were not streets, for they were very narrow, or thoroughfares, because
they led nowhere; they were merely vestibules to tall buildings where
human beings lived huddled together like animals. They were paved with
rough stones, and in order to reach the spiral staircase on the outside
of the old tenements one had to step through masses of filth.
Even so, these boys and girls found the pend and the gateway into the
street and the street itself a pleasant change from the crowded rooms
in which they lived. All day they worked in factories, and in the
evening they naturally tried to find entertainment.
This evening they were in a good humor, and it was very plain that they
were awaiting some interesting event. They looked down the street
eagerly as one might look for the approach of the band at the head of a
circus parade. Presently they drew near together before the door of a
little room on the ground floor of Queen Street. The window-shades were
lifted and within were to be seen rows of benches and a little table.
They looked in and laughed.
"We'll get her!" said a rough voice. "Just wait till she comes to her
prayer-meeting!"
So it was not for a circus parade they were watching!
"She wants to go out to Africa to teach black people!" said another,
and there were shrieks of laughter as though this were the strangest
desire ever heard of.
"Black people!" repeated the largest boy of all. "I'll black her eye."
As he spoke he swung a heavy object at the end of a string. It looked
like a piece of lead and was a dangerous weapon.
At this moment a figure appeared at the corner and advanced toward the
group.
"She's coming!" shouted a girl. "She's coming!"
There was delighted laughter and a sudden stooping to the earth. There
were loose stones on Queen Street and there was also mud, both soft,
sticky mud and hard, dried mud.
"We'll do for her!" cried another girl.
"We'll make her let us alone."
"I'm a good shot."
A foe worthy of these many fierce opponents should have been tall and
strong and well-armed, but the approaching figure was that of a girl.
Her name was Mary Slessor; she was fourteen years old and short for
her age. She had not had a chance to grow to her full height because
she got up at five o'clock in the morning, helped her mother until she
went to the factory at six, worked until six in the evening, and then
helped her mother until a late bedtime. When she had a spare moment she
read, even propping her book up on her loom as the great missionary
Livingstone had done when he was a factory boy.
The shouts of the boys and girls grew louder.
"Hi, Mary Slessor!"
"Hit her!"
"You let us alone, or we'll do for you!"
The little figure came straight on.
"We're not going to come to your meetings!" shouted a loud voice.
"We don't care for your meetings!" yelled another.
"You clear right out of here!" howled a third.
Still the little figure advanced.
"I won't give up," she shouted back, white-faced and stubborn. "You can
do what you like; I won't give up!"
In answer to this defiance there was a moment's silence. Then the
largest boy stepped out with his weight tied to a cord in his hand.
"All right," he said. "Then look out for your head!"
His companions moved back out of danger, and he began to swing the lead
round and round.
"You can't frighten me," said Mary. "I'm going to go to the meetings
and I'm going to invite you to the meetings. You can't stop me."
She stood perfectly still. The tall boy moved nearer. He lifted his
arm and began to swing the piece of lead round and round in the air.
It passed within six inches of Mary's face; another swing, and it
was within four inches. Now it touched a flying tendril of her hair.
Another swing and it might kill her.
But the boy dropped his arm and let the cruel weapon fall. For the
first time in his unruly life he had been beaten—not by force, but by
love.
"Let her alone," he said gruffly. "She's game."
A little color came into Mary's pale cheeks. Most persons would
have been satisfied with this victory, but Mary was not. She boldly
repeated the crime for which she had been so nearly punished.
"Will you come to my meeting?" she asked.
The leader put both hands into his pockets.
"Well, this beats me!" he said. His companions expected that now Mary
Slessor's hour had come. Instead, he turned on them furiously.
"Go on in!" he commanded, and into the meeting filed the whole party.
It was not this time that Mary was afraid.
* * * * *
In far-off Calabar in Africa in the deep woods there was a stir. Dawn
was not yet complete, though there was a grayish light over everything
and a pink glow in the eastern sky. The trees were tall, the foliage
dark, and here and there were gorgeous flowers. Now and then a parrot
or a monkey chattered high up on the branches. Near by flowed a
beautiful stream, overshadowed by thick foliage and edged by blooming
water-lilies.
