colonel; “but if somebody thinks his little affair important, of course
it is--to him. And that is the point, isn’t it? He feels better when he
has had it out; and if it makes the people any happier in their exile to
have this court of appeal, that is not a thing to be despised. Besides,
first and last. I come to understand many things that are really
important from any point of view.”
“He is the squarest boss I ever worked for,” declared one of the
locomotive engineers, “and I’ll tell you the grafters don’t have any
show with him. He had a whole cargo of meat sent back the other day
because it wasn’t above suspicion. I happen to know, too, that he turned
back a load of screening on a prominent business house who thought that
they could save a bit on the copper--that for a government order it
would never be noticed if it was not quite rust-proof.”
The canal was finished not only in less time than had ever been thought
possible, but also with such honest and efficient administration of
every detail that nowadays, when the statement is sometimes made that no
great public enterprise can be carried through without more or less
mismanagement and jobbing, the champion of Uncle Sam’s business methods
retorts, “Look at Panama!”
The colonel’s quiet mastery in moments of stress was perhaps the most
interesting phase of his human engineering. The representatives of a
labor union threaten a strike unless he orders the release of one of
their number who has been convicted of manslaughter. “When will we get
our answer?” asked the spokesman.
“You have it now,” replied Colonel Goethals. “You said that if the man
was not out of the penitentiary by seven this evening you would all
quit. By calling up the penitentiary you will learn that he is still
there. That is your answer. It is now ten minutes past seven.”
“But, Colonel, you don’t want to tie up the whole work?” protested the
leader.
“I am not proposing to tie up the work--you are doing that,” was the
reply.
“But, Colonel, why can’t you pardon the man?”
“I will take no action in response to a mob. As for your threat to leave
the service, I wish to say that every man of you who is not at his post
to-morrow morning will be given his transportation to the United States,
and there will be no string to it. He will go out on the first steamer
and he will never come back.”
There was only one man who failed to report the following day, and he
sent a doctor’s certificate stating that he was too ill to be out of
bed.
Human engineering was especially called into play when the Man of Panama
faced committees of inquiry and investigation from Congress. A pompous
politician once demanded in a challenging tone and with a sharp eye on
the colonel, “How much cracked stone do you allow for a cubic yard of
concrete?”
“One cubic yard,” was the reply.
“You evidently do not understand my question,” rejoined the investigator
in the manner of one who is bent on convicting another through his own
words. “How much cracked stone do you allow for a cubic yard of
concrete?”
“One cubic yard.”
“But you don’t allow for the sand and concrete.” The implied accusation
was spoken with grave emphasis.
“Those go into the spaces among the cracked stone,” was the unruffled
reply. The smile that went around the room was felt rather than heard,
but the pompous politician had no further questions.
This master of men, who was never known to yield his ground when he had
once taken a stand, was always a man of few words. He preferred to let
acts and facts do the talking.
“You know, Colonel Goethals,” said a prominent statesman on one
occasion, “a great many people think we are never going to carry this
job through to the finish. What would you say when diplomats of the
leading powers come at you with questions and declare it will never be
done?”
“I wouldn’t say anything,” was the reply.
On another occasion the boss of the job said: “Some day in September,
1913, I expect to go to Colon and take the Panama Railroad steamer and
put her through the canal. If we get all the way across, I’ll give it
out to the newspapers--if we don’t, I’ll keep quiet about it.”
It was said of old that if one had faith enough he could move mountains.
We cannot doubt that the Man of Panama carried through his great work
because he had faith--not a passive faith that hoped and waited, but an
active _faithfulness_ that worked in full confidence that destiny worked
with him. And this faith and loyalty was a living power that enkindled
like faithfulness in those who worked with him.
The Man of Panama is General Goethals now, but when any admirer would
imply that his generalship--his administration and human
engineering--was the chief factor in the success of the great work, he
invariably replies that he was but one man of many working shoulder to
shoulder in a common cause. The simple greatness of the
“prophet-engineer” and leader of men was shown in the words with which
he accepted the medal of the National Geographic Society:
“The canal has been the work of many, and it has been the pride of
Americans who have visited the isthmus to find the spirit which has
[Illustration: _Photo by Brown Bros._
The “Man of Panama” at Panama]
animated the forces. Every man was doing the particular part of the work
that was necessary to make it a success. No chief of any enterprise ever
commanded an army that was so loyal, so faithful, that gave its strength
and its blood to the successful completion of its task as did the canal
forces. And so in accepting the medal and thanking those who confer it,
I accept it and thank them in the name of every member of the canal
army.”
