of the long train with the Commissioner at its head. The two “white
kolās” were none other than our associates in the Siamese mission, the
Rev. N. A. McDonald, and the Rev. S. C. George. Were ever guests more
welcome! The story was soon told of the receipt of our letters in
Bangkok, and of the negotiations which had resulted in their coming with
a Royal Commissioner and with a “Golden Seal,” as the royal letter is
called. We now knew definitely that the Commissioner had come on the
business of the mission and the treatment of the Christians. But our
brethren did not know the contents of the royal letter. No human
sagacity could yet predict what turn affairs would take. Was the mission
to be securely established, or were we to be escorted safely out of the
country? The Commissioner immediately notified the Prince of his arrival
with the “Golden Seal,” and awaited His Highness’ pleasure. The Prince’s
curiosity and anxiety were guarantee that there would be no delay. Nine
o’clock next morning was named as the hour for the audience. The
Commissioner notified us to be ready. An officer was sent with a
palanquin to escort the “Golden Seal” under the golden umbrella to the
palace.
Mr. Wilson and I, of course, joined the procession. On reaching the
grand reception hall at the palace, we encountered such an array of
princely state as we had never before seen among the Lāo. Every prince,
princess, and officer who could come was already there. I quote from Mr.
McDonald’s official report to the Board, dated February 2d, 1870, an
account of the audience. (_Presbyterian Record_, June, 1870.)
“The next morning after our arrival the Regent’s letter was
conducted in state to the palace under the royal umbrella, and
the golden tray containing it was placed on a stand near the
middle of the hall. Very soon the king entered the hall
apparently calm, but pale with suppressed rage. We arose and
bowed to him, and then resumed our seats. The Siamese officers,
however, remained prostrate before him, as did every other one
in the hall. The king immediately broke the seal and handed the
letter to the Siamese secretary to read. After the reading of
the letter he looked up, evidently quite relieved, and remarked,
‘This letter does not amount to so much. It gives the
missionaries privilege to remain if they wish, or to go if they
prefer.’”
Mr. McDonald, then, as a member of the Commission, addressed the King,
referring to the kindness with which the missionaries had been received
by him on their arrival—which was in keeping with the favour shown them
in Bangkok, and with the beneficent nature of their work—but regretting
that late difficulties had made their stay unpleasant. Among other
things he referred to the desertion of their servants. But neither he
nor the royal letter made the slightest reference to the murder of the
Christians. Mr. McDonald then proceeds:
“What I said did not seem to rouse him. He continued to suppress
his rage, and replied, ‘As to servants, he had never placed any
hindrance. He had put to death a couple of fellows—a thing which
he had a right to do, since they had failed to do their allotted
government work. But that was his own business.’”
The Prince evidently thought that the affair was ended, and was
preparing to close the audience, greatly relieved that the one dreaded
point had not been referred to either in the letter or in the
conference. But to stop there would have been an inexcusable blunder on
our part. Not only had the good name of the Christians been tarnished,
but our own also, if we had made all this great fuss about nothing. It
was a difficult thing to face the Prince before his whole court, and
charge him with falsehood; but he had driven us to it. If he had not
lied, we had. For once we were called upon to stand before kings for His
name’s sake; and I believe that words were given to me to speak.
I said that I was sorry to be compelled to say that the Prince knew that
he had not spoken the truth. There was not a man or woman in that
audience, nor in the whole country, who did not know that those two men
had been put to death for no other pretended reason than that they were
Christians. It was done and was proclaimed to be done as a warning to
others. They had not refused to do government work. The charge that they
had failed to get the slabs for the stockade was a subterfuge. There was
not a word of truth in it, as the officer through whom it was done, then
present, well knew. When these men received the order to get the slabs,
they started immediately, but were at once arrested, and were not
allowed to get them. In no sense were they dealt with as criminals. On
that very day (over three months after the order), not one-fifth of the
men in the province had as yet brought in their timbers, and nothing was
said about it. In this country it was an unheard-of thing, even for the
gravest offences, to decoy men out from their homes into the jungle, and
to kill them there with no pretence of a trial. There was a Sanām
(Court), there were regular officers of law, even down to the
executioner. In the case of these men, not a single form of law had been
observed. By the Prince’s own order they had been treacherously
arrested, led out into the jungle, and cruelly clubbed to death in the
presence of a lawless mob by a ruffian hired to do it.
