shall never forget the first prayer of the kind I ever heard....
We had just entered a dark defile in the mountains, beyond Mûang
Tôn, and had come to a rude, imageless shrine erected to the
guardian demon of the pass. The owner of my riding-elephant was
seated on the neck of the big beast before me. Putting the palms
of his hands together and raising them in the attitude of
worship, he prayed: ‘Let no evil happen to us. We are six men
and three elephants. Let us not be injured. Let nothing come to
frighten us,’ and so on. On my way down the river, at the rapids
and gloomy passes in the mountains the boatmen would land,
tapers would be lighted, and libations would be poured, and
offerings of flowers, food, and betel would be made to the
powers of darkness.”
The doctor speaks also of “the favour with which the
missionaries were received, the confidence they had won from all
classes, the influence of their medicines, and the grand field
open for a physician.” He frankly says, “I must confess that
though at one time I did have some misgivings whether, all
things considered, the movement was not a little premature, I
now, being better able to judge, greatly honour the Christian
courage and enterprise which undertook the work; or rather bless
God who inspired Mr. McGilvary’s heart, and made his old
Princeton friend, Mr. Wilson, consent to join him in thus
striking out boldly into an untried field. It will prove, I
trust, a field ready to the harvest.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
VIII
FIRST-FRUITS
During the first three months after Mr. Wilson’s arrival we were so
occupied with mission work and with family cares that we had not made
choice of the lot which the Prince had promised to give us. On the very
day that Dr. House left us, however, the Prince came in person,
selected, and made over to us our present beautiful mission compound on
the east bank of the Mê Ping. He would not allow us to offer any
compensation; but, learning afterwards that the native owners had
received no remuneration, we secretly paid them. Mr. Wilson began at
once to erect temporary bamboo buildings, and soon moved to the new
compound. Since it was difficult for me to spare time for further work
of building for myself, and since the old location was an ideal one for
meeting the people, I moved with my family from the sālā into the bamboo
house the Wilsons had occupied, and we made it our home for the next two
years.
Mr. Wilson was greatly interrupted in his work by sickness in his
family. Little Frank had fallen ill on the journey from Bangkok, and
continued to suffer during all these months. His death on November 17th,
1868, was a heavy stroke to us all. In vain we combined our slight
medical skill, and searched our books of domestic medicine for his
relief. It was pitiful enough to see the natives die, with the sad
feeling in our hearts that a physician might have saved their lives. But
the death of one of our own number, so soon after the trying experiences
early in the year, emphasized, as nothing else could have done, our
appeals for a physician. Yet it was not until 1872 that we welcomed the
first physician appointed to our mission.
During this time raids were continually being made into the Lāo country
by the renegade Ngīo chieftain already spoken of. Five hundred men from
Prê, and one thousand from Lakawn were drafted for the defence of the
city, and were stationed near our compound. Thus hundreds of soldiers
and workmen furnished us an ever-changing audience. All we had to do,
day or night, was to touch the organ, and people would crowd in to hear.
The dry season of 1868-69 was, therefore, an exceptionally good one for
our work. We had constant visitors from other provinces, who would
converse with us by the hour, and, on returning to their homes, would
carry the news of our presence and of our work.
In the fall of 1868 occurred two events which, widely different as they
might seem to be, were in reality closely connected, and of much
importance in their bearing on the mission. One was a total eclipse of
the sun on August 17th, and the other was the conversion of Nān Inta,
our first baptized convert. I well remember his tall figure and
thoughtful face when he first appeared at our sālā, shortly after our
arrival in Chiengmai. He had a cough, and had come for medicine. He had
heard, too, that we taught a new religion, and wished to enquire about
that. Some soothing expectorant sufficiently relieved his cough to
encourage him to make another call. On each visit religion was the
all-absorbing topic. He had studied Buddhism, and he diligently
practised its precepts. As an abbot he had led others to make offerings
for the monastery worship, and he had two sons of his own in the
monastic order. But Buddhism had never satisfied his deep spiritual
nature. What of the thousands of failures and transgressions from the
results of which there was no escape? The doctrine of a free and full
pardon through the merits of another, was both new and attractive to
him, but it controverted the fundamental principle of his religion.