Since the completion of the canal, its master-builder has been called to
serve his country in more than one great crisis. At the time of the
threatened railroad strike in the fall of 1916, he was made chairman of
the commission of three appointed by President Wilson to investigate the
working of the eight-hour law for train operators, which was the subject
of dispute between the managers of the roads and the men who ran the
freight-trains. In March, 1917, he was selected by Governor Edge of New
Jersey to serve as advisory engineer on the construction of the new
fifteen-million-dollar highway system of that State.
A SHEPHERD OF “THE GREAT COUNTRY”: BISHOP ROWE
“Love is a bodily shape; and Christian works are no more than
animate faith and love, as flowers are the animate springtide.”
LONGFELLOW.
Have you heard the story of Offero, the mighty giant of Canaan, who made
a vow never to serve any master but the most powerful of all the rulers
of earth?
“As my strength is great, so shall my service be great,” he said, “and
my king must be one who stands in fear of no man.”
He wandered over all lands, looking in vain for the greatest monarch,
for each king plainly stood in dread of some other power. At length,
however, he was told by a holy hermit that the King of kings was an
invisible Lord who reigned through love in the hearts of men.
“How can I serve him?” asked Offero.
“You must fast and pray,” answered the hermit.
“Nay,” cried Offero, “not so! For I should then lose my strength which
is all that I have to bring to his service.”
For a moment the holy hermit prayed silently to be given wisdom. Then
his face shone as if from a light within.
“There is a river over which many poor people must cross,” he said, “and
there is no bridge. The current is often so swift and treacherous at the
ford that even the strongest are swept from their feet and lost. With
your great strength you could help one and all to safety. It would be a
work of love--meet service for the Lord of Love.”
And so Offero, the giant, built him a little hut by the side of the
stream and dwelt there all his days, lending his strength to all who
needed it in the name of the unseen King whom he served. It is said that
one night in a wild storm a little child came praying to be carried
across. Now, for the first time, Offero knew what weakness and faltering
meant. He staggered and all but fell in the foaming current.
“Oh, little child,” he cried out as he stumbled, panting and spent, to
the farther bank, “never before have I borne such a weight! I felt as if
I were carrying the whole world on my shoulders!”
“And well you might, strong one,” said the child, “for you have this
night carried the Master whom you serve. Henceforth your name shall be
not Offero but Christopher, which means one who has carried Christ.”
And the good giant was called Saint Christopher from that day. You have
perhaps seen pictures of him, for more than one great artist has tried
to paint the story of his faithful service of love.
We are going to hear to-day the story of a strong man of our own time,
who, like Offero of old, vowed to serve with his strength the greatest
Master of all--the King of kings. The tale of his life began November
20, 1856, when Peter Trimble Rowe was born in Toronto, Canada. He was a
tall, sturdy lad, who early learned to laugh at cold weather and
strenuous days in the open. The more wintry it was without, the more
glowing the warmth within his hardy, alert body. If you had met him as
he returned from a holiday afternoon spent on snow-shoes, your pulses
would have throbbed in sympathy with his happy, tingling vigor. You
would have felt as if you had “warmed both hands before the fire of
life.”
He had bright Irish eyes, a ready Irish laugh, and the merry heart that
belongs with them. His heart was, moreover, as warm as it was glad. He
laughed with people, not at them; and he had a quick understanding of
their troubles and difficulties as well as of the fun that lay near the
surface of things. This means that his heart caught the beat of other
hearts, and that he early learned the lessons that love alone can teach.
It was while he was still a student that he decided what his life work
must be. “Man cannot live by bread alone”--these words had a very vital
meaning for him. There were many in the world, he knew, who spent all
their days struggling for bread, as if that alone could satisfy their
longing for life. Very simply he said to himself: “I must use my
strength to help where help is most needed. I must go to the far-off,
frontier places where people live and die without light and without
hope.”
