Hare-brained History Vol. 91: Cinco de Mayo and the Second French Intervention

Unpacking a complicated and in multiple ways, tragic tale

Welcome to the 91st installment of Hare-brained History, a blog in which your intrepid host will treat you with absurdities, follies, mind-fucks, and everything in between from the world of history. Today, to celebrate the anniversary of the Battle of Puebla, Cinco de Mayo, which, if you don’t speak Spanish or live under a rock, is the Fifth of May, we are exploring the real story.

The reality, though, is that the Battle of Puebla is a small part of a much larger, and very harebrained, episode in a country with one of the most harebrained histories of any. Just so we’re clear: Mexicans should take pride in their country and heritage, and in the victory at Puebla, which, as we’ll see, was a triumph. What came next… well, join me as we take a trip to Mexico to explore the Second French Intervention.

Seen above is the five, maybe six, maybe more time President of Mexico, Antonio López de Santa Anna, for better or worse (it’s definitely worse), the most important figure in early Mexican history. Mexico, of course, takes its name from the Mexica, the Aztecs, slaveholding, human-sacrificing people who were conquered by another slaveholding, human-sacrificing people, the Spanish, in 1521. From there, Mexico became the crown jewel of the Spanish Empire, with gold flowing to Madrid, which the Spanish promptly squandered, while the indigenous Mexica were subjugated, and brutal conditions and killing decimated the population.

Over three centuries of Spanish rule, distinct sociocultural and racial groups emerged: the criollos (people of full Spanish ancestry born in the New World), the peninsulares (those born in Spain but living in Mexico), the mestizos (people of mixed Spanish and indigenous descent), and indigenous peoples. No points to you for figuring out how that hierarchy worked. The Mexican War of Independence is complex, but in short, criollos, backed by mestizo and indigenous groups, rose up to oust Spanish control, only to trade a Spanish king for a Mexican emperor. Unsurprisingly, elites retained power.

And such was early Mexican politics. The First Mexican Empire ended with the emperor’s execution by firing squad. The First Mexican Republic ended when the aforementioned general, Santa Anna, charismatic and unscrupulous, transformed Mexico into the Centralist Republic. During this time, the Battle of the Alamo occurred (remember that?), and Mexico lost Texas. It also saw the First French Intervention in Mexico (some of you reading the title may have thought, “the second?!”).

That was the so-called Pastry War, named for a Mexico-based French baker who, in 1832, complained that Mexican officers had looted his shop and appealed to the Kingdom of France. France sat on the complaint for six years (in 1837, a French citizen was executed for alleged piracy, but I guess “Pirate War” doesn’t have the same ring), and when Mexico failed to pay, the French sent a fleet. While French demands were eventually met, the then-disgraced Santa Anna, fresh off capture by Texians, defended the country, lost a leg to a cannonball, and used the moment to claw his way back to power.

Then, asshole American President James K. Polk, after failed attempts to purchase California and disputed Texan territory, sent troops into the region, sparking the Mexican-American War. The result was devastating for Mexico and led to massive territorial expansion for the United States.

In 1855, after decades of conservative rule by elites and an interrupted 20-year dominance by one man, liberal Mexicans (white, mestizo, and indigenous) rose up and succeeded in removing Santa Anna. This ushered in La Reforma: a sweeping effort to liberalize and modernize Mexico through a new constitution that challenged the traditional power of the Catholic Church and the army. These reforms aimed at separation of church and state, equality before the law, and economic development. The liberal movement was a broad and sometimes contradictory coalition. Some white reformers sought to limit indigenous autonomy, while conservative elites resisted reform altogether. The result was civil war, beginning at the end of 1857.

In early 1858, the sitting president resigned. Under the constitution, the President of the Supreme Court, Benito Juárez, assumed the presidency. Born in 1806, Juárez was Zapotec and indigenous, rising from orphaned poverty to become a lawyer, judge, governor of Oaxaca, and a central figure in the overthrow of Santa Anna and the reform movement, pushing for equal rights for indigenous peoples. Not all white Mexicans took kindly to an indigenous president, however, and the Reform War, one of many of Mexico’s civil wars, unfolded in the usual complex fashion, with shifting alliances and competing factions.

Juárez’s liberals negotiated a treaty with the United States. While the U.S. Senate refused to ratify it, the U.S. Navy intervened anyway, helping defend Juárez’s government in Veracruz. Meanwhile, conservatives found backing among European monarchies, and there, plans were beginning to take shape.