We had some arguments, also, on the science of geography, on the shape
of the earth, on the nature of eclipses, and the like. What he heard was
as foreign to all his preconceived ideas as was the doctrine of
salvation from sin by the death of Christ. Just before the great eclipse
was to occur I told him of it, naming the day and the hour when it was
to occur. I pointed out that the eclipse could not be caused by a
monster which attacked the sun, as he had been taught. If that were the
cause, no one could foretell the day when the monster would be moved to
make the attack. He at once caught that idea. If the eclipse came off as
I said, he would have to admit that his teaching was wrong on a point
perfectly capable of being tested by the senses. There would then be a
strong presumption that we were right in religion as well as in
eclipses. He waited with intense interest for the day to come. The sky
was clear, and everything was favourable. He watched, with a smoked
glass that we had furnished, the reflection of the sun in a bucket of
water. He followed the coming of the eclipse, its progress, and its
passing off, as anxiously as the wise men of old followed the star of
Bethlehem—and, like them, he, too, was led to the Saviour.
Early the next morning he came in to see me. His first words were, “Mên
tê” (It’s really true). “The teacher’s books teach truth. Ours are
wrong.” This confident assurance had evidently been reached after a
sleepless night. A complete revolution had taken place in his mind; but
it was one that cost him a severe struggle. His only hope had rested on
the teachings of Buddha, and it was no light thing to see the foundation
of his hope undermined. The eclipse had started an ever-widening rift.
He began, as never before, to examine the credentials of Christianity.
He soon learned to read Siamese in order to gain access to our
Scriptures. We read the Gospel of John together. He studied the Shorter
Catechism. He had a logical mind, and it was never idle. Whenever we
met, if only for a few moments, he always had some question to ask me,
or some new doubt to solve. When tempted to doubt, he fell back on the
eclipse, saying, “I know my books were wrong there. If the Gospel system
seems too good to be true in that it offers to pardon and cleanse and
adopt guilty sinners, and give them a title to a heavenly inheritance,
it is simply because it is divine, and not human.” While the truth
dawned gradually on his mind, the full vision seemed to be sudden. His
own account was that afterwards, when walking in the fields and
pondering the subject, it all became very plain to him. His doubts all
vanished. Henceforth for him to live was Christ; and he counted all
things but loss for the excellency of the knowledge of Him.
The conversion of Nān Inta was an epoch in the history of the mission.
The ordinary concourse of visitors might be for medicine, or it might be
from mere curiosity. But when one of the most zealous Buddhists, well
known by members of the royal family, openly embraced Christianity, the
matter began to assume a different aspect. What was more remarkable
still was that he urged his two sons to abandon the monastic order. The
Prince’s younger daughter, herself a strong Buddhist, told me that this
was to her convincing evidence of his sincerity. Whether Christianity
were true or false, he certainly believed it true. It was the height of
ambition for every Lāo father to have a son in the order. If he had none
of his own, he often would adopt one and make him a monk. But here was
one of the most devout of them urging his own sons to come out and be
Christians! We regarded it as a favourable circumstance that the patron
and protector of this our first convert was high in princely rank. Nān
Inta’s defection from Buddhism produced a profound impression among all
classes. Emboldened by his example, secret believers became more open.
Not the number alone, but the character of the enquirers attracted
attention.
