore, officials rigorously scrutinized all emancipation appeals. That meant carefully weighing arguments for and against emancipating the minor in question, and considering both aggravating and mitigating factors. Above all, they strove to verify accusations. For example, in response to the claim by the parents of María Victoriana Cevallos that her suitor, José María Núñez, had been exposed to tuberculosis, local officials in San Miguel Allende took the unusual step of having him examined by two different doctors who certified that he was disease-free.51 The point of such scrupulousness was to “get it right,” knowing that the outcome of the appeal would be legally binding. It would also determine the future of

Governance, Moral Regulation, Hegemony  235 the applicant, their romantic partner, and their respective families. What mattered most to local officials was for the proposed marriage to result in a stable household that promised to reproduce the patriarchal order. Officials thus made the moral rectitude and material security of the prospective husband a prerequisite for approving a marriage. This requirement could outweigh other factors, as it did in María Jesús Pichardo’s bid to marry Pedro Hornelas over her mother’s objections in 1852. Adjudication of the appeal hinged on what the Council of State regarded as offsetting threats to María Jesús’ wellbeing. One was doubt over Pedro’s suitability as a paterfamilias (male head of the household). Witnesses deposed by a local magistrate testified that Pedro made an honorable living as a tailor and did not gamble. However, they admitted that he supplemented his income through a variety of pursuits that included making loans to gamblers at card games and cockfights. Three of the witnesses reported that Pedro had suffered from syphillis or tuberculosis. María Jesús complicated the deliberation of her case by revealing an altogether different threat—one she previously had kept secret—in a second letter to the governor. She confided that her mother lived “with a man who has corrupted her heart, [so much so] that she raised no objection to salacious propositions from men who aimed to prostitute me.” The parish priest of Silao repeated that accusation, lending credence to it. Subsequently, the Council of State deadlocked over a difficult choice. To emancipate María Jesús might enable her to marry a man of questionable repute, while to deny her appeal meant abandoning her to prostitution. To resolve its connundrum the Council of State sought additional input from officials in Silao. They replied that, according to trustworthy informants, Pedro Hornelas was an upstanding young man who supported himself working as a tailor and a shoemaker, and that when these trades proved insufficiently remunerative he turned to buying and selling clothing to make up the difference. They made no mention of sickness, loan-sharking, or gambling. Thus reassured of Pedro’s rectitude, the Council of State recommended that the governor emancipate María Jesús Pichardo, and he did so without comment.52 State officials also chastised parents for failing to honor their obligations, as José María Pacheco discovered. After his son José de la Luz ran away from the seminary in León for the second time to elope with Gertrudis Sermeño, a domestic servant recently arrived from the countryside, José María determined to force the couple to break off the affair once and for all. To that end, after a magistrate imprisoned José de la Luz for rapto, José María left his son to languish in jail for two months. During that time José María traveled to the state capital to present his reasons for opposing the marriage directly to the governor. His son’s youthful inexperience, José María asserted, left him vulnerable to the machinations of Gertrudis’ conniving mother. In desperation, José de la Luz appealed for emancipation, complaining that his father had abandoned him to waste away in prison. Here the adjudication stalled for nine months, until José de la Luz, who was finally

236  Daniel S. Haworth free and employed as a miner after enduring eight months of incarceration, wrote to the governor to inquire about the outcome of his appeal. The Council of State reopened the case and, upon reviewing it, lauded José de la Luz not only for his perseverance, but also for finding an honorable means to legitimate his love for Gertrudis (e.g., not running away with her). Moreover, the councilors criticized his father for failing to uphold his paternal obligations, concluding that José María Pacheco had imprudently subjected his son to month after month of imprisonment without material support of any kind. “Such conduct,” the Council determined, “should weigh heavily in the government’s consideration.”53 State officials denied appeals and sided with the aggrieved parent when the perceived shortcomings of the suitor created an insurmountable liability. Requests from María Guadalupe Miranda and María de Jesús Tinoco were rejected because their respective beaus lacked gainful employement.54 For María Isabel Cruz, her suitor’s reputation as a habitually drunken indigent doomed her appeal. Casimiro Infante failed to secure emancipation to marry Urbana López because he was a student and aspiring writer who pursued his literary ambition with help from a benefactor, leaving his older sisters to work as seamstresses to support his family.55 In all the aforementioned instances, the problem lay with the suitor’s apparent inability to sustain a household. By contrast, María Antonia Corona’s hope to obtain emancipation to wed Nazario Villagómez collapsed because he was an indebted distiller of aguardiente (hard liquor) nearly twice her age. That he was diabetic and had a twenty-year-old son serving time in jail discredited Nazario even more. In two other instances, daughters of financially secure families sought emancipation to marry penniless suitors. Material inequality between the respective families convinced state officials to reject both appeals. Salvadora Fonseca, whose practiced signature at the end of her otherwise dictated petition indicates that she was educated, failed to overcome her father’s opposition because her suitor, Refugio Ramírez, earned a meager living as a shoemaker and sometime employee of a textile mill in Silao. State officials rejected Santos Gómez’ appeal for the emancipation of María Nieves Vargas after authorities in Irapuato desribed him a weaver of rebozos (shawls) and militiaman prone to drunkenness. This made him unfit to marry a young woman whose parents, according to a magistrate in that town, had educated her and treated her well.56

Conclusion The everyday interaction between the state and society in Guanajuato after the U.S.–Mexican War appears extraordinary by virtue of being ordinary. Every emancipation appeal amounted to a normative transaction between the public and the government that reiterated the equation of governance with maintenance of the moral order underpinning public life. Moral regulation forged a sense of community. Youths, their parents, their neighbors,

Governance, Moral Regulation, Hegemony  237 and local officials all understood themselves as partners in the maintenance of the moral order. Their understanding confirmed the legitimacy of an institutional framework within which they elaborated the terms of their incorporation into the nation-state. The deliberation of an appeal amounted to a civic ritual that conjured the nation-state from the question of whether to emancipate a minor to marry. As such, this study recounts a “secret history” of stability in nineteenthcentury Mexico. To be sure, the U.S.–Mexican War intensified concern among the political class over Mexico’s viability as a nation-state. This anxiety manifested itself in the sense of disillusionment, disagreement, and despair that ultimately plunged the republic into dictatorship under General Antonio López de Santa Anna (1853–1855), and twelve years of civil war and foreign intervention thereafter. However, just as the history of the village of San José de Gracia through the 1910 Mexican Revolution and its aftermath shows, developments at the national level correlated to those at the local level only indirectly.57 Local conditions mediated the impact of national affairs just as decisively in the early national era as they did in Guanajuato. Circumstances there following the U.S.–Mexican War call for reevaluation of periods of disruption before and after that conflict. In the twenty-five years between independence and the war’s outbreak Mexico endured one political crisis after another, but the rhythms of everyday life surely continued apace. The fact that Mexico survived those crises might be attributed to the “bottom up” creation of hegemonic pacts at the local level throughout the country. If so, the implication is that Mexico cohered through the early national period not because of an overarching pact between the national government and the population, but rather because of multiple local pacts created and recreated through the everyday interaction between the public and local authorities. The case of Guanajuato, furthermore, underscores the importance of the post-war years to understanding the transition between the early republic and the subsequent era of liberal reform that ensued in 1855 following the violent overthrow of Santa Anna’s tyrannical regime. Thereafter Mexican liberals would forge a new political order guided by their ideological commitment to individual rights, unfettered capitalism, and the rule of law. Ordinarily, analyses of that transition emphasize patterns of contention associated with recurrent conflict among an ideologically divided political class that culminated in liberals seizing power after 1855. To judge from the example of Guanajuato, the seven years that followed the end of the U.S.–Mexican War in 1848 represented more than just an interlude between one era and another. Instead, the post-war years should be recognized as a critical period in which Mexicans created order out of the juxtaposition of tradition and modernity. Moreover, in Guanajuato at least, the reinterpretation of colonial family laws and their application in a republican framework ensured that traditional social norms regarding gender, sexuality, and the family would advance two hallmarks of modernity frequently attributed

238  Daniel S. Haworth to liberalism, namely the secularization of everyday life and the formation, however incomplete, of civil society. The reconciliation of tradition and modernity, which began throughout the republic at independence, remained a feature of Mexican life through the rest of the nineteenth century and beyond.58 Hence, the años olvidados (forgotten years) of 1848–1853 offer insight into how the interplay of continuity and change shaped nineteenthcentury Mexico.

Notes 1. Archivo Histórico del Gobierno del Estado de Guanajuato, Serie Secretaría de Gobierno (hereafter AHEG/Secretaría), box 230, folder 6, “Expediente formado con motivo del ocurso en que Da. María Soledad Alcántara pide habilitación de edad para contraer matrimonio sin el consentimiento materno con el C. Francisco Tejeda,” Irapuato, 1850. I will shorten subsequent citations of files/records as “Expediente [individual’s name]”; in this case, the reference will read “Expediente María Soledad Alcántara.” 2. For the colonial era, see Seed, Love, Honor, and Obey; and Socolow, “Acceptable Partners,” in Lavrin (ed.), Marriage and Sexuality. For nineteenth-century Mexico, see Sloan, Runaway Daughters; and Chapter 2 in Shelton, For Tranquility and Order. The adjudication of prenuptial conflicts elsewhere in nineteenth-century Spanish America is discussed in Martínez Alier, Marriage, Class, and Colour, 103–115; Szuchman, “A Challenge to the Patriarchs,” in his edited volume The Middle Period in Latin America; and Shumway, The Case of the Ugly Suitor. 3. Patria potestad refers to a father’s patriarchal authority over his children. This was a fundamental principle of family law in colonial and nineteenth-century Latin America. A father’s authority was sacrosanct and passed to others only upon his death. A widowed mother held parental rights over her children but lost them to her new husband if she remarried. In the case of orphans, government officials determined who exercised patria potestad whenever possible. On the legal history of patria potestad in colonial Spanish America, see Premo, Children of the Father King. For a nuanced discussion of patria potestad in nineteenth-century Mexico, see Arrom, The Women of Mexico City, 56–58, and 85–89; and Thompson, “Children, Family, and Society.” 4. On contrasting conceptualizations of hegemony, see Mallon, Peasant and Nation, 6–7; and Annino, “El pacto y la norma.” For the significance of popular mobilization, see Mallon, Peasant and Nation, 9; Guardino’s Peasants, Politics, and A Time of Liberty; and Ríos Zuñiga, Formar ciudadanos. 5. Tornel, Breve reseña, 135. The evolution of Tornel’s views on governance and nationalism is described in Fowler, Tornel and Santa Anna. 6. The figures, compiled from reports by local authorities, represent an estimate at best. Despite the lack of precision, they are nonetheless valuable in the absence of other data. Mexico did not conduct a national census until 1890. See AHEG/ Secretaría, box 248, folder 1, “Datos para la memoria, que se ha de presentar a la 16 Legislatura del Estado en Enero de 1852. Noticia de las poblaciones que en el Estado de Guanajuato, cuentan de cuatro mil habitantes arriba.” Brading’s Miners and Merchants, and Haciendas and Ranchos offer detailed analyses of Guanajuato’s social and economic development in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. One may also consult Aguilar, De vetas, valles y veredas; and Tutino, Making a New World.

