GEORGE BANCROFT, the Honorable Secretary of the Navy, founded the Naval Academy in 1845. And on one sultry July day of that same year he handed a very interesting packet of dispatches to one Lieut. Archibald Gillespie, of the U. S. Marine Corps. Interesting for two reasons: first because it has never been satisfactorily determined just what the orders in those dispatches were, and second because, whatever they were, they had a profound influence on the history of America.
In 1845 the good neighbor-to-be of the Western Hemisphere was casting a calculating eye to the southward, whither the path of manifest destiny seemed to be wending its way. The self-styled Napoleon of the West had met his Waterloo at San Jacinto some years before, and since General Santa Anna’s inglorious defeat the subsequent growth and development of the Texan Republic had created a factor of international significance. Under the Lone Star flag and the firm and able hand of Sam Houston the infant nation had become a prize worth winning, and England, Spain, Mexico, and the United States all had a hand in the political poker game. A tortuous coil of undercover diplomacy and the play and interplay of rival ambitions had reached a feverish climax, and it was increasingly apparent that the time had come for a showdown and the calling of a few hands. In the United States a determined and active party, led by some of the ablest political figures in the country, had definitely decided upon an aggressive policy of imperialism and was playing its cards with cunning and courage. With consummate skill, and an amazing amount of foresight, it had even added to the original ante a stake of greater value and equal importance—California.
Captain Frémont, of the United States Army Engineer Corps, had left the year before on his third trip of exploration to the westward, and had recently arrived in California, where he was welcomed by the Mexican authorities and given full leave to conduct his scientific investigation of the uncharted regions in the northern part of the province. His party was not composed of soldiers, but of frontiersmen and technicians, with the famous Kit Carson as his second in command. However, it was the only American force of any nature in the region and as such was ideally placed for any plans connected with the American acquisition of California. So it was to Captain Frémont “somewhere in California” that the packet of orders handed to Lieutenant Gillespie was addressed. All that he now had to do was to cross the untracked wilderness of the west or a hostile nation to the south, reach the Pacific, and find his man in a state as large as two European countries and still half wild.
Gillespie chose the southern route. He spoke Spanish and he believed that he could pass himself off as a traveling business man without arousing the suspicions of the Mexican authorities. In August, 1845, a stubby little schooner sidled up to the dock at Vera Cruz and disembarked a tall, red-haired young man in white linen, who mopped a moist brow and cursed at the sweating porter in broad Scots. Mr. Gillespie, of MacDougal Distilleries Ltd., Edinburgh, found his entry easy. Manana was too far away and siesta too near for the customs official to bother himself unnecessarily about passports and papers, particularly in view of the generous tip offered for his omission of red tape. That was the way it was in Vera Cruz, and that was the way it was in Mexico City, and in the sprawling villages across the breadth of the easygoing republic—no questions, no trouble, and no danger, as long as the pesos held out.
But as the lumbering stage creaked its way over the last hill outside Mazatlan, and the young courier looked down at the bay before him, he saw the first hint of trouble. There, tied up to the dock, was the U.S.S. Cyane, sloop of war, and beyond her, riding majestically at anchor with the white ensign of England snapping alertly in the breeze, H.M.S. Collingwood, 80 guns, appeared as a reminder of the omnipresent attention of Whitehall. Admiral Sir Michael Seymour, R.N., was conspicuously on hand to keep his government fully posted on every move in the Mexican port, and from now on the pesos were useless. Gillespie registered at an obscure tavern, and that night slipped aboard the Cyane and presented his credentials to her commander, Captain William Mervine. Between them the two officers hastily decided upon their course of action. Seymour, although he might be unaware of the marine’s arrival, was acutely aware of the tenseness of the international situation, and an abrupt change of plans and a sudden departure for California would obviously arouse his suspicions. The next day a note from Captain Mervine was sent to the Admiral, stating that the Cyane was leaving immediately for Hawaii and would be glad to take on board British mail for delivery in that port. This effectively lulled all suspicions, since it gave a definite proof of the Cyane's destination, and thus made the long detour worth-while.
