I had come to Pachuca in the state of Hidalgo, ninety-five kilometres north of Mexico City, to view the Archivo Casasola, a huge (three-quarters of a million items) and historically invaluable collection of photo-journalism depicting Mexico in the first half of the last century, but then I read that there was an English cemetery, known as El Panteón Inglés, in the nearby silver mining community of Real de Monte. I couldn't miss it.
Mexico has long been one of the world's greatest producers of silver, from shortly after the Spanish conquest through to the twentieth century. Today most of the mines are exhausted and closed, but even in 1950 Mexico accounted for one-quarter of the world's output of that precious metal. In the 1820s, after the struggle for independence from Spain, Mexican mines needed foreign capital, which attracted the interest of the British mining engineer, John Taylor. He established in Real de Monte a British-run company and imported Cornish methods to work the mines. From 1824, around 350 Cornish miners moved here, but they left in 1848 when the mines were transferred to Mexican ownership.
One afternoon I drove the dozen-or-so kilometres from Pachuca up to Real de Monte. The town shelters between rugged mountain ridges and presents to the arrival a cascade of red roofs of corrugated iron. The graveyard stands towards the top of one of the ridges, overlooking the town, at the end of a steep lane. It was a clear and sunny day, but the air was chilly, no doubt on account of the altitude. Pachuca itself is at 8,000 feet: surely it was over 9,000 feet here.The wrought iron gates, dated 1862 and bearing the inscription "Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord", were chained and padlocked. An old lady appeared from the cottage next door and told me that I'd find the caretaker working in his field below. I spotted him, twenty yards away, a squat old man in drab, baggy clothes and a white sombrero, bending over between the harvested stalks of maize. I called out, but he continued with his work. I tried again, louder, but still he ignored me and so I walked down into the plot. Only when he noticed my movement a few yards away did he look up. He was obviously more-or-less deaf but, looking at me speaking, he could understand my Spanish, which was puzzling. Was he guessing - I could want only one thing - or lip-reading or did the aged hearing function of his brain switch on only when he knew that he was being spoken to?
He let me through the gates, then padlocked them behind me and returned to his cornfield. It occurred to me that I wouldn't be able to get his attention when I wanted to leave. Oh well, I would deal with that later - I was eager to start exploring.I resolved to inspect all of the graves. Almost every inch of the site spoke of the far-away home country. Beyond the high perimeter wall I could see maguey (agave) and nopal (prickly pear cactus) on the hillside, but inside was a foreign field that is forever England. The style of the gravestones was familiar and they were discoloured by lichen. Moss carpeted the graves and foxgloves grew in places, one even in flower. Agapanthus lined the foot of the wall. A breeze whispered through the tall pines. It was all beautifully tranquil - I couldn't imagine a more peaceful place for eternal rest.
By themselves, some surnames spoke of Cornwall: Trevethan and Trelease, Pengelly and Penprase. Certain names were repeated throughout the cemetery: Rabling, Rule, Richards, Jory, Devereux and Skewes. They came from Camborne, from Lanner, from Gwennap, Chacewood House, Bolenowe and Breace. But not all were Cornish, nor even from England. I noted provenances including Middleton in Teesdale, Whitchurch in Glamorgan, Glasgow, Wexford, Holland, Norway and Kansas. There were Stempels and Kuntzens. One stone read: Hier Ruht in Frieden Fern der Heimat (Here Rests in Peace Far from Home), Mein Geliebter Mann, Unser Guter Vater und Schwager, Ludwig Johannsen. He was doubly foreign - a German in an English graveyard in Mexico - but he was loved.There was evidence too of the assimilation of the miners into the community, for example, Gualterio Jamieson - Natural de Escocia - Fallegio a la Edad de 48 Años en Pachuca - El Dia 14 de Mayo de 1858. Gualterio is the hispanic form of Walter. Other stones remembered Carolo Federico Skewes Ramirez, Carmen Ramirez de Skewes and Señor Doctor Jesus Trevethan Cortazar.