Governance, Moral Regulation, Hegemony  239 7. This discussion of Guanajuato’s wartime experience summarizes the findings of Serrano, “Hacienda y guerra,” and Salazar García, “Guanajuato durante la guerra.” The first is in Vázquez (coord.), México al tiempo de su guerra, and the second in Herrera Serna (coord.), México en guerra. The terms of a January 11, 1847 decree that authorized the government to confiscate unused Church properties to fund the war against the U.S. also allowed it to seize communal woodlands. On the Sierra Gorda rebellion, see Reina, Las rebeliones campesinas, 291–302; and Levinson, Wars within War, 87–88, 93, and 109–110. The Paredes y Arrillaga mutiny and its entwinement with the Sierra Gorda rebellion is described in Andrews, Entre la espada y la Constitución, 316–322. 8. Ovalle, “La justicia de mínima cuantía,” 368–370. 9. On travel time between Guanajuato and the Mexican capital, see Map 3.1 in Salvucci, Textiles and Capitalism, 95. 10. Anna, Forging Mexico, 34–72. 11. Mexico’s first constitution, enacted in 1824, established a federal system of government that devolved power to the individual states. Subsequent political instability strengthened support for an alternative model that concentrated power in the presidency, an arrangement formalized by the constitution of 1836. Seven years later, widespread dissatisfaction with centralist rule culminated in the promulgation of a compromise charter known as the Bases Orgánicas of 1843, which reaffirmed centralism but also created a “representative system that did not challenge or contradict the main principles” of the santanistas (as followers of General Antonio López de Santa Anna were known). The reverses Mexico suffered in the opening months of the war with the U.S. precipitated revocation of the Bases Orgánicas and the restoration of the 1824 constitution in the summer of 1846. For a detailed exploration of these transitions, see Costeloe’s La primera república, and The Central Republic; and Sordo Cedeño, El congreso. The quote is in Fowler, Tornel and Santa Anna, 198. 12. AHEG/Secretaría, box 230, folder 17, “Expediente formado a consecuencia del ocurso en que el español Dn. Blas Riegas suplica se le supla el consentimiento de sus padres que residen en la provincia de Asturias, para poder verificar el matrimonio que tiene convenido con Da. Dominga Pesquera vecina de Silao,” Silao, 1850, fols. 1–2, 5. 13. The Spanish imperial legacy in nineteenth-century Mexican jurisprudence is discussed in Cruz, Historia del derecho, 591–604; Arenal Fenochio, “Ciencia jurídica,” in La supervivencia del derecho español; and González, El derecho civil. 14. On the changes resulting from the Royal Pragmatic on Marriage of 1776, see Seed, To Love, Honor, and Obey; Socolow, “Acceptable Partners,” in Lavrin (ed.), Marriage and Sexuality; and Twinam, Private Lives. The evolution of Spanish imperial policy regarding marriage is discussed in Saether, “Bourbon Absolutism.” A complete transcription of the law of April 10, 1803 can be found in Konetzke (ed.), Colección de documentos, 3: 794–795. The full text of the law of June 23, 1813 is reproduced in Dublán and Lozano, Legislación mexicana, 1: 421. Under Mexico’s civil laws, the earliest age at which a minor could marry was fourteen. See AHEG/Secretaría, box 226, folder 3, “Expediente instruido con motivo de la habilitación de edad que se ha solicitado para Ma. Gregoria Escobar, con objeto de que esta pueda contraer matrimonio sin el consentimiento paterno, con Zeferino Torres,” León, 1849, fols. 6 and 9. 15. For Articles 74 and 75 of the law of March 20, 1837, see Dublán and Lozano, Legislación mexicana, 3: 330. 16. On the concept of the “father king,” see Premo, Children of the Father King, 10. 17. “Expediente María Soledad Alcántara,” fols. 1–2; AHEG/Secretaría, box 267, folder 1, “Expediente formado a consecuencia del ocurso presentado por Sn. Juana García pidiendo habilitación de edad para contraer matrimonio sin el

240  Daniel S. Haworth consentimiento materno con el C. Pedro Aguilar,” Mesquite [Romita de Liceaga], 1853, fols. 1v-2r; AHEG/Secretaría, box 269, folder 9, “Expediente formado con motivo de la solicitud que hizo María Ventura Rodríguez pidiendo habilitación de edad para contraer matrimonio sin el consentimiento materno con el C. Basilio Vega,” Yuriria, 1853, fol. 1v; AHEG/Secretaría, box 268, folder 1, “Expediente formado a consecuencia de la habilitación de edad que solicitó María Benigna Juárez para poder contraer matrimonio sin el consentimiento de sus padres [con] Martín Gutiérrez,” Acámbaro, 1853, fol. 1. 18. AHEG/Secretaría, box 235, folder 12, “Expediente formado a consecuencia del ocurso que presentó al Gob. María Francisca Aranza vecina de Yuriria solicitando habilitación de edad para poder contraer matrimonio sin el consentimiento paterno con el C. Luciano Moreno,” Yuriria, 1851, fol. 1. 19. AHEG/Secretaría, box 224, folder 1, “Expediente formado a consecuencia del ocurso a Ma. Simona Villalobos en pretensión de que se le habilite de la edad necesaria para poder contraer matrimonio sin el consentimiento paterno con el C. Guadalupe Silva,” Uriangato, 1849, fol. 18v. 20. AHEG/Secretaría, box 226, folder 3, “Expediente formado a consecuencia del ocurso presentado por María Reyes Hernández en que solicita se le habilite de la edad necesaria para poderse casar sin el consentimiento paterno con el C. Ignacio López,” León, 1849, fol. 1. 21. AHEG/Secretaría, box 252, folder 3, “Expediente formado a consecuencia del ocurso que elevó al Supremo Gobierno Da. Guadalupe Abascal, pidiendo habilitación de edad para contraer matrimonio sin el consentimiento paterno con Dn. Vicente Sosa,” Dolores Hidalgo, 1852, fol. 3. 22. Torres Septién, “Literatura para el ‘buen comportamiento:’,” in Clark de Lara and Speckman Guerra (eds.), República de letras, 2: 322. 23. Payno, El fistol del diablo. On morality as a preoccupation of writers in nineteenth-century Mexico, see Calderón, “La novela costumbrista,” in Clark de Lara and Speckman Guerra (eds.), República de letras, 1: 315–317; Carballo, Historia de las letras, 129–134; Illades, Nación, sociedad, y utopía, 126–135; and Sandoval, Los novelistas sociales, 164–178. 24. Torres Septién, “Literatura para el ‘buen comportamiento:’,” in Clark de Lara and Speckman Guerra (eds.), República de letras, 2: 326–328. 25. References to honor in the sources conform to the concept of buenas costumbres in contemporary Sonora, in northwestern Mexico. See Shelton, For Tranquility and Order, 10–11. The concept of honor in Guanajuato was also congruent with that which then prevailed in central Mexico. See Lipsett-Rivera, Gender and Daily Life, 11–15. However, honor in Guanajuato did not account for prestige or “blood purity” owing to the social realities of the population, and thus differed from elite discourse in colonial Spanish America as examined in Twinam, Private Lives. 26. AHEG/Secretaría, box 231, folder 1, “Expediente formado a consecuencia de la solicitud de Refugio López que pide habilitación de edad para María Quirina Luna, con quien intenta casarse sin el consentimiento materno,” Dolores Hidalgo, 1850, fols. 1, and 7–8. 27. AHEG/Secretaría, box 252, folder 9, “Expediente formado con motivo de la solicitud que hace Ma. Gabina Yebra, pidiendo habilitación de edad para contraer matrimonio sin el consentimiento paterno con Camilo Ramírez,” Romita de Liceaga, 1852, fol. 6. 28. AHEG/Secretaría, box 236, folder 5, “Expediente formado a consecuencia del ocurso en que María del Rosario Trujillo solicita habilitación de edad para poder contraer matrimonio sin el consentimiento paterno, con Cesario Arrillaga,” León, [Rancho del Potrenillo], 1851, fol. 1; AHEG/Secretaría, box 252, folder 12, “Expediente instruido a consecuencia del ocurso presentado por Ma. de Jesús