As soon as he had graduated from Trinity College, Toronto, and was
ordained a minister of the church, he went as missionary to an Indian
tribe on the northern shore of Lake Huron. In caring for this wild,
neglected flock the young shepherd needed all his splendid, vigorous
health and hardihood. He went around in summer drought and winter storm,
often sleeping by a camp-fire or in an Indian wigwam, in order that he
might bring the light of a new hope into the dark lives of these first
Americans.
“The Indians have learned little good from the white men or from
civilization,” he said ruefully. “They have acquired some of our
weaknesses and diseases--that is about all.”
He longed to bring to them in exchange for the old free life in their
vast forests and broad prairie country, a new freedom of the spirit that
should enable them to understand and use the good things in the white
man’s world. Do you think that he tried to do this through preaching? He
really did not preach at all. He lived with the people and talked to
them as a friend who was ready to share what he had with others on the
same trail.
Do you remember Emerson’s much-quoted challenge?--“My dear sir, what you
are speaks so loud that I cannot hear what you are saying.” What a
person is will always be heard above what he says. In the case of Mr.
Rowe, the strong, self-reliant, sympathetic, kindly spirit of the man
ever talked with a direct appeal to his people. He tramped and hunted,
canoed and fished with them, and shared with them the fortunes of the
day around the evening camp-fire. No one had a cheerier word or a
heartier laugh. They were ready to hear all that he had to tell them of
the things that make life happier and better, and of the Master he
served, who loved his red children no less than the white.
When the work was well under way on the Indian reservation, the young
man accepted the call to a new field at Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan. Here
he had again the challenge and inspiration of pioneer work. There were
six members of his church when he took charge; when, ten years later, he
left his flock to another pastor it numbered two hundred and fifty. He
had, moreover, pushed out into the surrounding country and established
missions at several different points. He was sure that his strength and
endurance, his power to conquer cold, fatigue, and other unfriendly
conditions, should be used in the greatest cause of all--in going “to
seek and save those that are lost” in the wild places of the earth.
“I love battling with wind and weather and pulling against the stream,”
he used to say. “I was born tough, and it’s only common sense to put
such natural toughness to some real use.”
So it was that, like Saint Christopher, he was resolved to serve his
King with his strength.
In 1895, when a bishop was wanted to take charge of the great unexplored
field of all Alaska--scattered white men who had gone there for fish,
furs, or gold; Indian tribes in the vast, trackless interior; and
Eskimos in the far North within the Arctic Circle--people said without
hesitation, “Mr. Rowe is the man to go as shepherd to that country.”
A bishop, you know, is an “overseer,” one who is responsible for the
welfare of the people of a certain district or diocese, as it is called.
He is a sort of first shepherd, who has general charge of all the flocks
(churches and missions), and who tries to provide for those that are
without care. The man to undertake this work in Alaska would have to be
one of the hardy, patient explorer-missionaries, like Father Marquette,
who in 1673 traveled in a birch canoe through the Great Lakes and along
the Mississippi, ministering to the Indians and making a trail through
the New World wilderness.
Alaska is an Indian word which means “the Great Country.” It is, indeed,
not one but many lands. Most people think of it as a wild, snow-covered
waste, whose arctic climate has been braved by white men only for the
sake of its salmon, seals, and later for the gold that was found hidden
away in its frost-locked soil. The country along the Pacific coast is
warmed by the Japan current just as the British Isles are by the Gulf
Stream, and its climate is milder in winter and cooler in summer than
that of New England. It is a land of wonderful, inspiring beauty, with
lordly, snow-crowned mountain peaks; forests of enchanting greenness
bordering clear, deep fiords; and fields bright with poppies, bluebells,
wild roses, and other flowers of the most vivid coloring. The interior,
through which flows the Yukon, that great highway of Alaska, is much
colder, but it is only the northern portion reaching into the Polar Sea
that has the frigid conditions that many people associate with “the
Great Country.”