Seen above is María Eugenia Ignacia Agustina de Palafox y Kirkpatrick, and with a name like that, you can probably guess she was Spanish. Born to a Spanish nobleman who lost an eye fighting for the Bonapartes on May 5th (!) 1826, Eugénie, as she would be known, was raised and educated in France after being forced to flee during a civil war between monarchists and liberals. This helped shape her lifelong belief in authoritarian, monarchical rule.

At a Parisian finishing school, she was described by a teacher at age eleven as “good, generous, active, and firm” (gross), before returning to Spain once conditions stabilized. There, she grew into a headstrong and daring young woman, devoted to horseback riding and other athletic pursuits.

She and her family were devoted Bonapartists, supporting attempts to restore the family to power in France through Louis Napoléon, Napoleon Bonaparte’s nephew. The somewhat bumbling Louis Napoléon had two almost laughable failed coups to his name, yet remained broadly popular across Europe. While the specifics are somewhat unclear, Eugénie, her mother, and their circle began plotting.

They sent Eugénie to Paris, where she met one of his many mistresses, Éléonore Gordon, and was coached on how to win his heart. After the final fall of the French monarchy, Louis Napoléon, buoyed by his famous name, won the presidency of the Second French Republic in 1848. He met Eugénie, and while he is often labeled a womanizer, that’s not entirely accurate. As he himself said, “It is usually the man who attacks. As for me, I defend myself, and I often capitulate.” The 41-year-old “Prince-President” quickly became smitten with the 22-year-old Eugénie, asking her, “What is the road to your heart?” (He didn’t really mean heart). To which the carefully coached Eugénie replied, “Through the chapel, Sire.”

Their courtship was long, and after Louis Napoléon dismantled the republic and declared himself emperor as Napoleon III, he announced their engagement, and they married in a grand ceremony at Notre-Dame Cathedral. Empress Eugénie held enormous influence over her husband. Even after she stopped sleeping with him after giving him an heir, calling sex with him “disgusting,” she remained politically powerful.

Eugénie used her position to champion authoritarian and clerical policies, and Mexican conservatives, particularly monarchist exiles, found a sympathetic ear in her. They pressed Napoleon III to intervene in Mexico and restore the monarchy, citing decades of instability. Napoleon was initially hesitant, understanding that the United States would not welcome European intervention in the Americas (see the Monroe Doctrine). But he also had grand ambitions: he was remaking Paris at great expense, lived in the shadow of his uncle, and sought imperial glory.

Two key developments shifted the situation. First, Mexican liberals triumphed in the Reform War, with conservatives surrendering on December 22, 1860. Benito Juárez returned to Mexico City on January 11, 1861, and won the presidency in March. Facing a devastated country, Juárez suspended payments to foreign creditors, mainly France, Spain, and the United Kingdom, for one year.

Second, the American Civil War broke out, fully occupying U.S. attention. Using Mexico’s debt suspension as a pretext, France, Britain, and Spain agreed to a joint intervention to secure repayment. Privately, however, Napoleon III intended to establish a French client state in Mexico, for wealth, as a buffer against the United States, and for prestige.

Spanish General Juan Prim was sent with Spanish, French, and British forces to occupy Veracruz. Prim, though, a liberal and married to a Mexican woman connected to Juárez’s government, favored negotiation over conquest. After peacefully occupying the city in early 1862, he pushed for talks. Juárez sent Foreign Minister Manuel Doblado to negotiate recognition and resolve disputes.

At a conference in Orizaba, Britain and Spain agreed to withdraw after securing favorable debt-repayment terms and 80% of Veracruz’s customs revenues. This infuriated the French, who refused to withdraw. Doblado warned it would lead to war; the French were happy to hear that.

Conservative General Juan Almonte, a veteran of the Alamo and an exile after the liberal victory, returned with the French and promoted their cause. France issued proclamations inviting Mexicans to support a new government. As French troops landed, Mexico faced a stark choice: support Juárez’s liberal government, which had yet to materially improve conditions, or align with conservative elites and a foreign-backed monarchy.

A force of about 6,500 French troops marched inland toward Mexico City. Opposing them were smaller Mexican forces led by 33-year-old General Ignacio Zaragoza and 31-year-old General Porfirio Díaz, a former law student of Benito Juárez who had taken him under his wing. Near Puebla de los Ángeles on May 5, 1862, the outnumbered Mexican army repeatedly repelled French assaults on the forts of Loreto and Guadalupe overlooking the city. By evening, after suffering heavy losses, the French withdrew to Orizaba to await reinforcements.