Governance, Moral Regulation, Hegemony  241 Pichardo, solicitando habilitación de edad para contraer matrimonio, sin el consentimiento materno, con Pedro Hornelas,” Silao, 1852, fols. 1, 6, and 22–23. The notion of prostitution as a synonym for illicit sex was a feature of public discourse on female sexuality. See Coss y León, Los demonios del pecado; and Núñez, La prostitución. 29. Distinctions between these categories, and their place in late colonial jurisprudence, are discussed in Castañeda, Violación, estrupo y sexualidad. 30. Stern, The Secret History, 108. For a fuller discussion of rapto as a courtship practice, see Sloan, Runaway Daughters; and Shelton, For Tranquility and Order, 51–56. The rhetorical invocation of honor in the emancipation appeals announced the petitioner’s participation in the “passionate public sphere” defined in French, The Heart in the Glass Jar. 31. The three cases referenced in the text are in AHEG/Secretaría, box 267, folder 1. See “Expediente instruido con motivo de la solicitud presentada por María Librada Torres o Baez, sobre que se le habilite de edad para poder contraer matrimonio sin el consentimiento paterno, con el C. José Flores,” Marfil, 1853, fol. 3; “Expediente instruido con motivo del ocurso en que Francisca Zamora solicita habilitación de edad para contraer matrimonio con el C. Luis Durán sin el consentimiento paterno,” San Miguel Allende, 1853, fol. 1; and “Expediente instruido con motivo del ocurso en que María Eufemia Rodríguez solicita habilitación de edad para contraer matrimonio con el C. Brígido Perales, sin el consentimiento paterno,” Mineral de Santa Ana, 1853, fol. 1. 32. AHEG/Secretaría, box 269, folder 11, “Expediente instruido con motivo del ocurso que presentó Da. María Feliciana Castro pidiendo habilitación de edad para contraer matrimonio sin el concentimiento paterno con el C. Domingo Villegas,” León, 1853, fol. 1r. 33. AHEG/Secretaría, box 269, folder 9, “Expediente formado con motivo del ocurso que presentó María Antonia García, pidiendo habilitación de edad para contraer matrimonio sin el consentimiento paterno, con el C. Félix Contreras,” Yuriria, 1853, fol. 4; AHEG/Secretaría, box 250, folder 4, “Expediente instruido a consecuencia del ocurso que presentó al Gobierno el C. Atanacio Gómez, pidiendo habilitación de edad para Ma. Lorenza Olaez con quien intenta contraer matrimonio, a lo que se opone el padre de la joven,” León, 1852, fol. 1. 34. AHEG/Secretaría, box 224, folder 12, “Expediente formado a consecuencia del ocurso presentado a nombre de Ma. Ignacia Bonilla en solicitud de habilitación de edad para poder contraer matrimonio sin el consentimiento paterno con el C. José de la Luz Morín,” Romita, fols. 8r-8v. 35. “Expediente Ma. de Jesús Pichardo,” fols. 16v-17r. The only other instance in the sources of a case being referred to the Supreme Tribunal of Justice for review is that of Atanacio Gómez and María Lorenza Olaez, which did not result in a lengthy criminal process. See “Expediente María Lorenza Olaez,” fol. 1. The fact that two magistrates in widely separated jurisdictions passed their sentences to the Supreme Tribunal for review suggests a change in state policy that has yet to be identified as of this writing. 36. AHEG/Secretaría, box 236, folder 5, “Expediente María del Rosario Trujillo,” fols. 1, 11r. 37. The use of depósito and its impact on women’s lives is examined in Penyak, “Safe Harbors”; and Kanter, Hijos del Pueblo. For a broader discussion of recogimiento in Mexico, see Lipsett-Rivera, Gender and Daily Life, 94–98. 38. AHEG/Secretaría, box 253, folder 1, “Expediente formado con motivo del ocurso en que María Crecencia Tovar solicita se le habilite de la edad necesaria para poder contraer matrimonio sin el consentimiento paterno con el C. Francisco Gutiérrez,” Dolores Hidalgo, 1852, fol. 2.

242  Daniel S. Haworth 39. AHEG/Secretaría, box 268, folder 1, “Expediente instruido a consecuencia del ocurso presentado por Da. Cipriana Padierna pidiendo habilitación de edad para contraer matrimonio sin el consentimiento paterno con el C. Juan Escamilla,” Jerécuaro, 1853, fol. 15; AHEG/Secretaría, box 238, folder 3, “Expediente formado a consecuencia de la pretensión de Ma. Genoveva Díaz para que se le habilite de la edad que le falta y poder casarse, sin permiso de su madre, con el C. Juan Ramírez,” Guanajuato, 1851, fol. 6. 40. “Expediente Francisca Aranza,” fol. 2; AHEG/Secretaría, box 231, folder 4, “Expediente instruido a consecuencia del ocurso de Juana N. Muñoz en que solicita habilitación de edad para contraer matrimonio sin el consentimiento paterno con Miguel Molina,” San Miguel de Allende, 1850, fols. 1r, 4v. 41. “Expediente SimonaVillalobos,” fols. 18–19. 42. “Expediente Cipriana Padierna,” fol. 12. 43. “Expediente Ma. de Jesús Pichardo,” fol. 10; AHEG/Secretaría, box 230, folder 11, “Expediente instruido a consecuencia del ocurso en que Ma. Petra Sánchez ha pretendido se le conceda por el Supremo Gobierno del Estado la correspondiente licencia para poder contraer matrimonio sin el consentimiento paterno con el C. Juan María López,” Chamacuero, 1850, fol. 15; AHEG/Secretaría, box 235, folder 7, “Expediente instruido a consecuencia del ocurso en que Ma. Salvadora Fonseca solicita habilitación de edad para contraer matrimonio sin el consentimiento paterno, con Refugio Ramírez,” Silao, 1851, fols. 4r-5. 44. “Expediente Juana Muñoz,” fol. 2; “Expediente Quirina Luna,” fol. 6. 45. AHEG/Secretaría, box 224, folder 12, “Expediente instruido sobre habilitación de edad que ha solicitado Silveria Vázquez para poder contraer matrimonio sin el consentimiento paterno con el C. Pedro Moreno,” Silao, 1849, fol. 7; AHEG/ Secretaría, box 226, folder 3, “Expediente instruido a consecuencia del ocurso en que Cándida Gómez vecina de la Ciudad de León, pretende se le habilite de la edad que le falta para contraer matrimonio sin el consentimiento paterno con el C. Pánfilo Hernández,” León, 1849, fol. 6. 46. On the impact of epidemic disease on everyday life in nineteenth-century Guanajuato, see Thompson, Las otras guerras. The widespread impact of the 1850 cholera epidemic, which also swept through Mexico City, is mentioned in Rueda Smithers, El diablo de Semana Santa, 34, and 197. Recurrent cholera epidemics undoubtedly sharpened the fear of disease expressed in the sources. Prior to the epidemic of 1850 an even more severe plague all but paralyzed Mexico in 1833. Oliver, Un verano mortal; and Márquez Morfín, La desigualdad ante la muerte. The association of epidemic disease with immorality and poverty was a central feature of popular discourse about public health. See McCrea, Diseased Relations. 47. AHEG/Secretaría, box 231, folder 4, “Expediente formado con motivo de la solicitud de Maria Victoriana Cevallos para que se le habilite de la edad que le falta y poder contraer matrimonio sin el consentimiento paterno con el C. José María Núñez,” San Miguel de Allende, 1850, fol. 1v; “Expediente Guadalupe Abascal,” fol. 7. 48. AHEG/Secretaría, box 224, folder 7, “Expediente formado con motivo de haberse solicitado habilitación de edad para que Ma. de Jesús Méndez pueda contraer matrimonio sin el consentimiento de sus padres con Refugio Gutiérrez,” Dolores Hidalgo, 1849. 49. AHEG/Secretaría, box 224, folder 11, “Expediente formado a consecuencia de la solicitud de Ma. Refugio Morillo que suplica se le permita casarse sin el consentimiento de su padre con el C. Canuto Losa,” Piedra Gorda, 1849, fol. 7. 50. Seed, To Love, Honor, and Obey, 161–226. 51. “Expediente María Victoriana Cevallos,” fol. 1.

Governance, Moral Regulation, Hegemony  243 2. “Expediente Ma. de Jesús Pichardo,” fls. 10–33. 5 53. “AHEG/Secretaría, box 226, folder 3, “Expediente instruido acerca de la habilitación de edad que ha solicitado el C. José de la Luz Pacheco para contraer matrimonio sin el consentimiento paterno con Ma. Gertrudis Sermeño,” León, 1849, fols. 29–30, and 34–46. 54. AHEG/Secretaría, box 224, folder 2, “Expediente sobre la habilitación de edad que ha solicitado, para contraer matrimonio sin el consentimiento paterno, María Guadalupe Miranda con el C. Rafael Maldonado,” Celaya, 1849; AHEG/Secretaría, box 230, folder 12, “Expediente instruido sobre habilitación de edad que ha solicitado María de Jesús Tinoco para contraer matrimonio sin el consentimiento paterno con el C. José Hilario Medrano,” Salvatierra, 1850. 55. AHEG/Secretaría, box 253, folder 6, “Expediente formado a consecuencia de la solicitud que hace María Isabel Cruz pidiendo se le conceda habilitación de edad para contraer matrimonio, sin el consentimiento paterno, con Filomeno Hernández,” San Miguel Allende, 1852; AHEG/Secretaría, box 250, folder 4, “Expediente formado con motivo del concurso que hace el C. Casimiro Infante pidiendo habilitación de edad para contraer matrimonio sin el consentimiento paterno, con Urbana López,” León, 1852. 56. AHEG/Secretaría, box 235, folder 20, “Expediente instruido a consecuencia del ocurso en que Da. María Antonia Corona solicita habilitación de edad para poder contraer matrimonio sin el consentimiento paterno con el C. Nazario Villagómez,” Apaseo, 1851, fol. 8r; “Expediente Salvadora Fonseca,” fol. 1; AHEG/Secretaría, box 235, folder 16, “Expediente formado con motivo de la solicitud en que Santos Gómez pide se le conceda habilitación de edad a María Nieves Vargas para que esta pueda sin el consentimiento de sus padres verificar el matrimonio que tiene convencido con el solicitante,” Irapuato, 1851. 57. González y González, San José de Gracia. 58. This observation finds support in recent advances in the social history of nineteenth-century Mexico, most of which concern the last half of the century. See, for example, the studies collected in Agostini and Speckman (eds.), Modernidad, tradición y alteridad; French, The Heart in the Glass Jar; Shelton, For Tranquility and Order; Sloan, Runaway Daughters; and Escobar Ohmstede, De la costa a la sierra.

Bibliography Agostini, Claudia, and Elsa Speckman Guerra (eds.). Modernidad, tradición y alteridad: La Ciudad de México en el cambio de siglo (XIX–XX). Mexico City: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, Instituto de Investigaciones Históricas, 2001. Aguilar, Rosalía. De vetas, valles y veredas: La región económica guanajuatense entre 1730 y 1918. Guanajuato: Ediciones La Rana, 2002. Andrews, Catherine. Entre la espada y la Constitución: El general Anastasio Bustamante, 1780–1853. Ciudad Victoria: Universidad Autónoma de Tamaulipas, Instituto de Investigaciones Históricas, Unidad Académica Multidisciplinaria de Ciencias, Educación y Humanidades/Instituto de Investigaciones Parlamentarias del H. Congreso del Estado de Tamaulipas, XL Legislatura, 2008. Anna, Timothy E. Forging Mexico: 1821–1835. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1998. Annino, Antonio. “El pacto y la norma: Los orígenes de la oligarquía liberal en México.” Historias 5 (January-March 1984): 3–31.