The old man looked on me in mingled astonishment and rage. Possibly till
then he thought we had not been able to learn the facts and particulars
in the case. More likely he thought that no one would dare thus openly
and publicly to expose them. But what was said had the desired effect.
Up to this point the Prince’s position had been impregnable. To assault
it successfully would have required the production of evidence; and no
man in the country, high or low, would have dared to testify against
him. But this unexpected challenge was more than he could endure. He
flung all caution to the winds. In an instant his sole defence was
abandoned. Mr. McDonald says:
“‘Yes,’ he said, ‘he had killed them because they had embraced
the Christian religion. And he would continue to kill every one
who did the same. Leaving the religion of the country was
rebellion against him, and he would so treat it. If the
missionaries would remain to treat the sick, they might do so.
But they must not make Christians; they must not teach the
Christian religion. If they did, he would expel them from the
country’.... At one time I feared that he might become
uncontrollable, and break over all restraints, and do us some
personal injury. The Siamese officer also was alarmed for our
safety.”
Matters now had been brought to a crisis. The Christians had been proved
to be not malefactors, but martyrs. We now understood each other, and
all parties understood the situation. The Prince’s bravado before the
Commissioner in one sense was politic. He had read between the lines of
the King’s letter that the Siamese were afraid of him; and he was quite
willing to have it so. On the other hand, his attitude might have the
effect of convincing them that he was a dangerous man, to be dealt with
accordingly—and I believe it did.
But, as Mr. McDonald goes on to say, “It was useless to attempt any
further argument. The missionaries merely told him that it was their
intention to remain. The conversation then turned to other subjects, and
the Prince became more calm. After returning to the house of Mr.
McGilvary, and after anxious consultation and prayer, it was considered
best to abandon the mission for a time.”
The Commissioner strongly advised us to withdraw. Mr. McDonald was
naturally timid, and hardly felt safe till he was fairly out of the
country. He and Mr. George were sure that it would not be safe for us to
remain a single day after the Commissioner departed; and Mr. Wilson
agreed with them. Such, then, was the report made to the Board, and the
number of the _Record_ from which we have quoted above announced the
dissolution of the mission.
The news of the scene in the palace spread like wild-fire over the city.
We had scarcely reached home when our neighbours and friends began to
send us secret messages that it would be foolish to remain. The Prince
was like a lion bearded in his den. When the Commissioner left there was
no telling what he might do. The Commissioner naturally felt some
responsibility for our safety, and desired to have us return with him. I
so far consented as to allow the Commissioner to send word to the Prince
that we would retire as soon as we conveniently could. Yet, from what I
knew of the feeling of the people toward us, I could not see that it was
the will of Providence that the mission should be abandoned. Nor did I
believe that it would be hazardous to remain. The Prince evidently had
no thought of actually renouncing his allegiance to Siam. He had been
directed to see to our safety, if we wished to remain. I think, too,
that I understood him better than did either our own friends or the
Commissioner. His bluster at the audience was for effect. It was more
than probable that, after sober thought, he himself would realize that
he had gone too far. Before the coming of the Commissioner he had been
summoned to Bangkok; he was at that time busy preparing boats for the
journey, and was soon to start. He was too shrewd a man to wish us to
appear there before him as witnesses against him. It was, I thought,
more than probable that he would meet more than half-way any advance
made toward him, though we could not expect him to make the advance
himself.
