Blood and Thunder

Chapter 12 describes General Kearny’s invasion of the then-small Mexican town of Las Vegas on August 14, 1846. Las Vegas was the first sizable Mexican settlement the army had encountered, and Kearny wanted to set “a certain tone” (115-6). Together with the alcalde (mayor), Kearny addressed the inhabitants from an adobe rooftop. His army had come, he announced, “by the orders of my government to take possession of your country” (116). Kearny promised that where the Mexican government had failed, especially in protecting the settlers from the raids of the Navajo, his government would succeed. “My government will correct all this” (117)

After making the alcalde promise an oath of allegiance to the United States, Kearny and his men headed to Santa Fe, where he’d heard the governor of New Mexico, Manuel Armijo, was planning to engage him in a large-scale resistance.

When Narbona led his people back to their ancestral territories after the horrible drought of the 1820s, he learned of the slaughter of the chiefs at Jemez by the Mexicans and understood a new tactic was needed. He put a stop to the raids and preached peace in an effort to “inoculate” his people from further attack. The plan worked for a time, but in February 1835, he learned the Mexicans, allied with the Pueblo Indians, were planning a massive invasion of the eastern Navajo territories.

With 250 of his best warriors, Narbona set up a defense at Beesh Lichii’I Bigiizh, or Copper Pass, a narrow canyon in the Chuska Mountains. Narbona knew that the Blas de Hinojos, the commandant general of New Mexico, would have to take his army there. De Hinojos led the largest armed Hispanic expedition ever roused against the Navajo, but his troops were young and inexperienced. While the Mexicans blithely sang and milled about in the Copper Pass, Narbona kept his eager young warriors back until the perfect moment to strike.

The ensuing ambush killed dozens, if not hundreds, of Mexican soldiers, an incredible victory for Narbona’s much smaller force. The Navajo, who in their superstition “seldom named landmarks after individuals” (120-1), renamed Copper Pass to Narbona Pass.

Fremont, Carson, and their 12 companions camped on the edge of Klamath Lake in Oregon, a “plum assignment” for scientific exploration. The diversity of plant and animal life captivated Fremont and his team, but Carson knew they were in dangerous territory. His previous employer, the famous mountain man Jedediah Smith, had narrowly escaped an Indian attack here.

The night of May 9, 1846, Fremont was absorbed in the letters provided by the courier Lieutenant Archibald Gillespie, and neglected to post a watchman. Carson, a light sleeper, thought he may have heard something in the woods, but “apprehended no danger” (122-3).

He awoke to a thud: the French trapper Basil Lajeunesse’s skull being cleaved by an axe. The group was being attacked by Klamath Indians, a tribe Carson characterized as a “mean, low-lived, and treacherous race” (122-4), and likely the group they had just given peace provisions to earlier in the week. Carson and Fremont managed to repel the attack but not before losing three men. The ax and arrowheads left behind seemed to be British made; Carson speculated that perhaps the Hudson’s Bay Company outpost, owned by the Brits, had put the Indians up to the attack.

One especially brave Klamath warrior earned special attention from Carson. “The bravest Indian I ever saw,” he said. “If his men had been as brave as him, we would have all been killed” (124-5). In one of the paradoxes of Carson’s character, this man so lauded by Carson earned his unchecked, incredible brutality. “Touched perhaps by [his companions’] sorrow” (125), Carson “impulsively” mutilated the corpse, hacking at the warrior’s face until it was unrecognizable.

A ragtag group of New Mexican men awaited General Kearny’s Army of the West at Apache Canyon. Like Copper Pass (renamed Narbona Pass) in Chapter 13, Apache Canyon was a defensive goldmine, the gateway through which Kearny’s army would need to pass to reach Santa Fe. It was the perfect position for an ambush, but “weeks of indecisiveness” by the governor, Manuel Armijo, had put military efforts severely behind schedule. On top of that, the men were an “abysmal army” with a single, but important advantage: “they loved their country, most of them, and were keen in their desperation to defend it” (126).

Their leader, however, was less patriotic. Shamelessly corrupt, Armijo showed little loyalty to any creed but his own enrichment: “‘God rules the heavens,’ he said, ‘but Armijo rules the earth’” (126-7). Armijo, almost “operatically obese,” vacillated on whether he should even defend New Mexico at all. “It is smarter to appear brave,” he said, “than to be so” (127-8). He may have accepted a bribe from the American emissary James Magoffin (Susan Magoffin’s husband) to hinder the New Mexican war effort.

Armijo stood in stark opposition to his second in command, Colonel Diego Archuleta, a diehard patriot who understood that the Army of the West must be tired and have little chance for reinforcements. He thought the New Mexican position was favorable, if they simply dug in and prepared properly. As Armijo stalled for time, Archuleta prepared the men as best he could.