It was an inspiring and unexpected victory, shocking observers who had anticipated a swift French triumph. Juárez’s government was buoyed with hope, Zaragoza was honored by Congress, and Puebla was renamed Puebla de Zaragoza. On May 9, Juárez declared the anniversary a national holiday to commemorate the Battle of Puebla, Cinco de Mayo.

In reality, there were very few monarchists in Mexico, and conservatives were not entirely convinced by the French, understanding that France was acting in its own interests. Still, they concluded that their goals would be better served through the French than through the liberal government of Benito Juárez, and so they threw their support behind the intervention.

In response to the events of Cinco de Mayo, Napoleon III mobilized 30,000 troops under the command of 59-year-old General Élie Frédéric Forey, a decorated officer. The Emperor instructed Forey to work with Mexican conservatives to advance their aims, while ensuring that any new government remained friendly to France.

Forey arrived in October, as conservative forces had already inflicted smaller defeats on Juárez’s troops around Orizaba during the spring and summer. General Ignacio Zaragoza had died in September, and command in Puebla passed to the 40-year-old general and governor of Zacatecas, Jesús González Ortega. The Mexican force at Puebla was reinforced to around 22,000 men.

Forey began planning a siege of the city, while that winter a French fleet bombarded the Pacific port of Acapulco in January, the first of several engagements that would ultimately reduce the city’s population by more than half. On February 3, 1863, Forey advanced with his army, formally laying siege to Puebla on March 16.

On May 8, 52-year-old General François Achille Bazaine (excellent name), alongside French troops and Mexican conservatives, repelled an attempt to reinforce the city. With supplies dwindling, Ortega agreed to surrender, destroying his armaments beforehand. Both he and Porfirio Díaz managed to escape before Puebla fell to the French.

Upon hearing of the city’s fall, Juárez and his government fled 256 miles north to San Luis Potosí to continue resistance, with Congress granting Juárez emergency powers. With no force left to oppose them, French troops and their Mexican allies marched into Mexico City on June 10, 1863.

Forey then selected 35 Mexican conservatives to form the Junta Superior de Gobierno, which in turn established a triumvirate executive that chose 215 additional conservative citizens to determine the nation’s future. Very convoluted. On July 11, they opted for a constitutional monarchy, renaming themselves the Regency of the Mexican Empire, and began implementing conservative reforms, to which Forey and Bazaine effectively told them to “slow your roll.”

The new monarchy was soon recognized by most European powers, the Ottoman Empire, and even both the feuding Papal States and the Kingdom of Italy. In the Americas, only Guatemala and the Empire of Brazil recognized it, while most others, including the United States, refused and continued to back Juárez’s government.

The man chosen to rule this new Mexican Empire, invited by the Regency at the urging of the French, was an interesting and ultimately tragic choice.

Ferdinand Maximilian Josef Maria von Habsburg-Lothringen, entered the world on July 6, 1832, at Schönbrunn Palace. He was the second son of Archduke Franz Karl of the House of Habsburg-Lorraine, the ruling dynasty of Austria and Europe’s most famously inbred royal family. Maximilian grew up wealthy and intensely educated, constantly trying to outshine his older brother, Franz Joseph, determined to prove he was more than just a second son.

In the rigid and stuffy Habsburg court, Maximilian stood out as joyful, charismatic, and charming, prone to pranks played on his uncle, the emperor, his tutors, and his brother, who was moody, aloof, and reserved. In 1848, their uncle abdicated, and the 18-year-old Franz Joseph ascended the throne, one he would hold for 67 years. At sixteen, Maximilian accompanied his brother on campaigns to suppress revolutions across the empire, and he was deeply disturbed by what he saw as senseless repression. He complained openly: “Men will look back in horror…at the injustice of tribunals…condemning to death those whose only crime was wanting something different.”

With little prospect of ruling, Maximilian joined the Imperial Austrian Navy. During his service, he fell in love with Maria Amélia, the daughter of Pedro I of Brazil. They planned to marry, but she fell ill with tuberculosis and died. Despite the nepotism, Maximilian proved a capable naval officer, and his travels sparked a fascination with the New World. He once wrote to his uncle, the King of Belgium, that it felt like destiny to set foot on a continent so important to humanity’s future.