Next morning before breakfast Mr. Wilson came over to have a long walk
and talk with me. He did not wish to express his fears before our
children. He argued with all his logic that it was better to go while we
safely could. His idea was to retire to Rahêng, where we would be under
the direct protection of the Siamese government; for, after yesterday’s
scene, he was sure we never could be safe in Chiengmai. So far as he was
concerned, I thought it a good idea. He might go, and I would remain—at
least as long as I could. He felt, however, that he would be to blame if
any disaster happened to us. From all responsibility on that score I
freely exonerated him. As I viewed the case, our personal risk was at an
end so soon as the situation should be known in Bangkok. The Prince
would no longer dare either to do anything or to cause anything to be
done _secretly_ as once we feared he would. Therefore, notwithstanding
the bluster of the day before, fear for our personal safety had little
weight with me. But quite apart from the question of danger, there was
much to be said in favour of Mr. Wilson’s going to Rahêng. The place was
an important one for missionary work. The result might possibly be a
station in both places, instead of in Chiengmai alone. His departure
might seem some concession to the wishes of the Prince—would show less
determination to thwart his known will. If there were any danger in
remaining, it would be less for one family than for two. All I wanted
was time to see the Lord’s will. At any rate, I was not willing to
depart without having an audience with the Prince alone. Against this it
was urged that the Prince had a special grudge against me, because of
the vaccination of his little grandson, and that this would be increased
by my having angered him the day before. But of this I was not afraid.
The parents of the dear child had begged me never to think that they
blamed me for it. As to what had happened the day before, I believed the
Prince’s respect for me was higher than it would have been had I allowed
him to bluff us with his bare-faced lie. The result of our walk was that
Mr. Wilson agreed to have me call on the Prince the next day, though Mr.
McDonald maintained that for himself he would not risk it.
So, next morning, I called at the palace at an hour when I knew I should
find the Prince alone with his head-wife. And, just as I expected, he
received me with unwonted cordiality. I referred to the friendship
between him and my father-in-law, Dr. Bradley; to his cordial consent
given to our coming to his country to teach the Christian religion and
to benefit his people in other ways; to his kind reception of us when we
came; to his granting us a place for a home; and to his many other acts
of kindness. We had come to him as friends, and I could not bear we
should part as enemies. As I had anticipated, his whole manner showed
that he was pleased at my advance. That, too, he said, was his desire.
We might remain at least till after his return from Bangkok, and take
all the time needed for a comfortable departure. I thanked him for his
consideration, and told him that Mr. Wilson would probably go at once.
We shook hands and parted as if the scene in the palace had never
occurred. I had won my point. What I wanted was time, and I had gained
it. The Prince could not possibly return in less than six months’
time—it might be much longer.
In a few days our friends left us. Having no faith in the success of my
new negotiations, or possibly thinking that I might be caught in a trap,
they reported to the Board, as we have seen, that the mission was broken
up—as technically it was. This last turn of affairs was merely a private
arrangement between the Prince and myself.
Had the matter not passed beyond our power, I doubtless should have been
credulous enough, or weak enough, to prefer that no further action
should be taken by our friends in Bangkok. I did write to Dr. Bradley
and to our mission to pursue a pacific policy, and to show the Prince
all kindness, as, indeed, I knew they would. But I learned afterwards
that their advances were hardly received with courtesy. Mr. George, who
asked permission to send by some one of the numerous fleet of boats some
parcels to us, was given to understand that the things would not be
needed, as the Prince expected both families to leave Chiengmai upon his
return.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
XI
DEATH OF KĀWILŌROT
The Commissioner’s report of the attitude assumed by the Prince showed
the Siamese government that the man in control of the northern provinces
was of a spirit and temper that might be difficult to curb—that might at
any time throw everything into confusion. Hitherto it had been their
policy to strengthen his hands to any degree not inconsistent with his
loyalty. Siam and Burma had long been rivals and enemies. A strong
buffer-state in the north had been a necessity to Siam. But conditions
were changed. Burma was now under English control, and had ceased to be
a disturbing factor in the problem. A change in Siamese policy as
regards the North was inevitable.
When the news of the murder of the Christians became known in Bangkok,
our friends there deferred to the wishes of the Siamese government as
expressed by the Regent—whose goodwill to the mission and to ourselves
no one doubted. No steps, therefore, were taken to have the United
States officially represented on the Commission. In this we believe our
friends were providentially led. But Dr. House’s letter does not state,
what was also the fact, that the United States Consul, in whose presence
the Lāo Prince had given his official sanction to the establishment of
the mission, was anxious that the United States should be so
represented. And when that Commission so signally failed to accomplish
anything satisfactory, it was the Consul’s turn to say to our friends,
“I told you so.”