The most poignant memorials were to those who died young, some of them at their perilous workplaces: In Loving Memory of William Henry, the beloved son of Richard and Susan Sobey, who was accidentally killed at Santa Gertrudis Mine, Pachuca, Mexico on Tuesday, March 18th, 1890, aged 16 years & 11 months. This wording intrigued me: why did it state the obvious, that Pachuca is in Mexico? Was it carved in Cornwall? Lying on the ground were two tiny stone coffins: one told that the child had succumbed at three months, the other contained Maria, hija de Juan y Catalina Buchan, nacio y murio Nov. 24 de 1850.As the sun lowered, I began to feel cold. I'd seen enough. Cemeteries bring down a melancholy wistfulness ... all those mundane hopes and plans, dashed. One day mine would be too. I made my way back to the locked entrance and, as I'd feared, there was no way of raising the caretaker from his agriculture. I clung on to the gate like a prisoner, looking out hopefully. Eventually he remembered me and I was released, shivering in the twilight. He was friendly enough and asked if I was searching for family. I signed the guest book and drove back to Pachuca and the warmth of my hotel, thoughtful, wondering whether it was desperation or the promise of riches (or are they the same thing?) that persuaded those Cornish families to uproot themselves to a strange land thousands of miles across the ocean.
I guessed that there would be some genealogists interested in the photographs I'd taken, so I made contact with a few through the Cornish Online Census Project at http://freepages.genealogy.rootsweb.com/~kayhin/ukocp.html. One of my photos shows the inscription on the gravestone of one William Rule, the brother of the great-grandfather of Mary Lou Gibson, who lives in Redding in northern California and who has the lovely maiden name, Buckthought. Mary Lou and I subsequently exchanged a few e-mails: I told her about my big trip and she related to me the history of her ancestors in Mexico. I'd noticed that several of the Rule graves were grander than most, in marble rather than stone, so I suggested that perhaps her family were better off than the average miner's. I'll let her tell the story ...
"The secret is out. My great-grandfather, Richard Rule, was an administrator for the mines in Real del Monte. His uncle was Francisco (Frank) Rule, the head of all heads. When his daughter married, it was reported that he lined the streets with silver. Actually, he lined them only from the street to the church."You mention Pachuca and you hear Rules. The Casa Grande or Great House, built by Rules in Real del Monte, served as a family home for the Commissioner and an administration building for the company. It is now being used as a school. Francisco Rule's private home is now the seat of the Hidalgo state government. When he celebrated his seventy-fifth birthday, he invited his relations from Cornwall and paid their travelling expenses. I think I was born to the wrong Rule.
"My great-grandfather was convinced of the moral degradation of many of his countrymen and gathered them at his house on Sundays, where they were joined by some Mexican Protestants under the leadership of a Medial (sic) practitioner. Richard Rule passed away in December 1871. He left a wife, Elizabeth, and five children. She returned to Gwinear with her children and lived with her parents Simon and Elizabeth Uren."
Mary Lou recommended The Search for Silver - Cornish Miners in Mexico 1824-1947, by A.C. Todd, in which the Rule clan features strongly. To me it sounds like interesting history. I even found the book at Amazon, but it was out of print and unavailable**.
The Cornish didn't all leave Real de Monte, of course, and their descendants live there today. The most recent grave I found was of Carlos Rubio Richards (rubio means blonde), who died on 3rd March 1998 (my thirty-seventh birthday), and in town I drove past the surgery of a Doctor Henry Skewes R (the R possibly stands for Ramirez). But they left behind more than their genes and their names, for the culinary speciality of the region is the paste, yes, the humble Cornish pastie. They are sold everywhere in Pachuca and they are recognisably related to their English cousin, albeit somewhat smaller - you need two or three to make a meal - and, not surprisingly, spiced with chili. I enjoyed several during my short stay.
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* All of the former British Honduras, now Belize, is claimed by Guatemala, while Venezuela regards nearly two-thirds of Guyana as Venezuelan, indeed the cartographers of Caracas invariably show the disputed territory as Zona En Reclamación (for example, see http://www.mre.gob.ve/metadot/index.pl?id=3136&isa=Category&op=show). I intend to deal with these matters later in my travels.
**For more info., see http://www.projects.ex.ac.uk/cornishlatin/. Dr. Sharron Schwartz informed me that the caretaker of the English cemetery at Real de Monte was latterly awarded the OBE by the British Ambassador in Mexico City, for tending the site for 50 years.