The second convert was Noi Sunya, a native doctor from a village eight
miles to the east. He has the enviable distinction of never having
postponed the Gospel offer. He was the chief herdsman in charge of the
Prince’s cattle. Coming to the city on an errand, he called at our sālā
to see what was the attraction there. As in the case of so many others,
it was the good news of pardon for a sinsick soul that arrested his
attention. On his return in the afternoon he called again to make fuller
enquiry concerning “the old, old story of Jesus and His love.” He
promised to return on Sunday. Promises of that sort so often fail, that
we were surprised and delighted to see him early on Sunday morning. We
had an earnest talk together before the time came for public worship. He
remained through the afternoon, and spent the night with us. In answer
to a final exhortation before he left us in the morning, he said, “You
need not fear my going back. I feel sure I am right.” He was willing to
sell all—even life itself, as it proved—for the pearl of great price. He
went home, called his family together, and began family worship that
very night. Only four brief months after this his labours were ended by
the executioner’s stroke, and he wore the martyr’s crown.
The third, Sên Yā Wichai, has already been mentioned as receiving his
first instruction in Christianity from the “mother-teacher,” as Mrs.
McGilvary was called, during the very first month of the mission. He
then received the great truth of the existence of God and of man’s
accountability to Him. He was an officer living six days’ journey to the
north, and was under the jurisdiction of the Prince of Lampūn. On his
visit a year later, he received further instruction, was baptized, and
returned to tell his neighbours what he had found. They only laughed at
him for his oddity in refusing to join in the Buddhist worship, and in
offerings to the spirits.
The fourth was Nān Chai, a neighbour and friend of Noi Sunya, and
destined to suffer martyrdom along with him. He, too, was an ex-abbot,
and, therefore, exempt from government work. He was a good scholar, and
was employed by Mr. Wilson as a teacher. When he became a Christian, he
was strongly tempted to hold on still to his position in the monastery,
explaining that he would not himself engage in the worship, but would
only sweep the buildings and keep the grounds in order for others. But
when his duty was pointed out to him, he readily gave up his position,
and was enrolled for regular government service. Here were four noble
and notable men at once deserting the Buddhist faith! No wonder it
became an anxious question whereunto this was to grow.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
IX
MARTYRDOM
In the course of these events our second year of work in Chiengmai had
come to its end. We were now beyond the middle of the year 1869. As some
indefinable sense of oppression in the air gives warning of the
approaching storm, so there were ominous hints, and even some dark
forebodings. Our Christian people—who understood far better than we did
both the character of their rulers and the significance of furtive looks
and innuendoes—were anxious. But they stood firm, and their faith
strengthened ours.
In the light of subsequent events we now know that the most dangerous
element in the gathering storm was the angry surprise of the Prince
himself at the discovery that the old order seemed actually passing away
under his very eyes; that his will was no longer supreme in men’s minds,
nor always consulted in their actions—this and the deep treachery and
ruthless cruelty of his nature which it brought into play. But there
were other sinister influences at work also, and among them we must not
overlook that of a certain Portuguese adventurer, Fonseca by name. He
was a thoroughly unprincipled man, who, having played his game in
Bangkok and lost, had worked himself into the favour of the Prince
during his recent visit to the capital, and had accompanied him on his
return to Chiengmai. The Prince was persuaded that this man could be of
great service to him in the two matters which were then causing him most
disquietude; namely, the defence of certain lawsuits involving large
sums of money, brought against him in the British Consular Court by
Burmese timber merchants; and the getting rid of the missionaries. These
last were more in Fonseca’s way than they were in the Prince’s. He could
accomplish his ends more readily if they were not there.
The most plausible excuse that could be offered for desiring to be rid
of the missionaries was the failure of the rice crop that year. In the
early part of the season there was no rain at all. When at last the
fields had been planted, one of the worst floods ever known in that
region destroyed all the lowland rice. Then, finally, the rains ceased
prematurely, and the upland crop was cut off by drought. The presence of
the missionaries in the country had offended the spirits, and they had
withheld the rain. Such was the pretext urged in a petition sent to
Bangkok to have the missionaries removed. The specific address of the
petition to the Minister for Foreign Affairs and the United States
Consul leads one to suspect that the matter was directed by some one who
understood the order of official business much better than did the Lāo
Prince.