Because, as they themselves expressed it, of the lawless nature of the
Lāo Prince, and the consequent difficulty of protecting foreigners so
far away, our Siamese friends would then have preferred to have us
recalled. In fact, that was their first thought. The first draft of the
letter prepared to be sent by the Commission actually contained the
stipulation that we be safely conveyed back to Siam proper. It was only
the indomitable perseverance of Dr. Bradley—who frankly declared that he
would rather have no such letter sent at all—that secured the omission
of that clause, and left the way open for the possible continuance of
the mission. So, when the Commission returned to Bangkok, and it was
known that the Lāo Prince was soon to follow them. General Partridge,
the United States Consul, immediately took up the case, and insisted
that the Siamese government give guarantee for the fulfilment of
promises publicly made by its vassal in the presence of officials of
both governments. “Before this you could say, ‘He is like a tiger in the
jungle; we cannot control him.’ But when he reaches Bangkok, he is in
your power. You can then make your own terms regarding his return.”
How this negotiation was conducted, I am not aware. But from the
_Presbyterian Record_ of September, 1870, we learn that the Consul
carried his point:
“Dr. House sends us word that the Siamese government has
extended its protection over the missionaries in Chiengmai; they
are not to be molested in their work. As the king of Chiengmai
is tributary to Siam, this decision will no doubt be respected.
This king is not likely to live long, and he will be succeeded
by his son-in-law, a prince who has shown a friendly interest in
the missionaries. The intervention of the Siamese government was
obtained by the U. S. Consul, Gen. Partridge, not at the
instance of the missionaries, but he took the ground of treaty
stipulations between Siam and our country, which accorded the
right of protection to American citizens.”
From the _Foreign Missionary_ of September, 1870, we quote the following
extract from the _Bangkok Summary_, doubtless from the pen of Dr.
Bradley:
“I am very happy to learn from the most reliable authority that
His Grace the Regent has been pleased to commit the American
citizens in Chiengmai to the care and protection of the Maha
Uparāt, the son-in-law of the king, charging him to assist,
nourish, and protect them so that they shall suffer no trouble
and hindrance in their work from persecutions like those through
which they have passed since September 12th last.
“His Grace, moreover, is understood to have promised that he
will certainly arrange to have those American citizens protected
in Chiengmai according to the stipulations of the treaties, even
though the present king should live and continue his reign.
“The Maha Uparāt enjoys the reputation of being a mild and
discreet prince. He received this his new title a few weeks
since from His Majesty the Supreme King of Siam, by virtue of
which he is constituted Second King of Chiengmai. I learn that
His Grace the Regent has virtually committed the rule of that
kingdom to him during the illness of the king, and has assured
him that he is ultimately to become the king’s successor to the
throne.
“This I regard as good news, indeed, and too good to be held a
day longer from the public. Who will not agree with me that the
Siamese government is worthy of a great meed of praise for what
it has done in the matter of the Chiengmai mission? But let us
see to it that the King of Kings, as well, receives our highest
praise for all these gratifying events of His providence.”
While the Consul was pressing these claims, Prince Kāwilōrot, as was
intimated in the last extract, became dangerously ill. He was stricken
with almost instantaneous loss of consciousness, and complete paralysis
of speech. Meanwhile we in Chiengmai, only five hundred miles away, were
in profound ignorance of what was happening. If we had despatched a
special messenger thither for news, it would have been three months
before he could have returned with a reply. And the first news we
received was not reassuring. Word came that the time was set for the
Prince’s return; that he had been promoted to higher honours, and had
received higher titles; that he was returning with full power, and
probably flushed with fresh victories. Of course, that did not
necessarily mean very much. Siam understood perfectly the great trick of
oriental statecraft, the giving of high-sounding titles, with, perhaps,
a larger stipend, in compensation for the loss of real power. But it was
a time of great anxiety for us. Revenge was a passion which that man
seldom left ungratified. Would he come breathing out slaughter against
the church and vengeance on us?