It was an uneventful voyage as far as our story is concerned, but we may assume that it was no small event to Gillespie, since it gave him a glimpse of those fabulous islands of the Pacific, still unspoiled in their native state. At any rate, they returned to the continent after the turn of the year, dropping anchor at Monterey on March 25. Gillespie immediately made inquiries about Frémont, and learned that on the 15th he had been at Sutter’s Fort, and on the following day had left for Oregon. From a commercial traveler and a seaman, the marine became a woodsman, starting out on horseback with a native guide through the splendid panorama of northern California. The way was hard, and it was late April when the two men entered New Helvetia, that idyllic domain built out of the dream of a Swiss immigrant. The genial Sutter gave them a cordial welcome, as was his custom toward all Americans. If he had had some conception of the future havoc that gold and greed would wreak in his little kingdom, it would no doubt have been a different matter. He was not only welcomed, but materially aided, for Sutter sent two of his men flying ahead to catch Frémont and tell him to wait. This pair, Neal and Sigler, covered the amazing stretch of 100 miles in two days, and caught the American explorers in the Tlamath Indian country in southern Oregon.
Gillespie, meanwhile, was coming along behind with his guide. By the side of a crystal lake they encountered a lone Indian, busily engaged in pulling salmon from the water. He was obviously surprised by the meeting, but presented them with the pick of his catch and went his way in stoical silence. A few hours later they came out into a small clearing and caught sight of three men riding towards them. Gillespie waved and yelled at them, and they shouted in answer, spurring their horses.
Just then there came a series of whoops from the underbrush and the guide toppled from his saddle with an arrow through his chest. It was an ambush, and Gillespie found the air thick with whirring shafts, and half a dozen painted warriors sprinting for him. Luckily the three horsemen rode up and joined in the fight with a will. It wasn’t much use, for they were hopelessly outnumbered, and they quickly realized the situation and called to Gillespie to follow them. At the gallop they spurred on, with 15 or so Indians whipping their ponies to catch them. One of the white men went down, but they couldn’t stop to help him. Then suddenly the tall fellow on Gillespie’s left let out a whoop and pointed ahead to a cluster of tents. The pursuit stopped at the camp with a volley from the Americans, but not soon enough for the leading warrior, who was drilled neatly through the forehead by the same tall chap. Gillespie found himself shaking hands with Frémont and suddenly realized that this was the man he had traveled 12,000 miles to find. Before he really had a chance to savor that thought his tall friend of the running fight came up carrying the Indian he had just shot. As he laid the body on the ground Gillespie recognized, under the paint and trappings of a chief, the features of the solitary fisherman who had given him the salmon. Frémont introduced the man, “This is Kit Carson.” Carson shook hands gravely and then calmly drew his knife and neatly scalped the dead Indian, shocking Gillespie a great deal more than that young man managed to show by his face. He offered the marine the scalp as a “souvenir,” but Gillespie contented himself with the chief’s bow and arrows.
Gillespie’s long journey was ended, but his real work was just beginning. Frémont, naturally, devoured the dispatches, which included letters from his wife and his father-in-law, Senator Benton, one of the leaders of the imperialist bloc in Congress. The engineer and the marine talked for hours, and if we knew what was said in that conversation we would know the answer to a puzzle of American history that has baffled scholars ever since. Were Frémont’s subsequent actions motivated by the government’s official orders? Or by the advice of Senator Benton? Or by Gillespie’s summary of recent events? Or by Frémont’s own initiative? We don’t know.
Whatever the answer to the riddle, the next day, May 8, 1846, marked the first step in the American acquisition of California. For on that day Frémont turned his course toward the south and the little band of explorers became the vanguard of a conquering army. Gillespie was dispatched to San Francisco with a requisition upon Commander Montgomery of the U.S.S. Portsmouth for stores, powder, and medical supplies. He reached there on May 28 and, receiving full co-operation from Commander Montgomery, started back on the first of June with the requested material, a ship’s launch, and Midshipman Napoleon Harrison. On his return he found that Frémont had captured some 40 horses consigned to the Mexican Governor of California, General Castro, had attacked and defeated the Sacramento Indians in a sizable skirmish, and had begun gathering the American ranchers. The revolution against the Californian government was, then, in full swing, and from now on there could be no turning back. Two questions were outstanding. (1) Would the American settlers support this movement to the extent of forceful participation? (2) Would the other American military and naval units in the west act without specific instructions from Washington?