So far everything was beautiful. But in the deep thickets there were
sounds which were not beautiful, the angry shouts of harsh, human
voices. Advancing through the bushes were many black men, wearing
almost no clothing, but armed to the teeth. They carried knives in
their belts and spears and guns in their hands. Their black eyes
glittered, their teeth gleamed, they panted for breath. They were on
the war-path, and they looked as terrible as charging beasts of prey.
They were a tribe of the Okoyong country, going to meet in battle
another tribe, a member of which had injured their chief. Nothing one
would have said could stay them.
Suddenly they heard a sound of advancing footsteps and a shrill call.
They tightened their grasp on their weapons. Was the enemy at hand?
Then up and at him!
But it was not an enemy; the voice was not that of a warrior; it was
that of a woman. It was not even that of a woman of Okoyong; it was
that of a white woman. "Stop!" it called, in the language of the
Okoyong. "Stop! Listen to me!"
There came into view a little woman who looked, in spite of the passing
of many years, like the girl who had defied the boys in Queen Street.
She was not much taller and certainly no stouter. Her hair was bobbed
like a boy's, and this made her look much as she had long ago. It was
undoubtedly Mary Slessor.
She advanced rapidly, running over the ground in bare feet. One could
not keep one's shoes dry in the damp grass, and it was better to go
unshod.
[Illustration: A WEST COAST AFRICAN VILLAGE
Living in a native mud hut, eating the same sort of food, and sharing
their every-day life, Mary Slessor became the beloved "White Queen of
Okoyong."]
"Stop!" she called again. "Listen to me!"
"Ma is coming!" said a dozen angry voices.
"She needn't think she can stop us with any of her peace talk!"
"Disgrace has been put upon us," said another. "We must have vengeance."
The warriors shook their heads impatiently. They would listen, but they
would not obey. The little figure came nearer and nearer and stood at
last regarding them.
Calabar was not only one of the most beautiful places in the world,
it was one of the most terrible. Just as into the pends and closes
of Dundee had crowded all the poor and wretched beings who could
not afford to live elsewhere, so into Calabar had drifted the most
ignorant, the most degraded, the most persecuted of the black men
on the West Coast. On one side the water prevented them from going
farther; not far away from the other side was the desert. From the
sea came a terrible enemy, the slave-trader, who seized thousands of
victims and carried them away to die in misery in his ships or to serve
hard masters in distant lands. The country was under the control of
England, but no white men penetrated it to face death from starvation,
fever, or the bullet or poisoned arrow or spear-tip of a warrior.
Missionaries try to speak as kindly as possible about the people among
whom they work, but for these poor Africans they had only dreadful
words, "bloody," "savage," "cruel," "crafty," "devilish," "cannibals,"
"murderers." They did their best for them along the coast, but their
efforts to penetrate inland were in vain. It was no wonder they were
"bloody," "savage," and "cruel," since the white man whom the Africans
knew was a demon who stole men, who taught them new ways of murdering
one another, and who brought them rum which made beasts of them.
Most fierce and terrible of all the tribes and most dangerous to the
white man were the Okoyong whose watchword seemed to be "war." They
fought among themselves in their own villages and in various tribes;
but most of all they fought the surrounding nations. The life of a
warrior from Calabar was not worth an instant's purchase if he appeared
on their borders.
But into this country Mary Slessor had gone, and here she was at dawn,
alone, facing a tribe of angry men—not only facing them, but giving
them orders.
She had left Scotland and had lived for a while in the mission school
at Duke Town near the coast where all was orderly, and there had
learned the language. Now she lived in a mud hut and ate the food of
the natives, partly so that she might have a large share of her salary
to send home to her mother, and partly because she wanted to learn the
hearts of the native men and women and the secret of their dreadful
customs. If she knew why they believed it necessary to kill the wives
of a chief when he died and put their bodies with his into the grave,
if she knew why they threw poor little twin babies into the bushes to
die, if she knew why they offered human sacrifices,—then she might be
able to persuade them to understand their own wickedness.
