Part 10

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.

After breakfast I rode out to the encampment, only two or three miles away, where the body of the Prince was lying. The family and officers and friends were assembled to look for the last time on that noted face. The last act before placing the body in the coffin was to cover it throughout with gold-leaf, to give it the appearance of being a Buddha. But no gold-leaf could disguise that face. The family remained there a few days, partly for the much-needed rest, but chiefly to await a day of good augury for carrying the remains to the city.

The day was well chosen for such a pageant as the country had not seen, to honour alike the departed, and to welcome the succeeding Prince. There was a long and imposing procession of soldiers, monks, and people marching to the wailing of the funeral dirge and to the slow, solemn beat of drums. Near the head of the line, on his elephant, was the son-in-law, Chao Intanon, soon to be Prince of Chiengmai. Not far behind came the body of the dead Prince, borne on a golden bier and accompanied by a large train of yellow-robed priests. Behind this was the vacant throne, and on it the royal crown, both testifying to the emptiness of human pomp and power. Then came one leading the horse His Highness used to ride; and next, his favourite elephant, its huge body covered with trappings of gold. After these came members of the Prince’s family and other near relatives.

About ten o’clock the procession approached the city which, by inexorable custom, may never open its gates to receive the dead—not even though the dead were he whose word for so many years had been its law. What a comment on human glory and on the tyranny of superstitious custom! On reaching the South Gate, therefore, the procession turned to the right, and passed on outside the city wall to the East Gate. There, in the Prince’s summer garden, beside the river, his remains lay in state until the great cremation ceremony a year later. Meantime a lamp was kept burning at the head and at the foot night and day. A prince was in constant attendance. Courses of monks chanted the requiem of the Buddhist ceremonial for the dead. At intervals during the whole night the beat of the drum resounded through the air, reminding the city that there lay all that remained of one of its greatest masters.

Prince Intanon, though not yet officially installed, assured me, as soon as I met him at the encampment, that we were to remain and build our houses and prosecute our work without let or hindrance. Other princes and officers were pleased to give the same assurance. With the Prince’s party there came a large mail from friends in Bangkok, giving full particulars of the negotiations that were stopped by the sudden illness of the Prince, and clearing up the questions about which we were so much in doubt. The interposition of Providence had been so marked that we could only stand in awe before Him who had so wonderfully led us. For, after the utmost stretch of my own credulity in trying to trust the Prince, my final conviction is that, had he lived, he and the mission could not have existed in the same country. He could never have endured to see his people becoming Christians—Not that he cared so much for Buddhism; but it would have been a constant challenge to his autocratic rule.

In March, while the scenes of this tragic drama were slowly enacting in Bangkok, and while we were anxiously awaiting the dénouement, we had a pleasant episode of another kind. One morning we were surprised to learn from some natives that out on the plain, not far from the city, they had passed two white foreigners, a man and a woman, and that they were coming to our house. Sure enough, about ten o’clock, who should ride up but Rev. and Mrs. J. N. Cushing of the American Baptist Mission in Burma! What an unexpected pleasure! For three years we had seen but two white faces outside of our own little circle. Some of our latest news from home friends was eleven months old when we received it. What a social feast we did have!

They had started from Shwegyin, Burma, had made a tour west of the Salwin River, crossed over to Keng Tung, come down by Chieng Sên and Chieng Rāi, and now called at Chiengmai on their way back to Burma. Their visit was a real godsend to us in the time of our troubles.

XII

THE NEW RÉGIME

One of the results of the change of government was that we were able to build permanent houses. For three years and more we had lived within basket-woven bamboo walls that a pocketknife could pierce, neither secure nor wholesome nor favourable for our work. They bore silent but steady testimony that we ourselves did not regard our stay as permanent. The results of our manner of living were already seen in the impaired health of the members of the mission. My wife surely could never have lived another decade in the old sālā with bamboo walls and ceiling, where the dust from the borers in the wood constantly filled the air and poisoned the lungs. Mrs. Wilson bore up bravely for five years, until there was just ready for her reception the permanent house which she was never to enjoy. As soon as they could, the family started for the United States on furlough, all thoroughly broken down. After two years of rest Mr. Wilson alone was able to return to the field, leaving Mrs. Wilson behind. She never regained her health, and they never saw each other again. Her departure was a great loss to the mission. She was a gifted lady, a fine vocal and instrumental musician, and a consecrated missionary. She left one literary work in Lāo, the translation of Bunyan’s _Pilgrim’s Progress_, which has since been published.

But as matters then were, there was much perplexing work to be done before we were at all ready to begin building. I was favoured in getting a lot of first class teak logs delivered at a very cheap rate. Then the trouble began. The logs must be hauled up from the river by elephants to the lot where they are to be sawn. The log is raised and mounted on two strong trestles. A black line to guide the saw is struck on either side. Two sawyers stand facing each other across the log, grasping the handles of a long framed saw with horizontal blade. Then the operation begins. The saw is pushed and pulled back and forth till the cut is carried through to the end of the log. This operation is repeated for every stick of timber put into the house.