The first problem was solved in short order, for on June 15, 1846, William B. Ide declared the California Republic and raised the Bear Flag for the first time. The support of the Americans was practically unanimous and volunteers began pouring into Frémont ‘scamp. Before the end of the month the guns at Fort Point had been spiked and Mexican authority in northern California had reached the vanishing point.
Luckily for Frémont, the second problem was answered as easily. Commodore Sloat, commanding the naval forces, assumed that Frémont’s action meant he had received definite instructions from the government as to his course, for he knew of Gillespie’s mission and arrival. On July 7 he issued a proclamation supporting the California Republic and sent Lieut. Joseph W. Revere ashore to raise the flag of the United States at Sonoma, thus giving a famous family a part in another chapter of American independence. His action, as it turned out, was taken in the very nick of time, for exactly 24 hours later Admiral Seymour arrived on the H.M.S. Cornwallis with orders to take possession of California as security for British holders of Mexican bonds. Had the British Union Jack beaten the Stars and Stripes to that rendezvous with destiny, it is hard to imagine what the consequences might have been!
Frémont proceeded to Sonoma, meeting and defeating on the way Colonel Joaquin de la Torre and his detachment of cavalry. In Sonoma he found that the U.S.S. Congress had arrived with Commodore Stockton, who assumed command over Sloat and the land forces as S.O.P. Under his orders a Navy Battalion of mounted riflemen was formed, with Frémont as Major in command and Gillespie as Captain. This somewhat motley force consisted of Frémont‘s original party of 40 men, 50 marines, and about 100 American volunteers. It immediately set out for Los Angeles, and a few miles outside the city ran into General Castro with 500 men. The Americans were outnumbered more than two to one, but they attacked vigorously and General Castro was defeated. On August 13 Commodore Stockton came into San Pedro, dropped anchor and a few salvos, and took over the port, and on that same afternoon Frémont marched his force into Los Angeles, unopposed. The conquest of California, it seemed, was complete, and a territory of incalculable wealth had been won by a few ships and 200 men. Frémont was appointed military governor of California and Gillespie commandant of the Southern District, with headquarters at Los Angeles. The victors now relaxed to enjoy their triumph, with festivities, toasts, and a grand parade in which the tattered and weather-beaten veterans of Frémont‘s original party provided the comic relief. The unjust derision led Carson to remark, somewhat bitterly, “They are princes here in their big houses, but out on the plains we are the princes. What would their lives be worth without us?” A long speech for Kit and a thoroughly true one.
Carson, incidentally, had been the mainstay of Frémont and the salvation of his party times without end. His knowledge of the country, his ingenuity and courage and loyalty, had been invaluable through the entire campaign, and his real contribution to the cause of Californian independence was recognized by every man in the region. So it was decided that he should have the honor of carrying to the President in Washington the news of California’s triumph and, with it, recommendations which would insure recognition of his true worth.
He left on August 28, intending to proceed via New Mexico and Texas to New Orleans, and thence to the capital, and he had been gone hardly a week when the first signs of trouble began to appear. Stockton, knowing little of the nature of the citizens of the new republic, had established very strict regulations which Gillespie was required to enforce. Passes were required for people leaving their houses after dark, the bearing of arms was prohibited, and other hindrances upon long established customs and conduct created a sense of resentment among the native Californians. It began to seem to them that they had swapped a lenient Mexican rule for an American authority of oppressive efficiency. Under one Jose Maria Flores active rebellion broke out, and this time the situation was infinitely graver than it had ever been before. The Mexican government, distant, disinterested, and dissolute, had offered little effective resistance to the American conquest, but now the enemy was active and determined and close at hand. He was also far too strong for Gillespie’s little garrison of 50 men, and the marines had to withdraw from Los Angeles to San Pedro and take refuge on the U.S.S. Vandalia. With the aid of a landing party and fire from the ships San Pedro was held, but preparations for the recapture of Los Angeles had barely begun when word came that San Diego was besieged. So off to San Diego in the Vandalia went the fighting fifty, to find on arrival that the siege had been suddenly and mysteriously lifted. It seemed strange, but the answer arrived next day when, to the intense amazement of all hands, Kit Carson strode into headquarters. He had, he said, met up with General S. W. Kearney in New Mexico, en route to California with a force of 500 men. The General, disregarding the orders issued by Frémont and turning a deaf ear to Carson’s pleas that he be allowed to proceed as planned, appropriated him as guide and sent the dispatches on by one of his own men. Carson took time out here to give his opinions on generals in general and General Steve Kearney in particular, then he went on to tell how the American force had run right into over 1,000 Californians and were now besieged on a rocky hill at San Bernardo. Carson had been sent through the enemy lines to bring help from San Diego. Gillespie was on his way with his detachment and a field piece within an hour. The troops which had besieged San Diego had obviously gone to join in holding Kearney, so it was not necessary to defend San Diego until the other matter had been settled. The marines landed on San Bernardo with a bang and started a nice fracas which left 18 Americans dead on the field, Kearney and Gillespie wounded, and the situation unchanged. Both sides sat down to wait each other out.