She asked at last to be sent to Okoyong, and here she was alone, so far
as white companionship was concerned, but with many black companions.
She had even adopted a family, all of them black. One was a little
girl, brought to her by a white trader.
"I found this tiny baby thing in the bush," he said. "It is a twin, and
the other is dead."
Mary called the baby Janie for her sister in Scotland. Finally she had
seven, who would otherwise have died and whom she nursed and taught and
trained.
The Okoyong, who would not have endured the presence of a man,
tolerated her. She lived at first in the king's hut, where they were
able to watch her day and night. They believed that she could do them
no harm, and they were willing to let her prescribe for their illnesses
and try to heal their poor bodies. They called her "Ma," and when she
did not oppose their customs, they obeyed her.
But Mary Slessor was not one to countenance evil, or to step aside
from a path which she had set for herself. When she saw prisoners
about to be tortured, not as punishment, but merely as a test of
their innocence, she protested and argued and scolded until the chief
reconsidered. When human sacrifices were to be offered after the death
of a young chief, she grew frantic; she mocked and commanded and
even slept beside the prisoners so that they should not be murdered,
and she helped them escape. She arbitrated quarrels, she proved the
witch-doctors to be impostors. Day in and day out she preached of a
Kingdom of Love until the natives began to understand what it would
be to live at peace with their fellows, to be free from fear and
superstition, and to have hope in God.
The government sent no consul into the district but appointed Mary
Slessor to be consul, and she sat in distant villages and heard
disputes and debated with great chiefs about proper punishment for
criminals, about trade, and about matters in dispute between the
natives and the government. She was called "The White Queen of
Okoyong."
Now she was growing old; her little body was racked by ague; she was
often so tired that she did not see how she could live, but she saw
her work prospering. It was necessary for her to have a rest, and she
was about to leave. She was packing her few belongings and the river
steamer was almost at hand.
But at the last minute there came to her a message. It was a secret;
she did not know who brought it. A chief had been injured by a man from
another tribe, and his own tribesmen were on their way to avenge him.
She did not hesitate for an instant, unless it was to look at a picture
which hung on the wall of her little hut. It was the likeness of a
young man, the boy who had once defied her in Queen Street in Dundee
and had flung his leaden weight round her head. From the moment when
he had entered her meeting he had led a better life, and he had sent
her his picture and that of his wife and children to show her how
prosperous they were. With the recollection of that courageous stand in
her mind, she set out on her journey. She might miss the boat and not
get home, but that made no difference. How could she rest if she knew
that behind her all her work was being undone?
The chief men of the village opposed her going.
"They will kill you."
"They are mad, they will shoot wildly. If you are not assassinated, you
will be shot by accident."
"They will insult you in their drunken rage."
But Mary shook her head and started, a man going before her beating
a drum to show that a free protected person was coming. She marched
straight to the village and there the warriors deceived her. They were
going to start out in the morning, but they said they would call her
and she might go with them. In the morning they called her as they had
promised, but not until they were ready to start. By the time she had
quickly sprung up from the earth where she was sleeping, the warriors
were off.
They showed great stupidity, however, when they believed that they
could get rid of Mary Slessor in this fashion. A hundred yards away she
caught up to them and now she stood calling to them like the sign-post
which warns of the danger of the rushing train, "Stop! Listen!" This
danger was worse than that threatened by any rushing train. They began
to howl and yell.
Mary looked at them scornfully. She knew how to talk to them.
"Don't carry on like small boys!" she said. "Be quiet."
To their amazement, she walked straight through their ranks and on to
the village where the enemy was drawn up in battle array.
"I salute you," she said.
The enemy were too much astonished and enraged to answer.
"Where are your manners?" she said chidingly. She began to smile and
joke.
At once an old man stepped out and knelt down at her feet. Here was one
person at least with manners.
"Once when I was sick you came to see me and healed me. This is a
foolish quarrel. We beg you to make peace for us." If Mary had been
presented with a million dollars, she wouldn't have been so happy.