244  Daniel S. Haworth Arenal Fenochio, Jaime del. “Ciencia jurídica española en el México del siglo XIX.” In La supervivencia del derecho español en Hispanoamérica durante la época independiente. Mexico City: Instituto de Investigaciones Jurídicas, Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, 1998. 31–47. Arrom, Silvia Marina. The Women of Mexico City, 1790–1857. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1985. Brading, David A. Miners and Merchants in Bourbon Mexico, 1763–1810. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1971. ———. Haciendas and Ranchos in the Mexican Bajío: León, 1700–1860. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978. Calderón, Mario. “La novela costumbrista mexicana.” In Belem Clark de Lara, and Elisa Speckman Guerra (eds.), República de letras: Asomos a la cultura escrita del México decimonónico. 3 vols. Mexico City: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, 2005. 1: 315–324. Carballo, Emmanuel. Historia de las letras mexicanas en el siglo XIX. Guadalajara: Universidad de Guadalajara, 1991. Castañeda, Carmen. Violación, estupro y sexualidad: Nueva Galicia, 1790–1821. Guadalajara: Editorial Hexágono, 1989. Coss y León, Domingo. Los demonios del pecado: Sexualidad y justicia en Guadalajara en una época de transición 1800–1830. Zapopan: El Colegio de Jalisco, 2009. Costeloe, Michael P. La primera república federal de México, 1824–1835: Un estudio de los partidos políticos en el México independiente. Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1975. ———. The Central Republic in Mexico, 1835–1846: Hombres de Bien in the Age of Santa Anna. New York: Cambridge University Press, 1993. Cruz Barney, Oscar. Historia del derecho en México. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999. Dublán, Manuel, and José María Lozano (eds.). Legislación mexicana, o colección completa de las disposiciones legislativas expedidas desde la independencia de la república. 42 vols. Mexico City: Imprenta del Comercio, 1876–1904. Escobar Ohmstede, Antonio. De la costa a la sierra: Las huastecas, 1750–1900. Mexico City: CIESAS/Instituto Nacional Indigenista, 1998. Fowler, Will. Tornel and Santa Anna: The Writer and the Caudillo, Mexico 1795– 1853. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 2000. French, William E. The Heart in the Glass Jar: Love Letters, Bodies, and the Law in Mexico. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2015. González, María del Refugio. El derecho civil en México, 1821–1871. Mexico City: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, 1988. González y González, Luis. San José de Gracia: A Mexican Village in Transition. Translated by John Upton. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1974. Guardino, Peter F. Peasants, Politics, and the Formation of Mexico’s National State: Guerrero, 1800–1857. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2002. ———. A Time of Liberty: Popular Political Culture in Oaxaca, 1750–1850. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2005. Illades, Carlos. Nación, sociedad, y utopía en el romanticismo mexicano. Mexico City: CONACULTA, 2005. Kanter, Deborah E. Hijos del Pueblo: Gender, Family, and Community in Rural Mexico. Austin: University of Texas Press, 2009.

Governance, Moral Regulation, Hegemony  245 Konetzke, Richard (ed.). Colección de documentos para la historia de la formación social de hispanoamérica, 1493–1810. 3 vols. Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 1962. Levinson, Irving W. Wars within War: Mexican Guerillas, Domestic Elites, and the United States of America, 1846–1848. Fort Worth: Texas Christian University Press, 2005. Lipsett-Rivera, Sonya. Gender and the Negotiation of Daily Life in Mexico, 1750– 1856. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2012. Mallon, Florencia. Peasant and Nation: The Making of Post-Colonial Mexico and Peru. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995. Márquez Morfín, Lourdes. La desigualdad ante la muerte en la Ciudad de México: El tifo y el cólera (1813 y 1833). Mexico City: Siglo XXI, 1994. Martínez Alier, Verena. Marriage, Class, and Colour in Nineteenth-Century Cuba: A Study of Racial Attitudes and Sexual Values in a Slave Society. 2nd ed. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1989. McCrea, Heather L. Diseased Relations: Epidemics, Public Health, and State-Building in Yucatán, Mexico, 1847–1924. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2010. Núñez Becerra, Fernanda. La prostitución y su represión en la Ciudad de México, siglo XIX: Prácticas y representaciones. Barcelona: Gedisa Editorial, 2002. Oliver, Lilia V. Un verano mortal: Análisis demográfico y social de una epidemia de cólera. Guadalajara, 1833. Guadalajara: Gobierno de Jalisco, Secretaría General, Unidad Editorial, 1986. Ovalle Favela, José. “La justicia de mínima cuantía en México y otros países de América Latina.” Boletín Mexicano de derecho comparado 30 (September– December 1977): 365–415. Payno, Manuel. El fistol del diablo. Mexico City: CONACULTA, 2000. Penyak, Lee M. “Safe Harbors and Compulsory Custody: Casas de Depósito in Mexico, 1750–1865.” Hispanic American Historical Review 79:1 (February 1999): 83–99. Premo, Bianca. Children of the Father King: Youth, Authority, and Legal Minority in Colonial Lima. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2005. Reina, Leticia. Las rebeliones campesinas en México, 1819–1906. Mexico City: Siglo XXI, 1986. Ríos Zuñiga, Rosalinda. Formar ciudadanos: Sociedad civil y movilización popular en Zacatecas, 1821–1853. Mexico City: Plaza y Valdés, 2005. Rueda Smithers, Salvador. El diablo de Semana Santa: El discurso político y el orden social en la ciudad de México en 1850. Mexico City: Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia, 1991. Saether, Steinar A. “Bourbon Absolutism and Marriage Reform in Late Colonial Spanish America.” The Americas 59:4 (April 2003): 475–509. Salazar García, José Arturo. “Guanajuato durante la guerra de 1846–1848.” In Laura Herrera Serna (coord.), México en guerra (1846–1848): Perspectivas regionales. Mexico City: Museo Nacional de las Intervenciones/CONACULTA, 1997. 301–333. Salvucci, Richard J. Textiles and Capitalism in Mexico: An Economic History of the Obrajes, 1539–1840. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1987. Sandoval, Adriana. Los novelistas sociales: Narrativa mexicana del siglo XIX, 1851–1884. Mexico City: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, 2008.

246  Daniel S. Haworth Seed, Patricia. To Love, Honor, and Obey in Colonial Mexico: Conflicts Over Marriage Choice, 1574–1821. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1988. Serrano Ortega, José Antonio. “Hacienda y guerra, élites políticas y gobierno nacional. Guanajuato, 1835–1847.” In Josefina Zoraida Vázquez (coord.), México al tiempo de su guerra con Estados Unidos (1846–1848). Mexico City: Secretaría de Relaciones Exteriores/El Colegio de México/Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1997. 245–264. Shelton, Laura. For Tranquility and Order: Family and Community on Mexico’s Northern Frontier, 1800–1850. Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2010. Shumway, Jeffrey M. The Case of the Ugly Suitor and Other Histories of Love, Gender, and Nation in Buenos Aires, 1776–1870. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2008. Sloan, Kathryn. Runaway Daughters: Seduction, Elopement, and Honor in NineteenthCentury Mexico. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2008. Socolow, Susan. “Acceptable Partners: Marriage Choice in Colonial Argentina, 1778–1810.” In Asunción Lavrin (ed.), Marriage and Sexuality in Colonial Latin America. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1989. Sordo Cedeño, Reynaldo. El congreso en la primera república centralista. Mexico City: El Colegio de México/ITAM, 1993. Stern, Steven J. The Secret History of Gender: Women, Men, and Power in Late Colonial Mexico. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1995. Szuchman, Mark D. “A Challenge to the Patriarchs: Love Among the Youth in Nineteenth-Century Argentina.” In Mark D. Szuchman (ed.), The Middle Period in Latin America: Values and Attitudes in the 17th–19th Centuries. Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner Publishers, 1989. 141–166. Thompson, Angela Tucker. “Children, Family, and Society in Guanajuato, Mexico, 1780–1850.” PhD diss., University of Texas at Austin, 1990. ———. Las otras guerras de México: Epidemias, enfermedades y salud pública en Guanajuato, México, 1810–1867. Guanajuato: Ediciones la Rana, 1998. Tornel y Mendívil, José María. Breve reseña histórica de los acontecimientos más notables de la nación mexicana. Mexico City: INEHRM, 1985. Torres Septién, Valentina. “Literatura para el ‘buen comportamiento’: Los manuales de urbanidad y buenas maneras en el siglo XIX.” In Belem Clark de Lara, and Elisa Speckman Guerra (eds.), República de letras: Asomos a la cultura escrita del México decimonónico. 3 vols. Mexico City: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, 2005. 2: 313–328. Tutino, John. Making a New World: Founding Capitalism in the Bajío and Spanish North America. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2011. Twinam, Ann. Private Lives, Public Secrets: Gender, Honor, Sexuality, and Illegitimacy in Colonial Spanish America. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1999.

