The Rosas Affair. Donald L. Lucero

He left your sister a widow at the age of twenty-five, but a rich one, Maria! A young widow with land and livestock at La Canada! She did well for herself under her husband’s will,” he continued, “getting back the whole of her dowry, as well as half of the amount to which Pedro had added. That would not have happened had I not chosen well. And your sister, Juliana,” her father continued. “Blas may be a member of the wagon escort, as is your Nicolas Ortiz, but Blas has lands at Taos. I did well by her also,” her father responded congratulating himself on his selection of proper mates. “I retained their honor and social positions by marrying them to the right men. You must not forget that,” he said, while looking at Maria who was now silent. “That’s who we are, Hita!”2 he added in a more conciliatory tone. “We’re members of the nobility. We can’t allow others who have neither title nor rank to enter our group. When you become interested in a man,” he said, “you must always ask, ‘Do we marry them?’ There’s no use in your becoming interested in someone you will never be allowed to marry. There are rules about this sort of thing!”

      Taking a deep and expressive lungful of air, he looked at Maria and smiled, reaching across the table and touching her hand. Then, taking a more affectionate tone with her, his youngest child, he said, “When you marry, Maria, your brother will become heir to our land. Your husband will provide your land. You’ll be given Tula and your other servants and enough stock to start your own flocks and herds. You’ll retain the right to a quarter of the vigas in our home, and some of the trees in the orchards will also be yours. But it will be your husband’s family who will provide you with land.” He pounded his empty cup on the table. “Before love, comes our name and reputation. That’s the way it is. And that’s the way it’s going to be, in this house, and in this family, and don’t you forget it!” he said as he rose from the table.3

      “Dios mio, Simon!” Maria’s mother exclaimed, “Why are you speaking to her like that? Hers is but a meaningless flirtation, por Dios! No harm can come from it! Would you not have her speak to the men who work here?”

      “Yes! That’s it exactly!” he bellowed. “I don’t want her speaking to them,” he said to his wife, in a strict and stern manner. “I want her to know her place. We would not have been allowed to marry had we not been of equal calidad. And so it will be with Maria,” he said, glancing in her direction. “I don’t care that she’s judged Nicolas to be strong, or handsome, or ambitious,” he said. “We must preserve the purity of our blood, and that’s that!”

      “Ay, God!” his wife said in exasperation, as her husband moved toward the door. “I’m glad you’re riding out with Nicolas. I think that you need the air!”

      Maria’s mother waited until Maria’s father had left the room before continuing, shaking her head and saying, “He’s back, you know,” she said in regard to Nicolas Ortiz. “Your papa said that he rode in last night.”

      “Oh, Mama!” Maria squealed. “Where? Where is he?” she asked, while opening the door and running into the placita.

      “Come back here and calm down. You don’t want your papa to see you like this,” her mother said as she grasped Maria’s elbow and led her back into the fire lit room. “He’s not here, and I don’t think your papa’s going to let him work here any more because of the two of you. Nicolas came to tell your Uncle Antonio that the caravan will be here today. I’m sure that he’s still involved with the train. But he’ll be free tomorrow.

      “Can we go down to the plaza to see the entrada?” Maria asked excitedly. “I’ll go with Nicolas, or with you, or with anyone!” she cried while attempting to contain herself.

      “Your papa and Nicolas will be among those who are riding out to meet the new governor,” her mother said, “but we can walk to the plaza. It’s a beautiful day!”

      * * *

      Maria and her mother, followed by a retinue of their Indian servants, hurried west along the path and road of the river canyon, and then north along the villa’s one quasi-street to the plaza.

      8

      The Adventus

      APRIL 18, 1637

      The broad bogs of La Cienaga receded behind them as the members of the wagon train caught their first glimpse of the adobe village of Santa Fe just coming into view. Stream and fields stretched out before them to the mountains blue on the horizon.

      To the outskirts of the royal villa they came: the departing governor, Francisco Martinez de Baeza, the villa’s regidores, (councilmen) including its alcalde ordinario or justicia mayor (chief magistrate), its Maese de campo, (Field marshal) other members of the cabildo, and many of the villa’s 250 citizens, all in gorgeous attire and arranged on horseback. Governor Martinez, about whom the young Fray Antonio de Ibargaray had so bitterly complained, was riding a white horse and wearing a ferreuelo, a short cloak without a cape across which was a repostero, a covering ornamented with his coat of arms. Governor don Luis de Rosas, whom the Spanish citizenry were here to meet, was similarly dressed, wearing a doublet of brocade, a small pleated collar stiffened in the neck with buckram, a flowing short coat, and tall boots of Cordovan leather. Before the kingdom’s royal standard, a banner hung on a processional staff bearing the royal arms of Leon and Castile on one side and the image of Our Lady of Remedies on the other, Rosas rode uncovered, his baton in hand. His pages carried his damascened helmet, his carved Italian cuirass, his lance and his sword. Great salvos were fired from artillery and from a multitude of harquebuses (matchlocks). And like a ripple expanding in a quiet pool, the news of welcome spread in every direction from the Villa Real de Santa Fe.1

      With the blue peak of Picacho Mountain looming before them, the two governors, Rosas and Martinez, rode up the long approach from the west. The men of their escort, wagons, horses and lumbering mules followed them. The two lead wagons flew banners, and their mule teams, specially caparisoned, wore neck bells. Amid the jangle of bells from the harnesses of the burdened mules, the train rode past houses interspersed among fields of corn, wheat, beans, and chile, past La Cieneguilla (Little Cienaga), along the Calle de Agua Fria (Cold Water Road), and toward the royal palace. Entering the southern end of the plaza, which was an open space of mud and dirt, Governor Rosas looked at the royal buildings of the casas reales, the governor’s official residence. The adobe fortress displayed four defensive towers and buttressed walls fronting the north side of the plaza. He reined up, looked back over his right shoulder at La Tetilla, a peak which marked the terminus of the route he had followed along the 1,000-mile Camino Real, and then forward again toward the adobe fortress. Blowing between pursed lips, he said out loud and to anyone who might be listening, “My royal palace! My God, it’s ugly! I had expected more.”

      A large group of gray friars (Franciscans) came in procession from the parroquia (parish church), which had, since 1628, been housed at the Hermita de San Miguel. They were carrying lighted candles and a large cross, singing hymns of praise and benediction akin to those with which they greeted the Blessed Sacrament on the feast of Corpus Christi. Custos Salas, holed up at Santo Domingo in a fit of pique, was not among them. The friars joined the men of the governor’s escort who now stood in ranks in front of the royal palace. Once the friars were in place, the governor dismounted.2

      Also standing in front of the royal palace along with the capital’s 250 Spanish citizens, were many of its 700 or so Indian servants. Among the Espanoles were the villa’s settlers with established households. These vecinos, or landed citizens, were individuals with full civic rights. In front of the vecinos were the villa’s four regidores and the additional members of its cabildo, who had been with those who had ridden out to meet the new governor. Rosas was struck by the appearance of these men, 50 of whom bore arms. Wearing broad-brimmed hats, long flowing capes over brocaded doublets, and bloused buskins, they appeared to be rugged frontiersmen, yet were noble in their bearing and presentation. They think of themselves as noblemen, Rosas said to himself, noblemen who will soon be demanding their fueros, asserting their rights, and demanding their privileges. His reaction, although nothing but a knee jerk, was one which the Italian chess master, Giocchino Greco, would have supported regarding the opening stages of a game: “Establish a senior position so as to control the center of the board,”