The Minister forwarded the document to Mr. McDonald, the acting
Vice-Consul at the time. Mr. McDonald replied to the Minister that there
must be some mistake about it. It appeared that the scarcity of rice
complained of had begun the year before the arrival of the missionaries;
it was not confined to Chiengmai, but extended over all the northern
provinces. He added roguishly, however, that he would strictly enjoin
the American missionaries to be very careful in future not to cause any
famine. Of all this secret plotting we were entirely ignorant at the
time, and learned of it only long afterwards. While these plots were
developing, I was frequently visiting the Prince, and all our relations
with him were apparently satisfactory. But we knew that he was under the
influence of a wily and unprincipled adversary.
The other matter in which Fonseca was supposed to be able to help his
patron out of difficulties even more pressing, was the Burmese lawsuits
pending before the British Consul. But the British government was the
last party to permit officious meddling with its public business from
such a quarter. It is presumed that there was evidence of his
interference with official correspondence. This much is certain—a
peremptory demand was made on the Siamese government for his recall. The
official order sent up was too emphatic to be neglected. The man was
sent out of the country in quite different style from that in which he
entered it. This man is known to have been present at the consultation
relative to the mission. If the jealousy and suspicion on the part of
the Prince did not originate with him, there is no doubt that he at
least worked on the Prince’s suspicious nature, increasing his jealousy
of the growing popularity of the mission, and leading him to think that
it would be wise to stop it in its incipiency.
Yet even when the blow was about to fall, we could not believe that the
Prince was so treacherous as to plan to drive us out of the country, at
the same time that he continued to treat us so kindly, and would even
come to dine with us. We could not believe that the younger Princess,
who had a predominating influence over her father, could encourage one
of the Christians to put himself under her protection, only that he
might the more surely be sent to his death a day or two later. We could
not believe that an excursion down the river had been planned by the
Prince, only that he might be out of reach when the executions should
take place. We were still incredulous, even after we received reliable
information from the agent of the Borneo Company that he had heard the
Prince and a certain high officer consulting together to stop our work.
The plan which he reported was to expel the converts from the country,
giving their wives and children the option to follow them or to remain.
After all, that would not have been so great a disaster. These men had
no great possessions to lose. Their banishment would only plant the
Gospel in other provinces or other lands.
When, in September, 1869, just before the fatal stroke, the Prince
started on what purported to be a three weeks’ fishing trip, we thought
that his absence would give us a respite from our present fears, and
would afford him leisure for better thoughts. As his boats pushed off,
we waved him a parting good-bye from the shore. His first business was
at Lampūn, to secure the co-operation of the governor of that province
in ridding the country of the new religion. Inasmuch as Sên Yā Wichai,
the third convert mentioned above, was a Lampūn officer, it was thought
prudent in his case to secure the action of his own immediate superior.
He was at once sent for, and was condemned to death, but was saved by
his young master, the governor’s son, on the plea that he was a
backwoodsman, and knew no better.
Of the deep designs against us and our work we were thus either ignorant
or incredulous till, on the evening of September 13th, just before dark,
our night watchman came to us with the common excuse for leaving us,
that some relative was dead or dying, and insisting that he must go
immediately. In vain we urged that he must not leave us thus in the
lurch. As a final argument, we threatened to dock him of a month’s
wages. But wages were nothing to him then. “All that a man hath will he
give for his life.” While we talked to him, he had reached the gate and
was gone. So, also, fled the cook and the coolie, leaving only one blind
Ngīo who had taken refuge with us.
Mr. Wilson then lived across the river on the new premises, and it was
not until the next day that we learned that all his people, too, had
fled in like manner and at the same hour. We went to Prayā Tēpasing, the
Prince’s executive officer, to enquire the cause. He feigned surprise,
and professed entire ignorance of any designs against the Christians. He
said, however, that the Prince had given an order that the inhabitants
of certain villages should bring in each a hewn slab of timber to repair
the stockade. Possibly the scare might have somehow arisen from that. We
were aware of the order, and had told the Christians that if pressed for
time to procure the timber, they might each take a slab of ours. We now
told the Prayā that we would ourselves be responsible for the timbers
required of them. To assure us with regard to our servants, the Prayā
sent for our cook, gave him a letter assuring his safety, and
threatened, besides, to have him flogged if he deserted us. The cook
remained with us all through these troubles, until we could find another
to take his place. For some reason Mr. Wilson did not avail himself of
this offer. He and Mrs. Wilson got on as they could without servants for
several months.