Contributors

Will Fowler is Professor of Latin American Studies at the University of St. Andrews. He has authored several books, including Mexico in the Age of Proposals, 1821–1855 (1998), Tornel and Santa Anna: The Writer and the Caudillo, Mexico 1795–1853 (2000), Santa Anna of Mexico (2007), and Independent Mexico: The Pronunciamiento in the Age of Santa Anna, 1821–1858 (2016). He has also published numerous articles on the early national period and edited fourteen volumes on Mexican and Latin American political history. Professor Fowler is currently researching the mid-nineteenth-century Mexican civil war of the Reforma. Daniel S. Haworth, who earned his PhD from the University of Texas at Austin, is Associate Professor of History at the University of HoustonClear Lake, where he also serves as coordinator of the Latin American Studies program. His research concerns everyday life in nineteenthcentury Mexico. His most recent publication, “ ‘To Do as I Will’: The Social Construction of Female Individuality in Nineteenth-Century Guanajuato, Mexico,” appeared in the September 2013 issue of The Latin Americanist. Dr. Haworth is currently working on a book-length study that explores the social history of youths in Guanajuato between the 1830s and the 1850s. Everard Meade is currently director of the Trans-Border Institute at the University of San Diego. He received a PhD in Latin American history from the University of Chicago and is a published scholar with extensive experience teaching courses on the history of Mexico, U.S. relations with Latin America, and human rights. He recently co-edited Lessons and Legacies of the War on Terror: From Moral Panic to Permanent War in the Routledge Critical Terrorism Studies series, and has authored a wealth of articles in journals such as Mexican Studies/Estudios Mexicanos, the Journal of Historical Biography, and InterCulture. Pablo Mijangos y González is Assistant Professor of History at Mexico’s Centro de Investigación y Docencia Económicas (CIDE). He is the author of El nuevo pasado jurídico mexicano, and of the recent monograph from

248 Contributors the University of Nebraska Press, The Lawyer of the Church: Bishop Clemente de Jesús Munguía and the Clerical Response to the Mexican Liberal Reforma. Terry Rugeley is Professor Emeritus of Mexican and Latin American History at the University of Oklahoma. He has published numerous monographs and translations, including Of Wonders and Wise Men: Religion and Popular Cultures in Southeast Mexico, 1800–1876, Rebellion Now and Forever: Mayas, Hispanics, and Caste War Violence in Yucatán, 1800–1880, and The River People in Flood Time: The Civil Wars in Tabasco, Spoiler of Empires. Pedro Santoni is Professor of Latin American History at California State University, San Bernardino. He is the author of Mexicans at Arms: Puro Federalists and the Politics of War, 1845–1848, and the editor of Daily Lives of Civilians in Wartime Latin America: From the Wars of Independence to the Central American Civil Wars. Professor Santoni has published as well various articles and book chapters on nineteenth-century Mexican political and cultural history. Regina Tapia is currently a researcher and history professor at El Colegio Mexiquense in Toluca, Mexico. She earned her PhD from El Colegio de México in 2014. Her dissertation, titled “El pueblo y el poder. Los comportamientos politicos de los capitalinos a mediados del siglo XIX,” is forthcoming as a monograph. She has also written several scholarly articles, of which the most recent is “La voz popular en los “vivas” del 13 de agosto de 1855, o de cómo las elites y el pueblo se unieron en un mismo acto político.” Marcela Terrazas y Basante is a researcher at the Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México’s (UNAM) Instituto de Investigaciones Históricas, and teaches Mexican and Latin American history at the UNAM and Mexico’s Escuela Nacional de Antropología e Historia. She has authored and coordinated numerous books and articles about relations between Mexico and the United States, including Imperios, repúblicas y pueblos en pugna por el territorio. Las relaciones México—Estados Unidos, 1756–1867, volume 1, and “¿Dónde quedó la doctrina Monroe? Estados Unidos ante la Intervención Francesa en México.”

Index

Note: Page numbers in bold indicate a table on the corresponding page. Abascal, Francisco 232 Abascal, Guadalupe 223 Acambay 12 Acta de la Alameda 95, 108n129, 108n134 Acta de Reformas 67n1, 75 – 76, 84, 105n86 Adame, Ramón 25n60 agiotistas (moneylenders) 5, 13 Aguascalientes (state) 23n29, 76, 125 Alamán, Lucas 2 – 5, 8, 14, 36 – 38, 40 – 43, 47n18, 47nn35 – 36, 48n43, 48n46; popular conservatism and 115 – 117 Alcalde, Ambrosio 190, 209n5 Alcántara, María Soledad 216, 223, 232 Almonte, Juan Nepomuceno 25n60 Altamirano, Ignacio 72 Alvarado, Salvador 160 Álvarez, Juan 95, 177, 200 American Star, The 194 amparo 190, 196, 209n20 Ampudia y Grimarest, Pedro de 148, 157, 160 Anaya, Pedro María 37 – 39, 41, 47n22, 103n57 Andrade, Tomás 103n64 Angostura-Buena Vista, Battle of (1847) 122, 128, 189 Anna, Timothy E. 220 Annino, Antonio 217 años olvidados, los x – xi, 1 – 7, 21, 22n3, 132, 238; leadership in, 142, 155 – 157, 160; Catholic Church (Mexico) in, 66; overview of, 7 – 17; United States–Mexico border in, 178 – 180; violence in, 169

Antonelli, Giacomo 57 – 59, 61, 64 – 66 Apache (indigenous people) 16, 127, 166 – 168, 170, 172 – 173, 180n7, 181n8, 181n14, 182n31 Aranza, María Francisca 223, 229 Argentina 18 Arista, Mariano x, 1 – 6, 10 – 11, 13 – 14, 17 – 18, 21, 25n60, 25n66; hegemony and, 218; Catholic Church (Mexico) and, 15 – 16, 26n68, 62 – 63; the national guard and, 74, 91, 98, 104n74, 107n107; popular conservatism and, 118, 126, 131; representaciones and, 39, 42; trials and executions and, 205; the United States–Mexico border and, 175 – 176 Arizcorreta, Mariano 4, 12, 20, 26n86 Arizpe 174 army, regular 7, 9 – 10, 14, 72 – 73, 75, 86 – 88, 90, 92 – 95, 99n3, 106n102, 118, 126, 202 Arriaga, Jesús 191, 209n8 Arriaga, Ponciano 100n20, 177 Arrillaga, Basilio 62 Arrillaga, Cesario 226, 228 Arroyo, Vicente 203 Arteaga, José María 83 – 84 assassinations 4, 13 – 14, 16, 25n, 53, 57 Atristain, Miguel 81 – 82, 102n40 Austin, Stephen F. 176 Austria 57 Ávalos, Francisco 177, 184n63 Ávila, Lorenzo 203 Ayutla, Revolution of 2, 43 – 44, 66, 94 – 96, 108n127, 200 – 201; leadership and, 149, 154, 158; popular conservatism and, 131; the

250 Index United States–Mexico border and, 177 – 178, 180 Azcapotzalco 12 Baja California 171, 174, 183n49 Balderas, Lucas 93, 107n120 Bandala, Abraham,160 Banditry 12, 24n49, 102n43, 189, 199, 203, 206 – 207 Barajas, Pedro 60 Barasorda, Pánfilo 121 – 122 Barbachano, Miguel 145, 151 Barreda, José María 43 Baz, Ignacio 43 Beccaria, Cesare 206 Becerra, José María 60, 65 Belgium 19 Belize 142 Bentham, Jeremy 206 Berduzco, Francisco 25n60 Beristain, Joaquín 196 Berlin 20 Bermúdez, Rafael 232 bishops 15 – 16, 53 – 55, 57 – 60, 62, 64 – 67; see also Catholic Church (Mexico) Blancarte, José María 17, 63, 91 Boardman, Kay 21 Bolívar, Simón 143 Bolivia 18, 67 Bonaparte, Louis Napoleon 21 Bonaparte, Napoleon 17, 21, 64 Bonilla, María Ignacia 228 Borda, José María 103n64 Border see United States–Mexico border Bravo, Nicolás 14, 25n60 Brazil 18 Bribiesca, Antonio 221 Britain 142 Brownsville 177, 179 Bruno, Miguel 148, 152 – 153, 190 Budapest 20 Buchanan, James 183n50 Buenrostro, Miguel 83, 103n61, 103n64 Bustamante, Anastasio 13, 104n72, 123 – 126, 136n60, 196, 219 Bustamante, Carlos María de 2, 7 – 8, 23n26, 46n9, 116 Butler, William O. 102n43 Cadena, Manuel de la 43 Cadereyta 121

Calderón, Felipe 22n8, 45 California 45, 87, 150, 166, 168, 171 – 175, 178, 181n14, 183n45, 183n50 Camargo 16, 179 Campeche 141 – 143, 147, 157 – 158 Canales, José María 176 Canas, Victoriano 205 Cangrejo, El 82 – 83, 103n61 Cañedo, Juan de Dios 4, 13 – 14, 16, 25n60 Cantón, Francisco 159 Cárdenas, Lázaro 160 Cardona, Gerónimo 153 Careño, Manuel Antonio 224 Carranza, Venustiano 160 Carrera, Martín 95 Carrillo Puerto, Felipe 159 Carvajal, José María de Jesús 175 – 178, 184n74 Castañeda, Pedro 37 Caste War 3, 9, 11, 150 – 151, 153 – 154, 156 – 159 Castro, Jesús 160 Castro, María Feliciana 227 Catholic Church (Mexico) 11 – 12, 52 – 53, 58 – 67, 60, 68n12; relations with the State, 15 – 16, 21, 25n52, 234; the death penalty and, 206; leadership and, 147, 151, 153, 156 – 157, 160; mission of, 53 – 58; popular conservatism and, 115 – 119, 121, 123, 128 – 129, 131 – 132, 135n49; representaciones and, 34; Santanista party and, 9 Ceballos, Juan Bautista 17, 177 Celaya 219 Cen, Bernabé 148 Centralism 9, 116 – 119, 133n12, 239n11 Cepeda Peraza, Manuel 158 Cevallos, Gregorio 206 Cevallos, María Victoriana 232, 234 Chaire, Francisco 11, 120 – 123, 129 Chaire, Guadalupe 122, 129 Chaire, Miguel 122, 129 Chapultepec Castle 97, 103n57, 189 – 190 Chi, Cecilio 147 Chiapas 60, 64, 141 – 145, 153, 155, 157 – 158, 161n12, 205; leadership in, 141 – 145, 153, 155, 157 – 158 Chichanhá 151

Index  251 Chihuahua 16, 87, 89, 150, 167, 169, 171 – 172, 175, 180n7, 181n17, 181nn21 – 22, 182n32, 184n73 Chile 18 Chol (indigenous people) 143 cholera, outbreak of 4, 12, 59, 87, 105n83, 155, 172, 182n32, 216, 232, 242n46 Chontal (indigenous people) 143 Churubusco, Battle of (1847) 76 – 77, 86, 93, 195 civil war see Reforma Civilización, La 11, 13 Clementi, Monsignor Luigi x, 16, 53, 58 – 64, 66 Club de la Reforma 96 Colina, Carlos María 60 Colombia 17 – 18, 63, 73, 91, 94, 199 Comanche (indigenous people) 169, 173 communism 11, 117, 123, 131 Comonfort, Ignacio 18, 96, 177, 201 conservadores 6, 8, 36 – 38, 40, 43, 115 – 116 Conservatism 115 – 137 Conservative party 3, 8, 115, 117; see also Alamán, Lucas constitution of 1812 (Cádiz) 67n1, 135n49, 147 constitution of 1824 4,7, 15 – 16, 54, 62, 67n1, 75, 105n26, 119, 121, 146, 149, 151, 201, 209n20, 239n11 constitution of 1836 7, 67n1, 221, 239n11 constitution of 1843 (Bases Orgánicas) 67n1, 239n11 constitution of 1857 44, 66, 97 Contreras, Félix 228 contribución de exentos (national guard) 88 – 89, 91 – 93, 106nn91 – 92 Corboli-Bussi, Giovanni 55 – 57, 67 Corona, María Antonia 236 Coronanco 118 Cortés, Hernán 144 Cortes of Cádiz (1812 Cortes) 211n54, 220 – 221 Corzo, Albino 154, 158 Cosío, Mariano 13, 25n52 Cosío Fernández, Miguel 176 Costa Rica 67 Costeloe, Michael P. 4 – 5, 104n74 Cotner, Thomas Ewing 5 counterguerrillas (Puebla) 102n43, 194 – 195, 198 – 200, 202, 210n40

