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 of bread in the late evening. “I have much to ask,” Rosas continued, “but first, tell me a little about yourself. I like to know with whom I’m dining.”
Gomez waited a long moment before responding. Clearly uncomfortable in speaking about himself, he stroked his graying mustache with the tips of his fingers saying, finally, “The facts are few, Governor. My origins are in Portugal. In Coina, five leagues from Lisbon. You may know it.”
“Lisbon, yes, but not Coina,” the governor responded. “A port city, I assume?”
“On the interior a bit,” Gomez responded, “with access to the sea like Lisbon, but much smaller, of course.” He waited before continuing, looking about the tent, choosing his words carefully as he said. “I’m the son of Manuel Gomez and Ana Vicente, both of whom died when I was a child. I was raised and schooled by my older brother, Fray Alvaro Gomez, a Franciscan in the Convento Grande in Lisbon and Commissary of the Holy Office. When I was thirteen,” he went on, speaking deliberately “I passed into the service of don Alonso de Onate at the Court of Madrid. He was there pleading the case of his brother, don Juan de Onate, regarding don Juan’s New Mexico contract. He brought me with him to Mexico when he returned there.”
“And when was that?” Rosas asked politely, as the two dipped into their soup.
“It was in sixteen four or five,” Gomez responded with uncertainty, “a year before I joined don Juan in New Mexico.
“Juan de Onate? New Mexico’s first governor?” Rosas asked rhetorically.
“Yes, New Mexico’s adelantado,” Gomez responded regarding the honorific office Onate had held. “I first served with don Juan, and then with Governor Felipe de Sotelo, whom I also escorted to New Mexico. I’ve been in service to the office of the governor since my arrival there.”
“As an encomendero?” Rosas asked. “As the recipient of an encomienda, one sworn to answer the governor’s call to arms when requested?”
“Yes, one of thirty-five in the colony,” Gomez responded. “My encomienda, good for three lifetimes in succession,2 is at the pueblo of the Pecos,” Gomez went on, giving no hint of the breadth of his extensive holdings which included New Mexico’s best-watered lands, tribute from its most prosperous Indian villages, and access to trade.
“The entire pueblo?” the governor asked incredulously. “Was the entire pueblo given to you?”
“Not the use of native land or labor, Governor, but the collection of tribute as personal income. I am allowed to collect tribute from the entire pueblo of Pecos, except for twenty-four houses which are held by the Maese de campo, my friend, Pedro Lucero de Godoy. Also from two and a half parts of the pueblo of Taos, half of the Hopi pueblo of Shongopovi, half of the pueblo of Acoma except for twenty houses, half of the pueblo of Abo,” he continued, “and the entire pueblo of Tesuque, although I receive services from the people there in lieu of tribute.” 3
The governor rubbed his hands together, looked at Gomez, raised his eyebrows, and blew between pursed lips. “And what do the other thirty-four have”