In late 1855, during a storm, he took refuge in the Gulf of Trieste and fell in love with the area. Soon after, in March 1856, he began building Miramare Castle. That same year, during the Treaty of Paris (1856) ending the Crimean War, he traveled to Paris. There he met Napoleon III, Eugénie de Montijo, and her circle of Mexican exiles. What was discussed is unclear, but nothing came of it.

His brother ordered him to return to Vienna, but I guess Maximilian took the long way, because he stopped in Brussels. There, he fell in love with his cousin, you know how royals do, Charlotte of Belgium. She rejected other suitors, including the King of Portugal, much to the displeasure of her family, choosing the charming Austrian second son instead.

After their marriage, Franz Joseph appointed Maximilian Viceroy of the Kingdom of Lombardy-Venetia. Maximilian implemented liberal reforms: restructuring tax revenues, establishing medical services, cleaning Venice’s canals, draining swamps to combat malaria, and overseeing urban development. Foreign observers were impressed, the British minister of foreign relations writing, “the administration of the provinces of Lombardy-Venetia were directed by the Archduke Maximilian with great talent, and both a liberal and conciliatory spirit.”

Yet this occurred amid rising Italian nationalism, and unrest persisted. Franz Joseph, believing his brother too lenient, removed him in 1859 in favor of a more hardline administrator. This decision frustrated Maximilian and delighted Italian nationalists. Camillo Benso, Count of Cavour, prime minister of Sardinia and soon to be Prime Minister of an independent Italy, remarked that Maximilian had been Austria’s most dangerous opponent precisely because of his effective and conciliatory governance.

Around this time, Mexican monarchist exiles began considering Maximilian as a candidate for the Mexican throne. The choice made sense to them: the Habsburgs had once ruled Spain and thus Mexico, and Maximilian, unlikely to inherit Austria’s crown, was available. He initially declined; in 1859, Mexico was in the midst of civil war, and a return to monarchy had little visible support.

But after everything discussed before, he was approached again. This time, Maximilian agreed, on two conditions: that the Mexican people genuinely wanted him, and that he receive backing from France and Britain. In response, the conservative Regency, rolling their eyes, staged a plebiscite that conveniently returned unanimous support, 100% in favor, not a single vote against.

Whether willfully ignoring the farce or genuinely convinced, Maximilian accepted the crown at Miramare Castle on April 10, 1864. He was forced by his brother to renounce his Austrian titles. Alongside his wife, now Empress Carlota, he departed aboard the SMS Novara, escorted by Austrian and French warships. They received a blessing from the pope and even a ceremonial salute ordered by Queen Victoria as they passed Gibraltar.

On the journey, they passed ships returning wounded French troops. By 1864, France controlled much of Mexico, but resistance from Benito Juárez and liberal forces remained fierce. One French officer, François Claude du Barail, wrote in his journal upon seeing the Novara: “If you succeed in bringing order out of this chaos…you will be the greatest sovereign of modern times. Go, poor fool.” On May 29, 1864, Maximilian and Carlota arrived at Veracruz.

While the welcome at Veracruz was muted, largely due to a yellow fever outbreak, the Imperial couple’s entrance into Mexico City was grand: fireworks, triumphal arches raised for the occasion, and Mexican and French troops cheering them on. They were crowned at the Mexico City Metropolitan Cathedral.

For all its spectacle, Maximilian soon found the reality far more difficult than the farcical plebiscite suggesting universal support had implied. While conservatives, the Catholic Church, some indigenous communities, and those in French-held territories backed him, some more hesitantly than others, just as many Mexicans supported the forces of President Benito Juárez, who showed no signs of defeat. Though the French and Imperial government controlled most major cities and roughly two-thirds of the population, the republicans held the northern frontier states, including key ports. Throughout Mexico, republican guerillas fought against the foreign troops and their foreign emperor.

The young general Porfirio Díaz proved an effective commander, and throughout 1864 the two sides traded largely indecisive victories. Maximilian, meanwhile, brought liberal sensibilities and a desire to rule as a benevolent constitutional monarch into a situation he scarcely understood. He offered amnesty to the republicans and even proposed that Juárez serve as prime minister; Juárez, firmly opposed to a foreign-backed regime, refused.

Conservatives and church leaders urged Maximilian to roll back liberal reforms, restore Church lands and privileges, rescind religious tolerance, and make Catholicism the sole state religion. Maximilian refused. Even the pope warned that continued support from the Church depended on reversing what he saw as an “ungodly” course. Instead, Maximilian pursued reforms, winning over some liberals but alienating key supporters of his throne.