Couto, José Bernardo 25n60, 63 crime 4, 125, 191, 193 – 194, 198, 203 – 207, 225 – 228 Cristiada uprising 117 Cruz, María Isabel 236 Cuautla 11 Cuba 176 Cumplido, Ignacio 101n39, 206 Cumplido, Jesús 205 Cypher, James 132 Damascus 58, 68n29 Dávila, Gregorio 25n60 DeLay, Brian 169, 180n7 Delgado, Felipe 13 depósito 228 – 231, 233, 241n37 desertions 11, 90, 99n3, 121 – 123, 126, 174, 189 – 190, 193, 200, 202, 205 Díaz, Genoveva 229 Díaz, Porfirio 2, 21, 45, 97, 156, 159 – 160 Díaz de la Vega, Rómulo 108n129, 150 – 151, 153, 155 – 157 Díaz Mirón, Manuel 206 – 207 Diez de Bonilla, Manuel 39 – 40, 43, 48n43 Disturnell, John D. 167 Dolores Hidalgo 125, 225, 229, 231 – 232 Domínguez, José Agustín 60 Domínguez, Manuel 194, 198 Doyle, Percy 17 Dueñas, Victorio V. 158 Dumas, Alexandre 206 Dunant, Henri 207 Durán, Luis 227 Durango 7, 62, 64, 118, 153, 155, 171 – 172, 181n17, 212n66 Eco del Comercio, El 78 – 79 Ecuador 67 Elguero, José H. 63 El Paso 179 El Salvador 67 Emerson, Ralph Waldo 166 Engels, Friedrich 19, 189, 208n1 Escamilla, Juan 229 Escobar y Rivera, Manuel María 152 Escobedo, José Antonio 205 Espinosa y Dávalos, Pedro 60 Esteva, José María 206 Estrada, María Soledad 197 estupro 225 – 226, 228

252 Index Europe 9, 12, 18 – 21, 55 – 56, 175, 191, 207 European revolutions, 1848 x, 2, 15, 17 – 21, 189 executions 134n40, 190, 192 – 193, 196, 200, 202 – 208, 211n42; of Eleuterio Quiroz, 131; of Tomás Mejía, xii, 115; of Vicente Guerrero, 37; see also Miranda, Roque Falconnet, Francis 5 “father king” 222 federalism 94, 116 – 119, 146, 221 Ferdinand VII 54, 135n49 Fernández de Castro, Patricia 176 Filangieri, Gaetano 206 filibusters, 16, 20, 91, 141, 153, 156, 174 – 178 Fillmore, Millard 16, 176 Flores, José 227 Flores y Terán, Juan María 81 – 85 Fonseca, Guadalupe 231 Fonseca, María Salvadora 231 forgotten years see años olvidados, los France 19 – 20, 57, 97, 124 French Intervention 2, 6, 8, 18; leadership and, 158 – 159; the national guard and, 97; popular conservatism and, 127; trials and executions and, 189, 191; the United States–Mexico border and, 179 French Revolution (1789) 17, 19 fueros (legal privileges) 9, 15, 117 – 118, 123, 132 fumbling fathers 145 – 149 Gadsden, James 183n49 Gadsden Purchase (1853) 166, 173, 180 Gaeta 15, 57, 59 Galindo y Galindo, Miguel 2, 21 Gallinero, Battle of El (1832) 219 Galván, Hilario 204 García, Alejandro 152 García, Antonio 190 García, María Antonia 228 García, Sanjuana 223 García Luna, Juan 43 García Torres, Vicente 79, 85 – 86 García y Montilla, Pablo 158 Garrido Canabal, Tomás 159 garrote 204, 211,54 Garza, Hipólito la 196, 210n27

Garza y Ballesteros, Lázaro de la 58, 60 – 1, 64 – 65 gold rush 87, 170 – 173, 174, 178 Gómez, Atanacio 228 Gómez, Cándida 232 Gómez, Elogio 23 Gómez, Santos 236 Gómez de Portugal, Cayetano 62 Gómez Farías, Valentín 6, 10, 55, 66, 68n12, 104n74, 105n78; and the Catholic Church (Mexico), 119; and the national guard, 75 Gómez Navarrete, Juan 195 Gómez Pedraza, Manuel 6, 25n60 Gonzaga Cuevas, Luis 6, 85 – 86, 88, 101n39, 104nn72 – 73 González, Aparicio 94 González, José 90, 134n40 González de Cosío, Miguel 41, 81 González Navarro, Moisés 3 – 4, 73 – 74 Gordillo, Trinidad 223, 229 Gorostiza, Manuel 85 Govantes, Juan N. 92 Gregory XVI, Pope 55 Grito de Dolores 72, 87 Guadalajara 23n29, 62 – 65, 118, 205 Guadalupe Hidalgo, Treaty of 7, 78 – 79, 81, 123 – 125, 128 – 129, 135n40, 135n53, 149, 154, 166, 173, 178 – 179, 194, 219 Guanajuato xii, 11, 200, 216 – 220, 236 – 238; and the national guard, 73, 76, 87, 104n72; and pronunciamientos, 119 – 120, 122 – 123, 125 – 126, 130, 135n53; see also hegemonic pact Guardia Nacional, El 86, 104n74 Guardino, Peter F. 116 – 117 Guatemala 67, 146, 151 Guerrero (state) 116 Guerrero, Vicente 37 Gutiérrez, Francisco 229 Gutiérrez, Gerónimo 232 Gutiérrez, Joaquín Miguel 145 – 146 Gutiérrez de la Lara, José Bernardo 25n60, 180 Gutiérrez Estrada, José María 8, 56, 116 Haiti 67 Hale, Charles A. 6, 98 Hare, Isaac 194 Haupt, Heinz-Gerhard 21

Index  253 hegemonic pact 216 – 218, 220 – 224; and parents, 230 – 233; and sexual virtue, 224 – 226; and the state, 233 – 236; and youths, 226 – 230 Hernández, Manuel 205 Herrera, José Joaquín de x, 1 – 6, 8, 10 – 11, 13 – 15, 18, 21, 24n49; hegemony and, 218; leadership and, 152; the national guard and, 74, 79 – 80, 85 – 86, 88, 91, 97 – 98; popular conservatism and, 124, 126, 129 – 130; representaciones and, 36 – 37, 39, 42; trials and executions and, 195 – 196, 205 Hidalgo (state) 20 Hidalgo y Costilla, Miguel 36, 72 historia oficial (official history) 6 Honduras 67, 142, 151 honor 106 – 107n102, 224 – 227, 231, 235, 240n25, 241n30 Hornelas, Pedro 228, 231, 235 Howard, John 206 Huasteca (region) 204 Hugo, Victor 206

Jalapa see Xalapa Jalisco (state) 17, 63, 91, 118, 123 Jarauta, Celedonio Domeco de 24n44, 115, 123 – 126, 130, 135n53, 190, 200, 205, 210n41 Jáuregui, Ignacio 83 – 84 Jorrín, Pedro 37, 103n57 journalists 5, 11, 38, 40, 48n43; and collaborators to El Siglo XIX, 101 – 102n39; and contributors to La Voz de la Religión, 212n66; and the national guard, 76, 78 – 80, 82 – 83, 90 – 92, 94, 96 – 97; and Roque Miranda, 199; see also Bustamante, Carlos María de; Cumplido, Ignacio; Díaz Mirón, Manuel; García Torres, Vicente; Kendall, George Wilkins; Ortega, Francisco; Payno, Manuel; Portilla, Anselmo de la; Redondas, Manuel; Valdés, Leandro; and Zarco, Francisco Juárez, Benigna 223, 240n17 Juárez, Benito 1, 6, 75, 97, 99n8, 127, 136n62, 156, 177, 200 – 201, 207

Ibarra, Domingo 25n60 Iglesias, José María 35, 87 Imán y Villafaña, Santiago 147, 155 – 156, 161nn16 – 17 Inclán, Jesús 43 Indian raids in northern Mexico 3, 20, 87, 166, 169 – 175, 178, 180 – 181nn7 – 8, 181nn21 – 22, 182n31, 182n34 indigenous communities 9, 11, 20 – 21, 34, 204, 219; attacks by, 16, 18; leadership and, 141 – 147, 157; liberal ideology and, 72; the national guard and, 81, 87, 91, 104n72; the Nueva Sociedad and, 12; popular conservatism and, 115 – 117, 120 – 122, 127, 129, 132; representaciones and 34, 46n3; revolts and, x, 3 – 4 Infante, Casimiro 236 Irapuato 216, 236 Ireland 19 Irigoyen Cárdenas, Liborio 157 Irinyi, József 18 Italy 19, 57, 60, 67 Iturbide, Agustín de 54 Iturbide, A. G. 25n60 Iturrigaray, José 48n51

Kendall, George Wilkins 101n25 Kinealy, Christine 21 Kiowa (indigenous people) 169 Kissinger, Henry 142 Krákow 20 Krauze, Enrique 6 Labastida y Dávalos, Pelagio Antonio 60 Lacandón (indigenous people) 14 Lacunza, José María 37, 39, 74, 88 Lafragua, José María 6, 96 Lagos 123, 125 La Loba 177 Langewiesche, Dieter 21 Lanuza, Dolores 216, 220, 223 La Paz 174 Latin America 18, 141, 217 law see executions; trials leadership 141 – 142, 155 – 160; and the fumbling fathers, 145 – 149; and the miles gloriosus, 149 – 154; and pronunciamientos, 125, 131 – 132; see also Catholic Church (Mexico) Leman, Marshall 177 León, Antonio 78, 93, 101n31 León, María del Refugio de 176 León, Martín de 176

