The matter was allowed to gather dust in official files for twenty-eight more years, when once again it was looked into, and now again with favor, for the kingdom of New Mexico had prospered until in 1666 it seemed likely that a bishop could be properly supported at Santa Fe. Royal and papal approval gathered strength for the next fourteen years; but then, in 1680, the calamity of the Pueblo revolt swept away the New Mexican colony, its Spaniards, and their parishes, and accordingly all chances for the bishopric. The river kingdom was left under the jurisdiction of the bishop of Durango, in his famous and lamented distance of fifteen hundred miles from Santa Fe. Generations would go by without an episcopal visitation to the exiled north after the Spanish restoration in New Mexico in 1692, while the mission friars struggled to hold their authority against that of the civil governors, and even broke into quarrels with their distant and invisible bishop. When in the last hours of the Spanish dominion in the New World, New Mexico was allowed to send an elected delegate to sit in the Cortes in Spain, he proposed once again, in 1810, but in vain, a bishopric for New Mexico. After the revolutionary secession of Mexico from Spain in 1821, the long process of secularization began, and without a bishop to guide it on the scene, the Church fell upon unhappy days. The absence of a spiritual leader seemed like a symbol of the abandonment of the province. Who cared?—so far, so outlandish, with only a handful of Spaniards (now Mexicans) amidst a diffused population of inscrutable Indians—New Mexico was lost in its golden distance, and the world did not appear to miss it. Without leadership in the affairs of the spirit, the society lost any motive larger than that of simple survival. Without food or purpose for the aggregate mind of the colony, ignorance was the birthright of each new generation. Without education to foster the works of betterment in people’s lives, and to create a sense of a future for the young, the very heart of the society was oppressed. When the last Franciscans were withdrawn in the 1830s, and a mere handful of the secular clergy was left, not only the people, but even many priests forgot the laws of the Church.
Now, in 1849, letters circulated between American chanceries and converged upon the prelate at Baltimore, who would forward to Rome the recommendations from among which the names of the new American bishops would be chosen. It was not a matter for parish priests to enter into; their presiding prelates kept the affair in their own hands. Lamy in Covington went about his modest but demanding labors, as yet knowing nothing of what was coming to a focus.
For each new bishopric, three nominations were drawn up by the conciliar bishops, were discussed by letter, and the names forwarded to Baltimore. Lamy, in his undemanding obscurity, was brought to light on several lists, which presented candidates in preferential order for first, second, and third rank in every case. For the new diocese of St Paul, he was ranked as second choice, with the notation, “Joannes Lamy, a Frenchman, 35 years of age; well versed in the doctrine; especially praiseworthy for his mild character, zeal for the salvation of souls.” For Monterey, California, he was again ranked in second place; but for Santa Fe, he was, by preponderance of recommendations, placed first, with the supporting statement, “Joannes Lamy, Native of France, 35 years old, for many years already working in the Diocese of Cincinnati, well known for his piety, honesty, prudence, and other virtues.” On 16 April 1850, Archbishop Eccleston of Baltimore wrote to Purcell that Lamy was “first on the list for the Vicariate of Santa Fe.” His nomination was submitted to Pius IX, while as summer deepened, Lamy, all unaware, wrote to Purcell on 25 July 1850 on routine matters in Covington, and added that “the cholera is not so bad in my little congregation”—St Mary’s—”I have had only two deaths in this month … but the weather continues excessively hot.”
No one in America yet knew it, but six days earlier, on 19 July, Pius IX, recently returned to Rome from his sanctuary at Gaeta, where he had fled from Garibaldi, had established by decree the vicariate apostolic of New Mexico, and further, on 23 July had issued a papal bull naming as its vicar apostolic Father John Baptist Lamy, of Covington, Kentucky, with the title of bishop of Agathonica, in partibus infidelium.
xiv.
These Two Vicars
LAMY WAS AMAZED when first the suggestion came his way, probably from his friend and superior Purcell, that he had been nominated for the mitre; but it was best to put thoughts of all that aside and get on with parish duties until the official bulls should arrive from Rome during the summer. His elevation then became a certainty which the self-doubts he felt could not affect. Of one thing he was immediately sure—to a place so far away, so outlandish, of which so little was known and that little discouraging enough—he could not go alone. He had communicated to Machebeuf what might be coming to pass, and they were keeping it between themselves. But when the “great news” finally arrived, he wrote to his old friend at Sandusky asking him to go West with him “not only as a missionary, but as an intimate friend on whom he could count and upon whom he could lay a part of his burden—in short, as his Vicar General”—a post which would place Machebeuf next in authority to the bishop. In his usual “simplicity and humility,” Lamy wrote to him, “They want me to be a Vicar Apostolic, very well, I will make you my Vicar General, and from these two Vicars we’ll try to make one good pastor.”
For Machebeuf it was a harder decision than for Lamy, who had no choice. Privately, Machebeuf was disposed to follow his friend, but for himself, he felt “neither the necessary talent nor the courage, nor even the patience” for the move. He struggled throughout ten days before he could reply to Lamy’s appeal. During that time he went to Cleveland to ask Bishop Rappe and the other cathedral clergy what to do; but they felt that they must leave the decision to him—he must interpret God’s will in the matter. It pained him to think of leaving Sandusky where his ten years had been so binding. Just now he was about to build his first school, everyone was relying on him, the news that he might go dismayed them. Lamy wrote a second time, and finally Machebeuf was brought to decide. He went to Cincinnati at last to see the bishop-elect himself and to make all arrangements with him.
The moment he arrived at St Mary’s in Covington, Lamy seized him by the hand and reminded him of the pledge they had made to each other years before—never to be separated. A certain memory had some effect—when Machebeuf for a moment had considered going to the Rocky Mountains with the illustrious Jesuit missionary De Smet, and Lamy had been sent by Purcell to deter him, what had happened? Machebeuf had asked Lamy what he would do if he were unable to change Machebeuf’s mind about going to Oregon, and Lamy had said, “I will go with you.” The positions were now reversed, but the pact was as strong as ever. Together they would proceed to Santa Fe.
But much came first—Machebeuf’s parishioners sent delegations to plead with Purcell not to let their pastor go. They could not see the bishop, who was making a retreat at the Ursuline convent in Brown County, in Ohio. The decision was not reversed. Plans for Lamy’s consecration went forward at Cincinnati. He himself went to the Ursulines to make his own spiritual preparations for the consecration which would take place on 24 November 1850. His sister Margaret, the nun who was at New Orleans Ursuline Convent, and his little niece Marie, were coming for the ceremony, after which they would return to New Orleans with him. Margaret Lamy must go home to France, for her health was alarmingly poor. Marie would remain in the New Orleans convent to continue her education.
The question of how to travel to Santa Fe had its complications. There were two possible routes. One led to St Louis and across the prairies with a merchant train along the Santa Fe Trail, which could take up to ninety days. The road led through Indian country, and by now there were hazards from Indian attack, as a result of brutal encroachments by some of the later trading caravans, where the earliest waggon parties of the 1820s had given and received little or no hostility in the plains empire of the Indians. The other way to Santa Fe was more complicated and lengthy. It would require a voyage to New Orleans, another on the Gulf of Mexico, and another from there to Indianola, Texas, followed by passage overland to Port Lavaca and San Antonio. Once there, an accommodation must be made to travel with a United States Army supply train as far as Fort Bliss opposite El Paso del Norte on the Rio Grande; and then must come a northward