WESTWARD
THE first task that William Van Orsdel found, as he journeyed westward,
was at Oil City, Pennsylvania. He had a cousin at that place whom
he visited, and who urged him to remain and run an oil-pump. He was
offered more money for the work weekly than the country lad had ever
seen at one time; so in April of the year 1870, and while on his way
to a thrilling career in the West, the boy became a day-laborer. At the
end of the first week in his new occupation, William was surprised to
learn from the foreman that he was expected to run the pump on Sunday.
When he protested against this use of the day of rest, he was told that
it would be all right if he would hire a substitute.
“I’d as soon do it myself as to cause another to work on the Lord’s Day.
I’ll do neither,” was the courageous reply.
William worked through the summer and into the autumn. When he
announced his intention of quitting he was offered an increase in
wages, although he had never worked on Sunday as his co-workers had
done. Instead of earning on that day, he had used his time for the
organization of a Sunday-school, and with true missionary spirit, had
talked of sacred things with his fellow workmen. Just before the time
that William was to leave the pumping job, the “bush meetings” were
announced. Woodmen would go into the forests and cut a road as they
went. When they reached a place fitted by nature for an auditorium, a
rough pulpit would be erected, slab benches put in place, and all would
be in readiness for a meeting.
The first night came and a large crowd, which was both serious and
curious, gathered at the place of meeting, but no preacher arrived. The
young oil-pumper who had organized the Sunday-school, and had talked
with thoughtless workmen, was sought for and urged to preach. Modestly
he assumed the role of evangelist to the waiting people, and three
persons were led to know the saving power of God on that night.
For ten days the meetings continued; many people having their interest
in religion rekindled, and many others made to feel the obligation
of right living for the first time. From these inspiring gatherings
William Van Orsdel went to Walnut Bend, an old settlement where, with
the exception of funeral sermons, no religious services had been held
for six years. Here a great revival occurred which lasted three weeks,
and forty citizens set to work to make their community life mean more
for faith and goodness than ever before.
Then followed meetings for three weeks at Oleopolis, where twenty-five
people renewed their faith and endeavors. Meetings were held at Pit
Hole, and continued for as long a period, and with the same encouraging
result. The three places where successful meetings had been held were
put into a circuit. One hundred and thirty-five members were received,
and the Presiding Elder asked William to take the charge at a good
salary for those days, and it included the privilege of boarding around.
The school-teachers and preachers in former times accepted “boarding
around” as one of the compensations of their calling. They recognized
its social value, even though dreading some of its privations. It
meant that the homes of the community were opened in succession to
the itinerant, who usually spent a week in the shelter of each home,
sharing its luxuries and difficulties as a member of the family. He was
then passed on to the next nearest neighbor until the round of homes
had been made, when the process was started all over again.
But the boy evangelist turned his back on the joys of boarding around,
for again came tidings from the West. The need of reinforcements for
the missionaries in the Oregon territory was related to him, and tales
of the settlers’ needs and of their privations. Stories reached him,
too, of the brave freighters serving the people of the wilderness; so
again the call of the West made the days of the boy preacher restless.
That map of the Louisiana Purchase became very real in those days of
decision.
Many years earlier Wilbur Fisk, who had been stirred by a strange story
of the Indians, had made an appeal in the columns of _The Christian
Advocate_. The incident which had come to the knowledge of Wilbur Fisk
would stir the heart of any eager young Christian. In these days when
all churches are giving to home missions as never before the story
must be retold, for it brought the beginning of Christian work in the
section where the quest was made.
Four Indians garbed in their odd dress appeared on the streets of
St. Louis in the year 1832. All through the summer and fall they had
traveled, for they had come two thousand miles in search of the “White
Man’s Book of Heaven,” and to ask that teachers would be sent to Oregon.
