wagons—heavy, four-wheeled, iron-tired freight wagons drawn by teams of sixteen mules—were each capable of hauling two tons of equipment and merchandise. Inspecting the train with Fray Manso was Captain Francisco Gomez, a heavy-set individual with red hair, beard, and a flowing mustache, all streaked with gray, who, with a detachment of fourteen soldiers, had been sent from New Mexico to escort the governor to his adobe kingdom. A handsome man with light-colored eyes and a wound mark above his right eyebrow, Gomez was a natural leader and confidently assumed his responsibility for the train.
“He has everything on his carts, even, I suspect, stones for his mangonel,” remarked Fray Manso shaking his head in disgust.
Before them, were seven wagons bearing the governor’s personal things—his bed furnishings, garments, books and documents—tied up in hide-bound sacks or stored in chests. His kitchen, appointed with numerous pots and pans, was slung beneath one of his wagons. Two additional carts, which the governor had placed behind his personal wagon, contained articles of foodstuff and wine for the lengthy journey. Then came several canvas-topped carts burdened with baskets and chests containing carpets and wall hangings for the governor’s lodging. Twelve pack mules bearing the governor’s table service as well as other household items were also burdened with a heavy oak table and its chairs, and a banquet service of twelve silver dishes and cups. Guards attended by several alferezes (ensigns) bearing the governor’s armor and tack brought up the rear.
Gomez, a Portuguese soldier formerly in service to the Onates, and one who gave his first allegiance to the king’s man whoever he was, said, “I’m sure that he’ll become a more reasonable traveler as we go along.”
“You think so?” Fray Manso asked with a smile.
“We can only hope,” answered the 61-year old Gomez who had seen it all.
* * *
With the sun rising over their right shoulders, and with prayers rendered to God for a safe journey, the members of the wagon train set out. They rode aboard freight wagons, and astride saddle mules and horses, their faces set northward toward the mining town of Zacatecas. The whip-cracking muleteers on the train’s 36 heavy, groaning wagons damned their mule teams and their misfortune at drawing this assignment. Assorted retainers, an extra team of 16 mules for each wagon, and meat on the hoof, brought up the rear.
Blas de Miranda, who, like Francisco Gomez, had been a member of several previous wagon escorts, was asked by Gomez to divide the train into smaller and more manageable units: two squadrons of eighteen wagons each, broken down into four nine-wagon divisions, with each squadron under the command of a wagon master. With the assistance of Nicolas Ortiz, who had also been a member of previous wagon trains, Miranda now made that division. The two lead wagons rumbling side-by-side flew banners displaying the governor’s coat of arms, their teams distinctively caparisoned and wearing bells on their harnesses. The two young wagon masters, Miranda and Ortiz, rode beside their lead wagons, while Gomez, as mayordomo or conductor of the train, trailed behind.
“That man—Gomez?” Rosas asked of one of his aides, as they rode beside the governor’s lead wagons. “What do you know of him?”
“Little,” his aide responded. “Only that he’s an encomendero, or ‘estate holder,’ one of the kingdom’s most prominent soldiers, and the strongest defender of royal authority as vested in the governor. I think that he has no love for Governor Martinez,” his aide continued, “yet Martinez can count on Gomez’s loyalty until the day he leaves office, for that, they say, is the manner of the man.” His aide, who was attending to his horse that had stumbled on uneven ground, continued, “Some say that he’s an alborayco, the son or grandson of a Jew from Portugal forcibly converted to Christianity.”
“And you know little of him, is that right?” the governor laughed. “With what you’ve told me I could either give him the kiss of peace or send him to the gallows. Tell him that when we camp at Queretaro, I’d like him to take council with me.”
“Yes, your Lordship,” his aide answered as he slowed his horse’s pace to drop in with the rear guard. “I’ll tell him!” he shouted.
* * *
At Queretaro, the first important station on their way north, they made their camp. Ringed about with mountains, Queretaro lay in a wide rolling plain, open during the day to the winter sun. On the move, with just a night’s camp expected, the governor had only the canvas of his field tent erected within which he now sat, a velvet robe draped across his shoulders against the evening’s chill. His servants entered and unfolded a day bed and draped it with several portable and lightweight sarapes del campo. These utilitarian camp blankets of natural dark-colored wool, striped with small bands of red, provided the only color in the canvas room. The servants then brought in a small writing desk, candles, a firebox full of radiant coals, wine and glasses. Also among their kitchen paraphernalia, were two large bowls, several spoons, a ladle, a kettle of soup and a tureen into which to pour it. The servants, having made things inviting with furnishings and food, removed themselves, pulling the flap of the tent closed behind them.1
In the last of twilight, Francisco Gomez watched the fog that back-dropped the encampment, hesitating at the entrance of the field tent before calling out and then lifting the flap. “Your Lordship,” Gomez said in a verbal salute, “you requested I meet with you?”
“Don Francisco,” the governor responded appearing at the door like a cowled monk with his robe draped about his shoulders. “Please, please, come in and add your warmth to my poor household,” he said as he sat on one of the large cushions arranged about the canvas room. “And you may dispense with formal titles while we’re on the road,” he added as he beckoned Gomez to take a seat. “You may call me don Luis.”
“I wouldn’t be comfortable addressing you in that manner, your Lordship,” Gomez responded, speaking politely, but without excessive deference.
“Governor, then,” Rosas responded with some annoyance. “You may call me governor.”
Gomez declined the bison robe offered him for warmth and waited for the governor to continue, thinking that the manner in which Rosas was looking at him suggested that he was disturbed about something. Gomez looked directly at the governor, trying to discern in Rosas’s countenance the nature of his annoyance, turning over in his mind the many possibilities. He waited.
“I understand from Fray Manso that we’ll be at least four months on the road, and I mean to make use of every moment of that time to learn the secrets of New Mexico,” the governor said.
“And how may I be of service to you?” Gomez asked.
“I’ve been told that you’re the most outstanding military official in the kingdom,” Rosas said, further drawing his robe about his shoulders. “I don’t say this to flatter you, but to tell you that I expect much from you—as one soldier to another.”
“I’ll do whatever I can to assist you, your Lordship—pardon me,” Gomez laughed, “Governor.”
“Soup?”
“Yes, please. May I serve it?” Gomez asked.
“This I can do myself,” Rosas responded, as he ladled the contents of the tureen into two bowls and placed them side by side on the small writing desk before continuing. “This should compare favorably to your usual fare,” the governor exclaimed, knowing that Gomez’s typical food was the same as that enjoyed by his men: a scanty repast of one meal a day consisting of a small piece of meat, red chile, beans, and tortillas (maize cakes), with a cup of chocolate and a piece