When in early April, Bishop Rowe took the steamer from Seattle to
Juneau, Alaska, he found that two hundred of his fellow passengers were
bound for the newly discovered gold fields. Many of them were fine,
rugged fellows who loved strenuous endeavor better than easy, uneventful
days. Some few of them were “rolling stones” of the sort that would make
trouble anywhere.
“When I looked forward to what might be done for the lonely settlers and
forlorn natives in Alaska,” said Bishop Rowe, “I did not at first
realize that an important part of the work would be with the great army
of gold-seekers who suddenly find themselves in the midst of hardships,
disappointments, and temptations that they have never known before.”
Of course the men on board were anxious to learn everything they could
about the “Great Country.” Each person who had been to Alaska before
was surrounded by a group of eager questioners.
“It is the richest country on God’s earth,” declared a merchant. “There
are no such hauls of salmon and halibut anywhere else. Why, the
fisheries alone are worth more in one year than the paltry sum of
$7,200,000 that we paid Russia for Alaska. And think how the people in
America made fun of Seward for urging the purchase. Said it was fit for
nothing but a polar bear picnic grounds.”
“Wasn’t it hinted that the United States was paying Russia in that way
for her friendship during the Civil War--by offering to take a frozen
white elephant off her hands and giving her a few million dollars into
the bargain?” asked another.
“Yes,” rejoined a man who was evidently a hunter, “and we’re just
beginning to wake up to the bargain we have. I’ve been there before for
the sport--bear, moose, caribou. You never knew such a happy hunting
ground for the chap who goes in for big game. But now I’m for the gold
fields. And, believe me, I’ve the start of you other fellows in knowing
what I’m up against. There are no Pullman sleepers where we are going,
let me tell you. We’ll have to make our own trails over snow-covered
mountains, across glaciers, and through cañons, but the prize is there,
boys, for those who have the grit to win out.”
“You talk about knowing Alaska,” put in another, scornfully, “and you
see there nothing but fish, big game, and the chance to find some of the
yellow dust that drives men mad. It’s a fairer land than you have ever
even dreamed of, with greener pines and nobler fiords than Norway can
show, and mountains more sublime than the Alps. Do you know it’s a
country that will feed a people and give them homes where the air is
fresh and fragrant with snow, sunshine, and flowers? You hunters and
fishers and prospectors who go to Alaska just to make money and then run
away to spend it, make me tired. You look upon that magnificent
country--white man’s country, if there ever was such--as nothing but so
much loot.”
“You fellows remind me of the story of the blind men and the elephant,”
said Bishop Rowe, with his hearty laugh. “You remember how one felt a
tusk and said the creature was just like a spear, while the one who
touched the side said it was a wall, and the last beggar who chanced to
get hold of the tail said it was like a rope. There is evidently more
than one Alaska, and each one knows only the country that he has seen.
We shall soon see for ourselves--what we shall see.”
Of all the men who landed at Juneau, Bishop Rowe was in a sense the only
real Alaskan, for he alone intended to make his home in the country.
Even the man who had called it “white man’s country” was going there in
the character of tourist-reporter to take away impressions of its
marvelous scenery; its inspiring contrasts of gleaming, snow-capped
peaks and emerald watersides vivid with many-colored blossoms; its
picturesque Indian villages with their grotesque totem poles; its gold
“diggings” with their soldiers of fortune.
Everybody was busy getting together the necessary outfit for the journey
on the trail across the coast range to the Yukon, along which the
adventurers made their way to Circle
[Illustration: _Courtesy of Rev. C. E. Betticher_
Bishop Peter T. Rowe]
City, a mining center eight hundred and fifty miles from Juneau.
On April 22, the bishop, with one companion, left the seaport for his
first journey in the land of his adoption. Sometimes he was climbing
steep mountains where he had to dig out with his stick a foothold for
each step; sometimes he was walking through narrow cañons not more than
twelve or fourteen feet in width, where overhanging rocks and snow
slides threatened to crush him; sometimes he was creeping along the edge
of cliffs so high and sheer that he dared not trust himself to look
down; sometimes he was treading warily over the frozen crust of a stream
whose waters seethed and roared ominously beneath the icy bridge.