We now know that the order for the execution of the Christians had been
given long before by that same Prayā Tēpasing—in such fear of the Prince
was the highest officer in the realm! Not only had our servants
vanished—there was a sudden cessation of our visitors as well. Few even
dared to come for medicine for fear of being suspected of becoming
Christians. There were, however, a few notable exceptions, the abbot of
the Ūmōng monastery being the most conspicuous.
During the following week Mr. Wilson waded out across the flooded
country to the home of Nān Chai, his teacher. But his family did not
dare to give any information concerning him. To tell what they knew
would cost their lives also—so they had been told. He then went on
another mile to Noi Sunya’s home, with the same result. The wives of
both these men pretended to believe that their husbands had gone to the
city to visit us. Mr. Wilson noticed that one of the women had tears in
her eyes as she spoke. Puzzled rather than satisfied by the result of
the visit, Mr. Wilson returned with the hope that, after all, the men
were still alive, and that we yet should see them in the land of the
living.
It was two weeks before our suspense was broken by the certainty of
their death. On Sunday morning, September 26th, a Ngīo friend and
neighbour of the martyrs called at my house. After looking all about
him, he asked where the Christians were. I told him there seemed to be a
mystery about them that we could not unravel, but we hoped they were
secreting themselves in safety somewhere. Seeing that I was really
ignorant of their fate, he came close up to me, and looking around again
to assure himself that no one was near, he asked, “If I tell you, will
you promise never to betray me?” Having demanded and received an
emphatic promise equivalent to an oath, he drew his hand significantly
across his neck, and whispered, “That is the way.” His gesture was too
well understood in that reign to leave any doubt as to what was meant.
The man had really come on a sad and dangerous errand of kindness. As
soon as it was accomplished, he hurried away, evidently fearing that the
birds of the air might hear it, or that some breeze might waft it to the
palace.
On Monday morning Mr. Wilson and I went again to the Prayā. He could now
no longer lie for his master as to the fact of the execution of the men,
but he offered the flimsy excuse that it was because they had not
brought in their slabs on time. We were then obliged to charge him with
patent falsehood. He knew that they were executed for no crime whatever,
but only for being Christians. Poor man! He seemed somewhat ashamed; but
what could he do? He was not at heart a bad man, as his letter of
protection for the cook showed. The lives of two peasants were no great
matter in those days. He had been so trained to execute every behest of
his master, that it scarcely occurred to him that he ought to hesitate
at this.
But it was some relief to know the worst, and to know that it was known
that we knew it. Before this we had been obliged to feign hopes that we
hardly believed ourselves. Now we could speak openly. The Prince had not
yet returned from his fishing trip; so we went to his elder daughter and
her husband, afterward Prince Intanon. In their position they could not
say much; but they did say that what the Prince had done was not right,
and that they did not approve of the act.
One outcome of the situation was a flood of the wildest rumours—some of
them, no doubt, started on purpose to frighten us away. One of these
touched us in a most tender point. One of our most faithful servants,
who had been with us from the very first, was desirous of visiting
Bangkok. So we arranged to have him go down in charge of a boat that was
to bring up our supplies for the year. By him we sent a large package of
letters written before we had reason to suspect so serious an outcome of
the troubles that were brewing. While we could not conceal some gloomy
forebodings, our reports were, on the whole, full of hope for the speedy
progress of the Gospel. The boat left for Bangkok a few days after the
Prince started on his fishing trip. Presently it was reported that the
boat had been intercepted, and that this man, with his wife, his son,
and his son’s family, even down to a little grandchild of two years old,
had been killed, and the boat broken to pieces and burned.