Gillespie’s wound was a nasty thrust through the thigh, administered by one of the wicked, long-bladed lances favored by the Californians for hand-to-hand combat. He was suffering acutely from the pain and the heat when there occurred one of those inexplicable examples of gallantry which war has a way of producing. The day before the Californians had captured two American couriers and cut them to pieces alive; today they sent a flag of truce asking if the gallant Captain of Marines who had so distinguished himself in the late action would accept the hospitality of Don Andre Pico, the wielder of the lance, and have his wound attended to. The offer was accepted, Gillespie was conducted to the enemy’s camp and doctored, waited on and treated with immense deference for four days. Then, well on the way to recovery, he was returned to his own camp.
Meanwhile, Stockton had wisely decided against jeopardizing more of his forces in an attempt to relieve Kearney and had moved against Los Angeles. This maneuver had the desired effect, for the Californians lifted the siege at San Bernardo and repaired in haste to the defense of their capital. The stage was now set for the final act in the drama, and it was set with all the flavor and flourish of a Hollywood super-spectacle.
On a cool January morning in 1847, in a level field just outside Los Angeles, 2,000 Californians faced 1,100 Americans, with an empire at stake. The Californians were all mounted; squadron after squadron of splendid horses, with silver trappings flashing in the sun and brilliant uniforms standing out against the dull ground. Every squadron had some kind of music—trumpets, bugles, cymbals, guitars, and even fiddles. They carried fine cavalry carbines, a few pistols and rifles, sabres, machetes, and gaily pennoned lances. The Americans were a mixed lot: Frémont’s rangy, ragged band, Gillespie’s pipe-clayed marines, Kearney’s heavy dragoons with their long sabres and stalwart horses, Stockton’s blue-jackets with their three field pieces, and a scattering of volunteers on horseback. Carson and his men loaded with a 1-ounce ball and 3 buckshots and laid bets on their scores. With effort Frémont and Kearney formed the lines into a square and then relaxed to wait for the attack.
For a while the scene shifted and reshifted and slipped its gaudy colors into patterns, then the colors grouped themselves, the patterns formed in long lines, and the motion stopped. General Flores, resplendent in purple and gold and mounted on a magnificent chestnut stallion, rode out in front of his melodious army, posed for a moment, and lifted his arm. The long lines surged forward in a streaming rainbow flood that dashed itself upon the square, vanished in a pall of smoke, and recoiled in shattered fragments. On each side of the square a scattering of colored patches sprinkled the ground. A second time the charge came, and this time the fragments were fewer, the patches more numerous. And then a last, futile, gallant dash—that shattering roar—and it was all over. A few wilted squadrons galloped dejectedly over the horizon and the Americans remained—from then on.
So California was won, by the sweat and blood of a handful of soldiers, a few ships and seamen, and a certain lieutenant of marines who delivered a certain packet of dispatches “somewhere in California.” A very small packet, but out of it came Santa Anita and Sacramento, tons of fruit and miles of film, gold, and glory and a great state. From such little things is history made, and from such men as Gillespie, doing his job and then quietly walking off the pages of history into oblivion, the Marine Corps draws its motto— “Semper Fidelis.”
THERE is only one way of ensuring supremacy at sea: it is to defeat the hostile squadrons and force their remnants to take refuge in port. There is equally one way only of defeating the hostile squadrons; it is to take the offensive and the initiative in the attack. —BAUDRY Naval Battle.