As he pushed on, hauling his heavy sled (it weighed, with the camping
outfit and provisions, four hundred and fifty pounds), you can imagine
that he had an appetite for his dinner of toasted bacon and steaming
beans. Sometimes his gun would bring down a wild duck to vary this
hearty fare.
He knew what it was, however, to be too tired to eat or sleep. That was
when he was felling trees and whipsawing the logs into boards for a
boat. The men who had promised to furnish him with transportation as
soon as the ice was broken up had not kept their agreement, and he faced
the open season with no means of continuing his journey.
“If you’ll just camp here with us fellows for a spell, comrade,” said
the men in whose company he found himself at Carabou Crossing, “we’ll
all pitch in and give you a day’s help when we’ve got our own lumber
sawed.”
Then the good-natured miners had a shock of genuine surprise. The
preacher whom they proposed to pull out of his difficulty proved that he
was neither a tenderfoot nor a shirker.
“I think I’ll see what I can do for myself before I ask you men to come
to the rescue,” he said.
The blows of his ax resounded merrily as he put himself to his task.
Then after the logs were rolled on the saw-pit he whipped out the lumber
in something less than two days. When night came his muscles ached but
his pulses sang.
“What a friend a tree is!” he said, smiling happily at the leaping,
crackling flames. “Here it is giving us a rousing fire and boughs for
our beds, as well as lumber for our boats and gum and pitch to make them
watertight.”
The rude but plucky little craft was finished and mounted on runners to
take it to the place of launching before those who had volunteered to
help him had their own lumber sawed. The rough men were much impressed.
This missionary who was not above sharing their toil and hardships must
have a message that was worth hearing. They gathered about him with
respectful attention when he said:
“We’re hundreds of miles from a church here, but that doesn’t mean that
we don’t feel the need of one, does it? Let’s have a service together
about the camp-fire before we go on our way.”
The firelight shone on softened faces and earnest eyes as the gold
seekers sat gazing up at the man who spoke to them simply and fearlessly
of the treasures of the spirit which he that seeks will be sure to find.
“You men have given up comfort and friends and risked life itself to
find your golden treasure,” he said. “Some of you may win the prize you
seek; many more may be doomed to disappointment. Will you not take with
you something that will make you strong to bear either the temptations
of success or the trials of failure? It is yours for the asking; only
reach out your hand and you will touch it.
“’Tis heaven alone that is given away,
’Tis only God may be had for the asking.”
As Bishop Rowe talked, his hearers seemed to lean on his words as
naturally as one leans on a trusty staff when the way is rough and
steep. And when he had gone, much that he had said lingered with them
through the feverish rush forward and the long desolate winter that
followed, when the cracking ice and the howling wolves alone broke the
awful stillness about their remote camp.
The steadfast faith and the cheerful endurance of our pioneer missionary
were tried more than once as he drew his boat, which weighed with the
load of provisions some 1400 pounds, over the frozen surface of a chain
of lakes where he had to exercise ceaseless vigilance to avoid bad ice.
Then there were three days of ice breaking after the spring thaw was
well under way before he could begin to paddle with the stream.
It was now the pleasantest time of the year--the time of the long days
when you can almost see the grasses and flowers shoot up as they take
advantage of every moment of life-giving sunshine. The warm wind brought
the smell of clover and the voice of leaping water-falls. It seemed as
if one could taste the air; it was so fresh with the pure snow of the
heights and so golden-sweet with sunshine and opening blossoms.
The paddler on the Yukon, however, cannot become too absorbed in the
beauties by the way. There are dangerous rapids and unexpected cross
currents that require a steady head and a strong hand, and the new
bishop frequently had reason to be grateful for the skill in canoeing
that he had won in his camping days in Canada.
If he had been out for game he would have found more than one
opportunity for a good shot. There were brown bears looking at him from
the brush along the banks, and bears fishing for salmon in the swift
water. Sometimes he caught a glimpse of an antlered moose among the
trees, and now and then he saw an eagle swoop down to seize a leaping
fish in its claws. Flocks of ducks with their funny, featherless broods
scurried over the water, disturbed by the sudden appearance of the
canoe.