254 Index Lerdo de Tejada, Miguel 156, 200 Lerdo de Tejada, Sebastián 156, 200 Levasseur, André Nicolas 82 Ley Orgánica 72 – 74, 80, 85, 87 – 88, 97, 105n78, 105n86 Liberalism 6, 21, 57, 72 – 74, 98, 116 – 117, 132n1, 133n5, 190, 238 Librada Torres, María 227 Lieber, Francis 207 Lira, Andrés 3 Llave, Ignacio de la 201 Lombardini, Manuel María 17, 63, 91, 210 – 211n42 London bondholders 17, 25n57 López, Desiderio 228 López, Ignacio 223 López, Refugio 225 – 226, 231 López, Urbana 236 López Constante, Tiburcio 145 López de Portugal, Antonio 12 López Obrador, Andrés Manuel 45 López Uraga, José 132 Loreto (Italy) 40, 47n36 Loza y Padarvé, Pedro 60 Mackintosh, Ewan 13, 104n73 Madero, Francisco 160 Magee, Augustus 180 Maldonado, Fernando Nicolás 147 – 148, 154 Mallon, Florencia 217 Malo, José María 13, 25n53, 85 – 86, 89, 104n73 Mangino, Fernando 18 Manifest Destiny 166, 174, 179 Manning & Mackintosh Company 13 Marín Sabalza, Tomás Francisco de Paula 152 Márquez, Leonardo 24n44, 115, 124, 126, 135n53, 136n60 Martínez y Basto, Buenaventura 158 Marx, Karl 19, 189, 208n1 Mastai-Ferretti, Giovanni 55; see also Pius IX, Pope Mata, José María 177 Matamoros 177 – 178 Maximilian, Archduke Ferdinand 19, 23n30, 115, 127, 132, 154, 162n42 Maya (indigenous people) 11, 142 – 145, 147 – 150, 159, 160n1 Mazatlán 174 Mejía, Tomás xii, 24n44, 115, 119, 121, 123 – 124, 127 – 132, 134n40, 135n53, 136n62, 136n66

Méndez, Santiago 145, 157 Méndez Magaña, Gregorio 158 Mérida 11, 144, 150, 158 Mesilla Valley 167, 184n73 Mexico see años olvidados, los; Catholic Church (Mexico); Guanajuato; Mexico City; popular conservatism; post-war Mexico; southeastern Mexico; and United States–Mexico border Mexico City xii, 4 – 5, 7 – 8, 11 – 15, 17, 34 – 35, 43 – 45; Catholic Church (Mexico) and, 54, 58, 62, 65; disease and, 242n46; hegemony and, 219 – 220, 238; leadership and, 141, 143, 145, 149, 152; the national guard and, 74 – 78, 80 – 87, 89 – 90, 92 – 93, 95 – 96; political rivalries in, 35 – 37; popular conservatism and, 125, 128, 130, 132; riots in, 38 – 41; and trials and executions, 189 – 190, 193 – 196, 198 – 199, 201 – 203, 205; the United States–Mexico border and, 172, 175, 178 – 179 Micheltorena, Manuel 150 Michoacán (state) 231 Mier 179 Milan 20 miles gloriosus 149 – 154 Miramón, Miguel 23n21, 115, 132 Miranda, María Guadalupe 236 Miranda, Roque xii, 193 – 203, 207, 210 Mixteca (region) 101n31, 116 – 117 Modena 55 moderados x, xii, 1, 6 – 7, 9 – 10, 14 – 16, 18 – 19, 21; the Catholic Church (Mexico) and, 62; popular conservatism and, 118, 124 – 126, 128 – 131; representaciones and, 36 – 43, 48n43; see also national guard modernization xi Molina, Miguel 231, 242n40 Molino del Rey, Battle of (1847) 76, 78 – 79, 86, 93 – 94 Monarchism 6 – 8, 23n30, 36, 56, 115, 124 Monitor Republicano, El 15 – 16, 23n29, 36, 39 – 40, 43, 47n36, 79, 90, 172 – 173 Montaño, José María 194 Monterrey 15, 89, 128, 189 Montes, Ezequiel 201

Index  255 Montiel, José María 203 Montoya, José María 58 Morehead, Joseph 174, 183n45, 183n49 Morelia 16, 62, 76, 231, 233 Morelos (state) 11, 73 Morelos, José María 145 Moreno, Luciano 223 Moreno, Pedro 232 Morillo, María del Refugio 233 Morín, José de la Luz 228 Múgica, Francisco 160 Munguía, Clemente de Jesús 15 – 16, 60, 62 – 63, 65 – 66 Muñoz, Antonio 231 Muñoz, Juana 229 Nahua (indigenous people) 120 Naples 20, 55, 57 National Action Party 45 national guard x, 10 – 11, 18, 63, 72 – 75, 94 – 98, 123; controversy and the, 80 – 85; desertion from, 122; pre-1848, 75 – 80; reform and the, 85 – 94; trials and executions and the, 195 – 196, 198, 204 New Mexico 166 – 167, 173 – 174, 181n14, 183n50, 184n73 New Orleans 148, 158, 176 – 177 Nicaragua 67 Niños Héroes 97, 109n141 Norton, Alfred H. 177 Novelo, Bonifacio 148 Nueva Sociedad 12 Nuevo Laredo 179 Nuevo León 16, 60, 64, 80, 87, 89 – 90, 99n6, 101n39, 172, 175 – 177, 189 Núñez, José María 232, 234 Oaxaca (state) 23n29, 60, 73, 78, 99n8, 128 Ocampo, Melchor 16, 128, 177 Olaez, María Lorenza 228 Olvera, Isidro 92, 96 Omnibus, El 91, 107n112 Ortega, Francisco 82 Ortigosa Villaseñor, Beltrán 42 Ortiz, Eligio 135 – 136n53 Ortiz, Evaristo 198 Ortoy, Juan 103n64 Otero, Mariano 6 – 7, 44, 73, 75 – 77, 79 – 82, 89, 100n15, 100n23, 101n39, 106n99; criminal justice and, 205, 207

Otomí (indigenous people) 120 – 121, 127,131, 136n62 Ottoman Empire 55 Pacheco, José María 235 – 236 Padierna, Cipriana 229, 231 Padre Cobos, El 97 Palanca, La 9, 91 Palermo 20 Palo Alto, Battle of (1846) 15 Palomino, Guillermo 160 Paredes y Arrillaga, Mariano 24n44, 115 – 116, 119, 123 – 126, 130, 134 – 135n40, 135n48, 135n53, 136n56, 176, 219, 239n7 Partido Progresista Democrático 92 Partido Revolucionario Institucional (PRI) 6 Paris 18, 20, 56 Pat, Jacinto 147 Pata de Cabra, La 96 – 97 Patiño, Jesús 197 patria potestad 217 – 218, 231, 238n3 patronage 14, 53 – 55, 57, 65 – 66 Paula Verea, Francisco de 60 Payno, Manuel 6, 35, 39, 42, 78, 85, 95, 101n29, 224 Peláez, Manuel 152 Peña, José Gabriel de la 195 Peña y Peña, Manuel de la 79, 85, 124 – 126 Pénjamo 227 Perdigón Garay, José Guadalupe 16, 77, 101nn25 – 26, 195 Pérez, Dionisio 210n40 Pérez, Fernando 123 Pérez, Francisco 93 Perote 94 Perry, Matthew 151 – 152, 190 Peru 18 Pesado, José Joaquín 63 Pesquera, Dominga 220 Pichardo, María de Jesús 226, 228, 235 Pichucalco 152 Piedra Gorda 233 Pierce, Franklin 183n50 Piña y Cuevas, Manuel 14 Pius IX, Pope 15, 53, 55 – 58, 62, 66 Pizarro Súarez, Nicolás 44, 48n52, 73, 105n86 Plácido, José 204 Plan de Guanajuato (1848) 135 – 136, n53; see also Ortiz, Eligio Plan del Hospicio (1852) 91, 107n115

256 Index Plan of Acapulco (1854) 95, 108n127 Plan of Ayutla (1854) 95, 108n127; see also Ayutla, Revolution of Plan of Blancarte (1852) 63, 107n115 Plan of Huejotzingo (1833) 118 Plan of Jalisco (1852) 92, 107n115; see also Plan of Blancarte (1852) Plan of Lagos (1848) 125 Plan of Río Verde (1849) 99n8, 123, 135n41 Plan of San Lorenzo de la Mesa (1854) 178 Plan of San Luis Potosí (1837) 121 Plan of San Juan de los Amoles (1848) 129 – 131, 135n53 Plan of Sierra Alta (1849) 124, 126, 135n53 Plan of Sierra Gorda (1855) 129 Plan of Xichú (1848) 134 – 135, n40; see also Quiroz, Eleuterio “polkos” revolt (1847) 10, 75, 79, 82, 96 Poot, Crescencio 148 popular conservatism 115 – 116, 131 – 132; from popular centralism to, 116 – 119; the Sierra Gorda rebellion and, 119 – 123; Tomas Mejía and, 127 – 131 Portilla, Anselmo de la 2, 78 Posada y Garduño, Manuel 60 post-war Mexico 1 – 2; the 1848 European revolutions and, 17 – 21; historiography of, 2 – 7; trials and executions in, 189 – 193; see also años olvidados, los; executions; Miranda, Roque; and national guard Prague 20 Prieto, Guillermo 10, 24n35, 35, 39, 101n39 pronunciamientos 15 – 17, 117 – 119, 123 – 127, 131 – 132, 133n10, 133n12, 208n3; Catholic Church (Mexico) and, 63; leadership and, 141; the national guard and, 79, 91; representaciones and, 44; war and, 189 Puc, Venancio 148 Puchet, José María 204 Puebla 60, 64 – 66, 72 – 73, 76, 87, 95, 118, 128, 194, 198, 200, 202, 205, 209n14 Puerto y Vicario, Ángel María del 43 pulque 12, 40, 194, 199

puros 6, 8 – 10, 14, 16, 18; Catholic Church (Mexico) and, 55, 62; the national guard and, 75 – 78, 80 – 84, 92, 94, 97; political rivalries and, 38 – 39; popular conservatism and, 117, 124, 128 – 129 Quintana Roo, Andrés 20, 143 Quintana Roo (state) 20 Quintero, Bartolomé 204 Quirina Luna, María 225 – 226 Quiroz, Eleuterio 119, 121 – 124, 126 – 127, 129 – 131, 134 – 135nn40 – 41 Querétaro 3, 17, 76, 81, 89 – 90, 119 – 120, 122, 126 – 129, 144 Querétaro (state) 11, 35, 77, 84, 115, 121, 136n66 Rabasa, Emilio 160 railway 14, 55, 72, 166 Ramírez, Camilo 225 Ramírez, Ignacio 35 Ramírez, José Fernando 7 – 8, 23n26, 25n60 Ramírez, Luis 228 Ramírez, Refugio 231, 236 Raousset de Boulbon, Gaston 16, 175 Rapport, Mike 18 rapto 226 – 228, 230, 233, 235, 241n30 Rea, Joaquín 13 Reagan, Ronald 142 reconciliation 192 Redondas, Manuel 84 Reforma x – xii, 1 – 2, 3, 5 – 6, 16, 21; Catholic Church (Mexico) and, 35 44, 52 – 53, 62, 66 – 67; leadership and, 141, 156, 159; the national guard and, 72 – 73, 75, 95, 97; popular conservatism and, 115 – 117, 127 – 128, 130 – 131; trials and executions and, 189 Rejón, Manuel Crescencio 78 representaciones 34 – 45 Resaca de la Palma, Battle of (1846) 15 Revilla y Pedreguera, José María 93 – 94 Reyes, Abraham de los 25n53, 198, 210n33 Reyes, Nabor 203 Reyes Hernández, María 223 Reyes Heroles, Jesús 73 – 74 Reyes Veramendi, Manuel 198 Reynosa 179