During his reign, Maximilian issued sweeping reforms, though most of which were never fully implemented. He guaranteed equality before the law, freedom of speech, and protection for laborers, especially indigenous communities. He attempted to establish a living wage for indigenous workers, outlaw corporal punishment, and limit inherited debts. He also planned a national system of free schools and founded an academy of sciences and literature.

Maximilian published laws not only in Spanish but also in Nahuatl and appointed indigenous advisors to better understand and support their communities. He established an immigration agency to attract settlers from Europe, Asia, and the collapsing Confederate States of America (don’t like that), offering citizenship and tax exemptions. A few within his government later argued these reforms were designed to bolster his image in Europe, but by most accounts, Maximilian and his wife genuinely attempted to rule benevolently, adopting Mexican dress and holding regular audiences with people across social and racial lines.

Still, whatever his intentions, the reality remained: he had been invited by a segment of elites, backed by a foreign army, and had displaced the legitimate president of Mexico without universal support. Sympathetic or not, that fact defined his rule.

That being said, the turning point came when Juárez’s forces began receiving support from the United States. After the American Civil War ended in April 1865, U.S. attention shifted southward. In October, Congress approved a $30 million loan to support Juárez’s government. Though terrible racist President Andrew Johnson refused calls to directly intervene militarily, the U.S. applied heavy diplomatic pressure on France while American volunteers poured into Mexico to aid the republicans.

Juárez, increasingly confident, warned the imperial government: the United States would never allow Maximilian to consolidate power; all his efforts would come to nothing; and he should leave while he still could. French forces shifted north, but this only intensified guerrilla warfare in the south. As violence escalated, Maximilian made a fateful decision: he authorized the execution of anyone captured bearing arms against the empire. “Every individual of whatever rank, taken with arms in his hands, shall be put to death.”

Though nearly identical to republican measures earlier in the war, this decree, soon branded the “Black Decree,” was widely condemned and is estimated to have led to the eventual deaths of around 11,000 Mexicans, further undermining his rule.

In January 1866, U.S. troops skirmished alongside Mexican republicans near Bagdad, an incident that violated neutrality and led to disciplinary action for those troops from the American Government, but it underscored the unraveling situation. That same month, under intense pressure from U.S. Secretary of State William H. Seward, Napoleon III agreed to begin withdrawing French forces. Though phased at first, mounting pressure accelerated the withdrawal, and by the end of 1866, Mexico City was exposed.

In desperation, Empress Carlota traveled to Europe seeking support, but was repeatedly turned away, growing increasingly depressed and unraveling at each stop. Maximilian briefly considered abdication, but his cabinet opposed it. Instead, he proposed convening a national assembly to determine Mexico’s future government. When it became clear this would not materialize, Maximilian and his remaining loyal forces, around 10,000 men, retreated to Querétaro, roughly 130 miles northwest of Mexico City.

On March 5, republican forces, numbering around 40,000, began the siege. The city held out for two months, but by May, with more reinforcements arriving, Maximilian and his generals planned a breakout. Instead, betrayal intervened: Imperial Colonel Miguel López secretly agreed to open the gates of Querétaro in exchange for gold. On May 15, 1867, republican forces flooded into the city. Maximilian attempted to evade capture, moving between safe houses under the protection of loyal European hussars, but he was discovered and captured the following day, along with his remaining generals. Entrance of Republican Troops into Querétaro on May 15th, 1867.

Maximilian was put on trial, charged with conspiring to overthrow the Mexican government (which, to be fair, he did), and with issuing the Black Decree, which led to the deaths of thousands. His conservative lawyers defended the Empire’s legitimacy and pointed to Maximilian’s attempts at benevolent rule, but after just a single day in court, a guilty verdict was returned.

Telegrams and letters poured in from Europe, heads of state (notably not his asshole brother), as well as prominent liberals like French writer Victor Hugo and Italian hero of unification Giuseppe Garibaldi, urging President Benito Juárez to grant clemency. Juárez, who privately respected Maximilian and bore him little personal ill will, refused. He believed sparing him would send the wrong message; Mexico would not tolerate further foreign intervention.