"You bring three men," she commanded, "and three men will come from the
other side, and we will have a palaver."
For hours she listened to their story; she coaxed them and commanded
them and pleaded with them and laughed at them. In the end she
conquered, and they made peace. Then she said a few simple words about
her Saviour and went back over the dark, lonely forest path. The boat
had gone, but messengers were waiting to take her down the river in a
canoe.
It was not this time that Mary Slessor was afraid, but the time was
coming nearer.
* * * * *
The afternoon was pleasant and at Duke Town, along the coast of
Calabar, there was a stir which betokened some unusual event. The
chief missionary, Mr. MacGregor, was moving about busily, now in the
missionary buildings, now in his own house. The Governor General and
the Commissioner sat on their porches looking out as though they were
watching for something or somebody, or waiting for something to begin.
When Europeans met, they stopped and said a joking word to one another.
It was more than thirty years since Mary Slessor had landed in Duke
Town, and there were many changes. The government buildings were larger
and finer, the mission buildings had increased in number and size, and
there were many other improvements. England had begun to busy herself
with the affairs of her colony, and the Church at home was listening to
the desperate call from Calabar.
Presently a long line of boys appeared from the Boys' School and filed
into the hall of the mission buildings. Then there came an equally
long file from the Girls' School. At once the chief missionary and the
other missionaries and the Governor General and the Commissioner went
thither also, followed by the Europeans and the natives.
They took their assigned places on the platform and the benches and sat
waiting. They watched the door even as the naughty boys and girls had
looked up the street in Dundee, and as the Okoyong chiefs had looked
out from between the branches.
"She's coming!" said a whisper. The whisper passed all along the
benches. "She's coming! She's coming!"
A little figure advanced to the platform, hesitated, and moved on,
assisted by firm and tender hands, and urged by laughing voices.
"Now, come along, Ma! Are you afraid, Ma?"
It must be confessed that now at last Mary Slessor was afraid; afraid
of all these eyes, though she was accustomed to facing thousands of
eyes set in black faces; afraid of all these smiles, though she was
accustomed to friendliness. Most of all, she was afraid of what was
being said. Almost before she was seated, the Commissioner began to
speak.
"Miss Slessor, I have in my hand a box which contains a silver badge of
the Order of the Hospital of St. John of Jerusalem in England, of which
the King is the sovereign head. This badge is conferred only on persons
professing the Christian faith, who are eminently distinguished for
philanthropy. It is a Maltese cross, embellished in the angles by
lions and unicorns. I have been directed by the King to bestow this
badge upon you in recognition of your service to the government. You
have opened the country of Okoyong; you, above all others, have been
instrumental in preserving peace; you have let in a great light where
there was darkness; and England thanks you, her only woman consul."
Mary not only was afraid, but she looked afraid. Her head bent lower
and lower, her hands were lifted to hide her face. But at last she
had to rise and have the medal pinned on her shoulder. She stood for
a moment, trembling; then she looked down at the pleased, attentive
faces. She saw herself a little girl in Scotland and then a woman
in Africa, and once again she grew calm and brave and even a little
ashamed of her embarrassment. The credit for what she had done was not
hers, she would tell where it belonged; then she would feel comfortable.
"If I have done anything in my life," she said, "it has been easy,
because the Master has gone before."
Then she sat down neither proud nor afraid, but content.
VI
THE BOY FOR WHOM NO ONE CARED
Within the livery stable in Harrisburg there was the sound of rough
voices and the tramp of horses' feet. Outside the rain fell steadily.
It was six o'clock on a December morning, and the sky was still black.
Christmas was only a few days off. David Day, who worked in the stable,
anticipated neither a holiday nor a Christmas dinner. It was during
the Civil War, and hither were brought the faithful, worn cavalry and
artillery horses which were then taken into neighboring counties and
exchanged for fresh farm horses.
A large consignment had come in the evening before, and David had
helped to lead them to their places. He was dreaming of them as he lay
on a pile of straw with a horse-blanket for his only covering.
Suddenly a rough voice called, "Dave! Dave!" and he started up from his
straw bed. "It's time to start. Are you going to lie there all day?"