Index  257 Riegas, Blas 220 – 221, 223 Río, José María del 38 – 39, 47n25 Rio Grande 167 – 170, 176, 179 – 180 riots 34 – 35, 45, 46nn6 – 7, 46n9, 76, 125; of December 1849, 38 – 42 Ripley, Roswell S. 8, 23n28 Riva Palacio, Mariano 100n23, 206 Rodríguez, María Eufemia 227 Rodríguez, María Ventura 223 Rodríguez O., Jaime E. 99, 116 Romero, Eligio 39, 47n35, 83 – 84, 103n62, 103n64 Romero, Francisca 201 Rosa, Luis de la 6, 25n60, 74, 79, 95, 98 Rosas, María Dolores 196 Royal Pragmatic on Marriage (1776) 221 – 222 Rueda Smithers, Salvador 4 Ruiz de la Peña, Agustín 145 Russia 55 Sánchez, Rafael 121 Sánchez, Vicente 229 San Cristóbal de las Casas 144 San José de Gracia 237 San José de los Amoles 124, 129, 131 San Juan Bautista 152, 154, 158, 162n31 San Luis Potosí (state) 3, 23n29, 60, 76, 87, 89, 99n8, 100n20, 104n72, 106n92, 119, 121 – 124, 128, 134n32, 134n40, 173, 204 San Miguel de Allende 219, 227, 229, 234 San Patricio Battalion 190, 202 Santa Anna, Antonio López de 1 – 7, 9, 17 – 18, 25n60, 47n24, 48n43, 135n53, 137n 76, 210n41; Catholic Church (Mexico) and, 63 – 66; Guanajuato and, 237; leadership and, 151 – 154; Mexico City and, 38, 44; the national guard and, 73 – 76, 91 – 96; and Pedro Jorrín 103n57; popular conservatism and, 118, 122 – 124, 126, 128 – 130, 133, 137n76; and trials and executions, 191, 197 – 202, 207, 211n42; the United States–Mexico border and, 175, 177 – 178, 180; see also santanistas Santa Cruz, Chan 151

santanistas 7, 9 – 10, 15, 18, 21, 239n11; the national guard and, 74, 91; political riots and, 38; popular conservatism and, 124, 127 Sardinia 55 Sarlat, Simón 158 Schiafino, Francisco 96, 108n136 Scott, Winfield 102n43, 193 – 94, 199, 208n1 Seed, Patricia 234 Sentmanat y Zayas, Francisco de 148 Septién Montero, Pedro 224 Sermeño, Gertrudis 235 Sierra, Justo 132 Sierra Gorda 11, 87, 115, 119, 124 – 27, 129 – 131, 136n56 Sierra Gorda rebellion xii, 3, 5, 20, 90, 104n72, 119 – 123, 127, 129, 131, 219; see also pronunciamientos Sierra Madre, Republic of the 16, 20 Siglo XIX, El 13, 23n29, 39 – 40, 43, 80, 82, 87, 90 – 92, 94, 96, 101 – 102n39, 194 – 195, 199 Silao 220 – 221, 226, 228, 232, 235 – 236 Silesia 19 Silva, Guadalupe 229 Sinaloa 76, 160, 171, 174 Slidell, John 10 socialism 11 – 12, 20, 123 Sociedad Filantrópica de México 78, 194 Sonora 16, 20, 60, 64, 87, 89, 169, 171 – 172, 174 – 175, 181n8, 181n21, 183n49, 240n25 Sonorense, El 172 Sosa, Vicente 223, 232 southeastern Mexico 141 – 145, 159 – 160; fumbling fathers and, 145 – 149; leadership in, 155 – 159; miles gloriosus and, 149 – 154 Spain 1, 34, 44, 52, 54, 57, 73, 118, 124, 135n49, 142, 145, 168, 221 St. Gallen 55 Suárez Iriarte, Francisco 83, 103n61, 103n64 Suárez y Navarro, Juan 2, 74 Tabasco: leadership and, 141 – 143, 145, 147 – 148, 151 – 156, 158 – 159, 161n15; the national guard and, 87, 89 Tamariz, José María 43

258 Index Tamaulipas 16, 76, 120, 175 – 178, 184n61, 204 Tantoyuca 120 Taylor, Zachary 176 Teapa 158 Tehuantepec, Isthmus of 14, 16, 179, 180n4, 184n73 Tejeda, Francisco 216 Tenenbaum, Barbara A. 5 Tepich 11 Texan insurrection (1835–1836) 7, 146 Texas 125, 146 – 147, 152, 167 – 170, 172 – 173, 176 – 178, 180 textbooks 3, 58 Thomson, Guy P.C. 20, 72, 133n5 Tiempo, El 115 Tilden, T.B. 194, 199 Tinoco, María de Jesús 236 Tizimín 155 Tlaxcala 24n49, 72, 204 – 205, 210n40 Tojolabal (indigenous people) 143 Tolstoy, Leo 207 Toluca 38, 95 Tornel, José María 2, 7, 93, 200, 218, 238n5 Tovar, Crecencia 229 Tovar, Pantaleón 224 Treviño, Andrés 177 trials 18, 190, 192, 208; see also Miranda, Roque Traconis, Juan Bautista 161n22 Trías, Ángel 25n60, 175, 184n73 Trist, Nicholas P. 77, 183n50 Trujillo, María del Rosario 226, 228 Tula 20, 130 Tutino, John 19 Tuxtla 144, 146, 157 Tzeltal (indigenous people) 143 Tzotzil (indigenous people) 143 Uhink, Julius 119 United States; see United States–Mexico border; U.S.–Mexican War United States–Mexico border 166 – 170, 178 – 180; and filibusters, 174 – 178; and the Gold Rush, 170 – 173 Universal, El 8, 12 – 13, 16, 18, 23n29, 36 – 40, 91, 108n134 Urías, Alejo 123 U.S.–Mexican War x – xi, 2, 4 – 8, 10 – 15, 20; borders and, 166, 169 – 171,

174, 176, 178 – 179; conscription for, 121, 134n32; financing of, 6, 25n52, 62, 75, 121 – 2, 130 – 131, 239n7; Guanajuato and, 218 – 220, 236 – 237; the national guard and, 72, 74 – 79, 85, 87, 90, 93; political rivalries and, 35 – 37; popular conservatism and, 116, 119 – 124, 128 – 130; Santa Anna and, 47n24; southeastern Mexico and, 151 – 152, 154; trials and executions and, 189, 191 – 193, 195, 202, 204 – 205 Uzuluama 204 Valdés, Leandro 103n64 Valenzuela, Policarpo 159 Vanderwood, Paul 3 Vargas, María Nieves 236 Vásquez, Rafael 126 Vatican see Catholic Church (Mexico) Vázquez, Josefina Zoraida 3, 22n3 Vázquez, Miguel 232 Vázquez, Silveria 231 Vega, Luz 193 Velasco, Juan 43 Velázquez, Vicenta 231 Venezuela 67, 143, 224 Venice 20 Veracruz 23n29, 58, 75, 87, 89, 91 – 92, 94, 125, 128, 148 – 149, 189 – 190, 195, 201 – 202, 204, 206, 208n1 Verástegui, Manuel 123, 135n41 Vienna 18, 20 Vigil, Francisco de Paula 61 Vigil, José María 2 Villagómez, Nazario 236 Villalobos, Simona 229 Villalpando, José Manuel César 73 Villegas, Domingo 227 Villegas Revueltas, Silvestre 6 Villela, Mariano 206 war 191; Cold War, 117; First Carlist War, 124; the Papal States and, 57, 60; Pastry War, 17; U.S. Civil War, 179; war of independence 2, 19, 54, 59, 145, 219; see also Caste War; Reforma; U.S.–Mexican War Walker, Robert J. 183n50

Index  259 Walker, William 183n49 Washington 170, 173, 179, 183nn49 – 50, 184n68 weapons (national guard); post-war rearmament, 84 – 85, 104n 68; post-war shortages, 87, 105n79 Wellington, Duke of 189, 208n1 Xalapa 125 Xalapa Martyrs 190, 209n5 Xichú 120, 122, 134n40 Yáñez, Cástulo 103n64 Yáñez, Juan 191, 203 Yebra, Gabina 225 Yermo, Gabriel de 43, 48n51

Young America movement, 166 Yucatán 74, 99n10, 141 – 142, 144 – 145, 147 – 152, 155 – 160; see also Caste War Zacatecas (state) 76, 87, 89, 104n72, 105n78, 106n92, 171 – 173, 182n34 Zacualtipán 125 Zamacois, Niceto de 36, 38 – 39, 43, 47n33 Zamora, Francisca 227 Zapata, Emiliano 117 Zarco, Francisco 94 – 95, 97, 102n39, 107n116, 224 Zerecero, Anastasio 92 Zoque (indigenous people) 143 Zorilla, Manuel 194 Zuloaga, Félix 23n21, 156