General Clark, the distinguished explorer, was then superintendent
of Indian affairs. He had charge of all Indians in the far West, with
headquarters at St. Louis. The Indians were received hospitably by
General Clark and cared for through the winter. He was a Roman Catholic
and they attended the church services regularly. During their visit to
St. Louis two of the Indians died, and the other two decided to return
to their people. A farewell banquet was given to these well-entertained
guests and at which one of them made the following speech:
“I came to you over the trail of many moons from the setting sun. You
were the friends of my fathers, who have all gone the long way. I came
with an eye partly open for my people who sit in darkness. I go back
with both eyes closed. How can I go back blind to my blind people! I
made my way to you with strong arms through many enemies and strange
lands that I might carry much back to them. I go back with both arms
broken and empty. Two fathers came with us. They were the braves of
many winters and wars. We leave them asleep here by your great water
and wigwams. They were tried in many moons and their moccasins wore out.
“My people sent me to get the white man’s Book of Heaven. You took
me to where they worship the Great Spirit with candles, but the book
was not there. You showed me the images of the Great Spirit and the
pictures of the good land beyond, but the book was not among them to
tell us the way. I am going back the long trail to my people in the
dark land. You make my feet heavy with gifts and my moccasins will grow
old with carrying them and yet the book is not among them. When I tell
my poor blind people, after the more snow, in the Big Council that I
did not bring the book, no word will be spoken by our old men or by
our young braves. One by one they will rise up and go out in silence.
My people will die in darkness and they will go a long path to other
hunting grounds. No white man will go with them, and no white man’s
Book of Heaven will make the way plain. I have no more words.”
Among the early missionaries, who became inspired by a knowledge of
the quest for the “White Man’s Book of Heaven,” were Francis McCormick,
known as the “man with the fist and the ax,” and John Kobler, the
first Methodist preacher north and west of the Ohio River. Another
of these leaders was Thomas Hall Pearne, a young man of great culture.
He practically received his commission from Bishop Janes in 1851.
“Go to Oregon; live there; work there and die there for Jesus,” said
the bishop. Young Pearne went west by way of Panama and landed in San
Francisco. William Taylor was then leading the religious forces of the
sunset city, and Pearne preached in the streets of San Francisco for
Taylor; then he sailed to the mouth of the Columbia River and finally
reached Portland.
On the first Sabbath day the new missionary appeared in his wedding
finery, for he had brought a wife to share in his labors, and the
stalwart pioneers looked askance at the silk hat, kid gloves, silk
necktie, and morocco shoes of the new preacher. “You do not look like
the fortieth cousin of a Methodist,” said one of the men frankly. The
young man asked to be given a hearing and preached with such spiritual
power that the people gladly accepted him as their leader. Pearne
erected the first Protestant house of worship on the Pacific coast
from Cape Horn to the Straits of Juan de Fuca. When later this pioneer
became presiding elder, his district included all of the United States
from the Missouri River to the Pacific Ocean, the total area being
1,170,000 square miles, and it covered all that part now known as
Oregon, Washington, Idaho, Montana, North and South Dakota. The
population was 13,294 white people and 100,000 Indians.
It was toward this vast territory that William Van Orsdel was working
his way. He left Oil City with only enough money to carry him to
Chicago. He stopped at Champaign to see a relative, and then went to
Chicago, where he met with a man who made clear to him just what his
future field was to be. This man was Chaplain McCabe, who was thrilling
thousands by his lectures on the bright side of Libby Prison, and by
his singing of such songs as “The Sword of Bunker Hill.” McCabe was
secretary of the Board of Church Extension of the Methodist Episcopal
Church, and had taken for his slogan, “A church a day,” as he sought
funds for the building of churches in the south and west. To this
man William confided his dreams and desires, and leading him to the
South Park Avenue Church, his new friend invited him to preach. The
Chaplain’s keen eyes twinkled as he listened, and visions came to him
of the churches which this youth would help him to build.
From Chaplain McCabe William learned much of the work to be done in
the west. “You are on the right track, young man,” he said. “Go west to
Montana, and help to build the kingdom in the western wilds.” He backed
his advice with some money and added, “You will realize what Paul
meant when he rejoiced that he did not build on any man’s foundation.
You will not find many foundations out there.” William Van Orsdel did
not feel that he was yet justified in having aid from the Missionary
Society, but he accepted the money as a personal gift from his new
friend. He set out again on his journey for the unexplored land of his
dreams.