As he fastened his clothing, the loosening of which had been his only
preparation for the night, David's lips quivered. The cold, his
weariness of body, the glimpses he caught as he wandered about the town
of other people's happiness—all were bad enough, but he could stand
them if it were not for the dreadful loneliness of his heart.
"If there were only one person in the world who cared for me!" he
thought. "One person to whom it made any difference whether I came or
went. That is all I ask."
He found his fellow hostlers gathered together eating their rough
breakfast by the dim light of lanterns. They were soldiers, detailed
for this duty, and were dressed in faded blue uniforms. All were
hard-working, harshly-spoken men older than David. They did not mean to
be unkind; such treatment as they gave him was that to which they were
accustomed.
This morning the rough commands, the oaths, the prospect of riding out
into the rain and being in a few minutes drenched to the skin seemed
to David more dreary than ever. He had a hope which usually sustained
him, the hope of continuing his education and becoming a preacher and
perhaps a missionary; but this morning his sky was dark. He mounted his
horse and rode out the gate directing with his voice a hundred poor,
dispirited, patient beasts, some of whom still bore the healed or only
partially healed scars of battle-wounds.
By this time his misery was so keen that he said aloud, "If I only had
someone to care for me!"
There was no answer, and he rode on.
* * * * *
Six years had passed and again the rain fell heavily. That which seemed
miraculous had happened. David had gone to school; friends had been
raised up for him, he had become a preacher and, still more wonderful,
a missionary. He had gone, not to India as he had expected, but to
Liberia on the west coast of Africa. Liberia is a republic, founded as
a home for colored people who wished to return from the United States
to their native land. On the seacoast there was civilization, but only
a little way inland the darkness of heathendom grew dense. Here David's
church had a mission, and here David and his wife had just arrived.
The rain was not a steady winter rain like that into which he had
ridden with his horses; it was much heavier, and it was also more
irregular. For a half-hour the downpour shut out everything in sight;
then the sun shone brightly, and in a few minutes a thick mist rose
from the steaming earth. A little while and the same process was
repeated, and so on all day long.
David and his wife left the little steamer which ran part way to the
mission and walked up the path preceded by the bearers who carried
their luggage. They expected to find a comfortable house with food
in the larder provided for them by their predecessor, who had had to
return home on account of failing health.
They saw only the path before them; they did not see bright eyes
peering from among the dark leaves, glittering, bright eyes which
looked like a queer variety of fruit or blossom. The eyes watched them
cross the overgrown clearing before the mission house and climb the
steps. The porters set down their loads, received their pay, and turned
back into the wall of mist, and the two young people stood alone. The
black eyes could not see the faces of the newcomers and did not dream
of the consternation expressed there. To them, the mission house, even
in its present state, was a grand palace.
David and his wife walked into the hall and saw that the rain had
come through the roof, through the ceiling, clear down to the first
floor. The departure of the last missionary had to be made so hurriedly
that there had been no time to protect anything from moisture or from
destructive insects. The furniture looked unsafe, the walls were
covered with mould, and there was naturally no food anywhere about.
But they had brought some food with them, and they sat down on rickety
chairs before a rickety table to eat. The sun which had shone so
brilliantly for a few minutes vanished; there was a noise like thunder
on the roof, and darkness fell with the rain, though night was still
far away. As they ate, their spirits rose.
"We are pioneers," said Mrs. Day.
"Not quite," said David. "Pioneers do not have even as much of a roof
as this." Suddenly he laughed and went to the side of the room where
their luggage was stacked. He opened an umbrella and held it over Mrs.
Day's head upon which the rain had begun to drip. "Nor umbrellas!" said
he.
Mrs. Day laughed, and her laugh made David for some strange reason
sober.
"Why, your eyes are full of tears!" said she. "There isn't anything to
cry about!"
David did not explain; he continued to eat with one hand while he held
the umbrella with the other. His tears were not tears of sorrow, but
tears of joy. Said he to himself:
"I used to say, 'If only I had someone to care for me!' and now I have."