Meanwhile, the former empress, now just Charlotte of Belgium, and the head of Maximilian’s guard devised a plan to bribe the jailers and smuggle him to safety. Maximilian refused unless his generals, tried and condemned alongside him, were also spared. And so, on the morning of June 19, 1867, at the Cerro de las Campanas, Maximilian and his generals were led before a firing squad. Speaking in Spanish, he gave each executioner a gold coin in the old European aristocratic tradition. His final words were: “I forgive everyone, and I ask everyone to forgive me. May my blood, which is about to be spilled, end the bloodshed which has been experienced in my new motherland. Long live Mexico! Long live its independence!”

At 6:40 a.m., the three men were shot and killed. Maximilian’s embalmed body was displayed in Mexico City for months before being returned to Austria in January 1868. Charlotte, meanwhile, descended into severe mental illness, whatever its precise cause, and lived the remaining 48 years of her life in isolation.

The French painter Édouard Manet depicted Maximilian’s execution in a series of works. In his final version, the Mexican soldiers wear uniforms nearly identical to those of French troops, and the figure delivering the coup de grâce bears a striking resemblance to Napoleon III, a clear suggestion that the emperor himself bore responsibility. Unsurprisingly, the painting was banned from public display in Paris.

I could show you any number of those romanticized depictions of the execution, but the stark, macabre image of his embalmed body on display feels far more real.

This defeat consolidated the republican movement to such an extent that the Mexican conservative cause, discredited by its alliance with the French, effectively collapsed. But Mexican political history is, at its core, a story of elites consolidating power at the expense of the many.

In the aftermath, those same elites, liberals and former conservatives alike, moved to entrench their control, often against the wishes of Benito Juárez. After winning reelection in 1867 against his former protégé and loyal general Porfirio Díaz, Juárez again ran in 1871, despite having already held power for twelve years. This raised fears that he was becoming autocratic. Though he won the most votes, he failed to secure the constitutional majority required, sending the decision to Congress, which on October 12, 1871, ruled in his favor.

Díaz and supporters cried fraud, took up arms, and soon the country was again engulfed in violence, with factions fighting each other and exploiting the chaos. Juárez died of a heart attack in 1872 at the age of 66, ending the immediate crisis. Díaz’s revolt collapsed, and he lost the subsequent election, but only temporarily. Four years later, he launched another rebellion, this time successfully, and went on to rule Mexico for 35 years. His regime brought stability and economic growth, but it was also repressive, nepotistic, and disproportionately benefited Díaz and his inner circle.

For his role in defeating the French and steering Mexico toward liberalism, sandwiched between two long periods of military strongman rule, Juárez is widely regarded as a national hero and a symbol of Mexican nationalism. Maximilian I of Mexico, by contrast, is not typically viewed as a villain, either in Mexico or by historians. Instead, he is remembered as a tragic figure: a liberal, like Juárez, who sought something better for the Mexican people, though hopelessly out of his depth and ultimately imposed by foreign power, something that can be said of very few leaders in Mexican history.

There are no grand statues of the last Emperor of Mexico. Still, there is a quiet memorial: the Emperor Maximilian Memorial Chapel, built on the Cerro de las Campanas, where he was executed. As for the Emperor who put him there, well, his own fall was not far away.

The holiday Juárez declared to commemorate the Battle of Puebla, when a smaller Mexican force defeated a larger, better-equipped French army, was first celebrated not in Mexico, but by expatriate miners in California. While still observed in Puebla, it is far more widely celebrated in the United States, particularly among Mexican Americans, who have every reason to take pride in their cultural heritage. It has also, undeniably, been commercialized and appropriated, popularized in part by late 20th-century advertising campaigns for beer, wine, and tequila, to the point that Cinco de Mayo now rivals the Super Bowl in beer sales.

In Mexico, the day is remembered as a victory against foreign intervention. In the United States, it is often flattened into a vague “Mexican day.” Both, in different ways, miss the larger story.

The Battle of Puebla is only a small part of a much larger and more complicated story, another chapter in Mexican history where elite ambition, foreign intervention, and deep internal divisions converged to produce war and upheaval, culminating in the tragic rise and fall of two well-meaning but profoundly out-of-place rulers; paid for, as ever, by the Mexican people.

Note: Thank you for making it to the end! What began as a farcical blog for a depressed, history-loving nerd to mess around with, an escape from the hole I’d dug, has grown into something more. As I’ve said before, this was always meant to be entertaining rather than academic. My goal is to make history both educational and entertaining, the kind of history that first captured my imagination as a kid. Thank you for reading and for coming along on this journey. If you’ve made it this far, just know, I love you.