By and by there came a message stating that the Prince was ill, and
directing that offerings be made for his recovery. Then came news that
he was already on his way, and had sent orders for a hundred elephants
to meet him at the landing station below the rapids. Some surmised that
his illness was feigned in order to escape the lawsuits which were
pressing him. About the middle of June we learned that he had reached
the landing station, but was very seriously ill. It was still more
urgently enjoined that his relatives and the monasteries in Chiengmai
should “make merit” in his behalf, and propitiate the demons by generous
offerings.
On the evening of June 29th, while riding through the streets of the
city, some one called out to me, “The Prince is dead!” No news ever gave
me such a shock. I stepped in to the residence of one of the princes, a
nephew of Kāwilōrot, to get the particulars, but found him in a dreadful
state of mind. Yes. The Prince was dead; and word had come that he (the
nephew) was to go to Bangkok to bear the brunt of the lawsuits—to answer
in his own name for transactions done by order of the dead Prince!
How soon the strongest prejudices fade and disappear in the presence of
death! The anxious fears of his return that had haunted us, all
dissolved into tender sympathy now that he was gone. We forgot his
treachery and cruelty, and thought only of his interesting human
qualities. We recalled his taking tea or dining with us, and even the
dry jokes that he so much enjoyed. He was a tender father. He could be a
warm, though a fickle and inconstant friend. In many respects he was a
good ruler. He was absolute and tyrannical; but there was no petty
thieving in his realm. And now that voice that had made thousands
tremble was silent in death! No doubt it was with a sigh of relief that
the Siamese government turned over the government of the North to one
whom they could better trust.
But it would be a hard heart that could follow unmoved that long, weary
homeward trip of the dying Prince. He was so weak that he could not
endure the jarring caused by the use of the setting-poles. His boat had
to be taken in tow of another. When the last lingering hope of life died
out, his one desire was to reach home—to die in his own palace. The trip
through the rapids he could not bear, and it was too slow for the dying
man. Travel by elephant is both rough and slow. He is brought ashore,
therefore, and borne on a litter as swiftly as relays of men can carry
him. Over the mountains and up the valley of the Mê Ping, under burning
sun and through driving rain, they hasten. At last, on the evening of
June 28th, they halt on the left bank of the Mê Ping, with only that
stream between him and his own country. “What land is this?” he asks.
“Lampūn,” is the reply. “Carry me across quickly!” He is obeyed, but
sinks exhausted by the fatigue of crossing. He passes a restless night.
His mind wanders. He dreams of being at home; of worshipping in his own
palace. The morning comes. He is still alive; but so weak that, in spite
of his eagerness to hasten on, at every few paces his bearers must halt,
while attendants fan him or administer a cordial. At last fan and
cordials fail. The litter is set down under the two golden umbrellas
that screen it from the burning rays of the sun. The little group stand
with bowed heads and hushed hearts while the spirit takes its flight, to
appear before its Maker.—Almost, but not quite home, and with none of
his immediate kin by him to see the end! The attendants cover the body
with a cloth, and hasten on to the next station, a few miles below the
city. The procession halted there at about the very time that the
messenger reached Chiengmai with the news that he was dead.
Such, as I learned next day from the attending prince, were the last
hours of His Highness Chao Kāwilōrot Suriyawong, Prince of Chiengmai. He
died at ten o’clock in the morning of June 29th, 1870, in the seventieth
year of his age, and in the sixteenth of his reign.
Next morning before breakfast I was sent for by the younger daughter of
the Prince, to go to the residence of the nephew, whom I had left late
in the evening before in such a distracted state of mind. How shocked
was I on entering to find the prince cold and dead! The Princess wished
to get my judgment whether he was really dead beyond all hope of
resuscitation. But it required no skilled physician to answer that
question. He had evidently died by a dose of opium administered by his
own hands. The little cup from which it was taken was still by his
bedside. Whether it was intentional suicide to escape the lawsuits of
his deceased master, or was simply designed to ease the mental troubles
of that night, they could tell as well as I. In either case, he slept
the sleep that knows no waking till the summons of the last trump.