Perhaps the first thing you should know about this little-known Civil War episode is that the geography is the villain of the story—or, at least, a co-conspirator. People love to imagine Civil War battles as neat little arrows on a tidy map. Down here in the Mesilla Valley, the map itself has been wandering around like a drunken steer. The mountains behave; the river does not.
And then there’s the border. When Fort Fillmore’s drama unfolds in July 1861, the “southern New Mexico” you know today is still the new wing of the house—added via the Gadsden Purchase in 1853–1854, which means the international boundary everyone takes for granted had been settled, locally, for only about seven years. That short timeline helps explain why some old maps look a bit… aspirational.
In 1848, the little community that became Mesilla was established west of the Rio Grande (and along El Camino Real). But the Rio Grande is famous for behaving like a living thing—shifting, braiding, cutting new channels during big floods, and (at times) flipping what people think of as the “east bank” and “west bank.” One technical summary of the 1860s flooding notes the river cut a new course that left Mesilla on the river’s east bank, and other local histories point out yet another course change later that helped produce the river’s present-day position.
That’s why old descriptions can sound like they’re contradicting one another when they’re actually describing different decades of a restless river.
Fort Fillmore was established in 1851, across the Rio Grande from La Mesilla to protect travel and traffic through a corridor that connected settlements, trails, and commerce, and that also drew Apache raids and other violence common to the era.
So, keep that mental image in mind: Fort Fillmore was not a compact stone castle, but crude adobe structures in open desert country that was surrounded by nothing but tumbleweeds—hardly an ideal place to absorb a determined attack, especially from mounted men who could choose their angles of attack. This was a fort that you could demolish with a good garden hose much less a howitzer.
This may sound like the punchline to a bad joke, but it’s mostly a story about risk management.
Fort Fillmore was not built near the river, but on sand hills above it—a choice that made sense if you feared floods and wanted slightly higher, drier ground. The problem is that a river that shifts can turn “near” into “not near” with alarming speed. One widely repeated summary notes that after the Rio Grande changed course, the fort ended up being about a mile from the river and had to be supplied by water wagons, which, in turn, made it harder to defend in a crisis.
In other words: it wasn’t built where there was no water so much as it was built where water was close enough—until it wasn’t.
When the Civil War begins, the U.S. Army in the far Southwest is thinly spread, and everything is held together with small detachments, long supply lines, and optimism. In July 1861, Confederate forces from Texas under Lt. Col. John R. Baylor move into the Mesilla area. Baylor’s men are mounted, aggressive, and comfortable in desert campaigning.
At Fort Fillmore, the Union commander is Major Isaac Lynde, with several companies of infantry regulars and attached elements—enough to look respectable on paper, but not enough to feel secure when you’re staring at mounted opponents, on a jittery frontier, and insecure in the knowledge that your supply lines have been cut and that the rest of the nation’s attention is a thousand miles away.
Lynde marches out toward Mesilla, where Baylor’s men are positioned. The confrontation becomes what you might call a “confidence test,” and Lynde does not pass it, despite having more soldiers than the Confederate force. After a short fight kills three union soldiers, Lynde falls back to Fort Fillmore. This small battle is known as the First Battle of Mesilla. (There was a second battle about a year later, but it was so small that no one is sure exactly when it happened.)
This is the hinge point: once he returns to the post, Lynde has a decision. He can try to defend his mud fort or abandon it and try to save his command by moving north towards another Union fort. It was not much of a choice, so Lynde orders the soldiers to prepare to abandon the fort.
Now here’s where the story gets a little hazy. As part of the preparation to leave, Lynde orders that all of the fort’s stores that couldn’t be evacuated are to be destroyed. Whether the fort had a large stock of medicinal brandy or the Sutler’s store was oversupplied with whiskey is a mystery. What is known is that many of the soldiers decide that the best way to destroy the liquor is to run it through their systems. Many of the soldiers choose to fill their canteens with whiskey.
Perhaps they were worried about snake bite? As W. C. Fields said, “Always carry a flagon of whiskey in case of snake bite. Always carry a snake in case of thirst.”
Lynde wants an orderly retreat, leaving the Mesilla area and heading east into the Organ Mountains and the only source of reliable water nearby—the springs in the San Augustin Pass, about 20 miles distant. From there, they could move north towards Fort Union.
That was the plan. In practice, it turns into a slow-motion collapse. Men fall out, heat punishes them, the column straggles, and the mounted Confederates enjoy the luxury of mounted pursuit while the infantry fights the desert as much as any enemy. Southern New Mexico in July is as hot as a pawn shop pistol. The heat is stifling even in the shade and there ain’t no shade. In the middle of a New Mexico summer, I’ve seen trees chase dogs in hope of relief.
Baylor splits his forces, sending half through a narrow mountain pass that now bears his name. While his men are mounted, Lynde’s troops are on foot, struggling in the heat and are beginning to suffer from the effects of their canteens.
Baylor plays this well. He pressures, pursues, and presents Lynde with the sense that resistance will only mean pointless casualties. Lynde yields. Baylor has captured a Union force in spectacular fashion, and the Confederacy suddenly has a foothold in the region strong enough for Baylor to proclaim a Confederate “Arizona” government soon after, with Mesilla as its capital.
Lynde’s surrender detonates his career. He is disgraced, and the Army moves harshly against him. A War Department order drops him from the rolls “for cowardice,” effective the date of the surrender.
Baylor rides his victory into power. His proclamation and early Confederate control in the region make him briefly prominent. But Baylor’s story also curdles. He is removed from authority later after issuing an infamous order calling for the extermination of the Apache people—an act so extreme that even Confederate leadership moved against him.
We need some way to commemorate this battle. Since commemorative runs and walks are the national hobby now, let’s do what any responsible civilization would do: every July, we should stage an annual Fort Fillmore Whiskey Run.
Participants will begin with the traditional gesture—all water bottles will be confiscated and replaced with a pint of whiskey—then participants will set off to recreate Lynde’s finest hour: twenty miles of ambitious decision-making through the desert and march up into the Organ Mountains. Finishers will be rewarded with access to the springs, which is a lovely touch of historical authenticity, except for the small complication that the springs inconveniently dried up around 1950. Still, details, details. History is built on them and is then immediately trampled by them.
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