But we are already too fast. Where are the sawyers to come from? There were then no good sawyers among the Lāo. No one dared to learn for fear of being appropriated by the Prince, or of being compelled to work on public buildings. There were, however, three pairs of sawyers, debtors to the Prince, whom he had brought up from Rahêng for his own work. Whenever not needed by him or by some other person of rank, they were allowed to seek employment elsewhere. So, at odd times, I was able to secure their services. But if the Prince needed them, they must at once drop everything and go. Scores of times our sawyers were called away, often for weeks at a time, and at the busiest stage of the work.

And now for the carpenter. The Lāo dared not be known as carpenters for the same reason as that given above in the case of the sawyers. They would have been constantly requisitioned for government work. There was in the place only one Siamese carpenter reputed to be a good workman. In order to get him, I had to advance him three hundred rupees, professedly to pay a debt, but most likely to gamble with. He was to build by contract. But he had already received his money, or so much of it that he was quite independent. He soon slashed and spoiled more timber than his wages were worth. So, to keep him from ruining the whole, I had to get rid of him, even at some sacrifice. Just then a Siamo-Chinese turned up, who took the job by the day under my direction, to be assisted by some Christians whom we trained thus as apprentices. The house was built on the plan of the East Indian bungalow—raised ten feet from the ground on posts, with single walls and a veranda all round. Its large lofty rooms, screened on all sides by the verandas, make it still one of the most comfortable houses in the mission. It was more than eight years from the time of our arrival when we entered it; and even then it was not finished.

Although the new government was friendly, yet some of the ruling spirits were in their hearts as hostile as the deceased Prince had ever been, and without his more noble qualities. There were two in particular who soon began to show that their secret influence would be against the mission—and their open hostility, too, so far as they ventured to let it appear. One was the adopted son of the late Prince, and the other the new ruler’s half-brother, who had been made Uparāt, or second in power, when the new Prince ascended the throne. Had these both lived, their combined influence would have been nearly as formidable as that of Kāwilōrot. Unfortunately, too, the actual business of the country was largely in their hands. Prince Intanon was not at all ambitious for power. He liked nothing better than to work without care or responsibility in his own little workshop, making fancy elephant-saddles, and let his half-brother rule the country. During the following year the adopted son went down to Bangkok to receive the insignia of his new rank, but never returned. His death was even more sudden than that of his foster-father. He was taken with the cholera, and died in a few hours. This left the elder of the two avowed enemies of Christianity, and the higher in rank and power. To give an illustration of the kind of spirit we had to contend with in him, I will anticipate an incident of a few years later.

Two native Karens, ordained ministers, were sent by the American Baptist Mission to initiate in Lāo territory a work among the Karens, a hill-people scattered sparsely throughout all the mountain region between Siam and Burma. The native evangelists brought with them letters from the missionaries in Burma, requesting us to aid them in getting Lāo passports. We went with them to the new Prince, and he very graciously gave direction to his brother to see that passports were issued, stating not only that the visitors were to be protected and aided as travellers, but also that they were to be allowed to teach the new religion, and that people were allowed to embrace it without fear.

I was specially interested that they should succeed in the first village which they were to visit, for it was the one where I had vaccinated the whole population during the first year of our mission. Since I had failed to make Christians of them—partly, as I supposed, on account of my ignorance of their language, but more on account of the persecution which followed so soon after—I hoped that when the message was delivered in their own tongue, with official permission to embrace it, the whole village might accept the Gospel. What was the astonishment of the preachers that, instead of being received with the characteristic hospitality of their race, they hardly found common civility! At last they learned the reason. The Chao Uparāt had secretly despatched a special messenger with a letter under his own seal, forbidding any Karen subject to embrace the new religion. All who did so were to be reported to him. What that meant, or what he wished them to infer that it meant, was well understood.

Our readers, therefore, will not be surprised that we found it necessary to keep an eye on the Chao Uparāt, and to use considerable diplomacy in counteracting his schemes against the church. It was my policy in those days to keep up as close an acquaintance as possible with the members of the ruling family. It was the misfortune of all of them that they were ignorant;[9] and ignorance begets suspicion. Some of them were naturally suspicious of the missionaries. They could not understand what motive could induce men who were neither government officials nor merchants, to leave a great country and come to live in theirs.

Footnote 9:

This same Uparāt, whose word ruled the country, was unable to write his own orders.

Two objects were gained by keeping in contact with the rulers. They saw, then, with their own eyes, and heard with their own ears, what we were doing. In nearly every interview our one great work was magnified alike to prince, priest, and people. I have heretofore specially mentioned princesses, too, as well as princes, in this connection, because the Lāo have a proud pre-eminence among non-Christian races in the position accorded to woman. In the family, woman’s authority is universally recognized. At the time we speak of it was much the same in the government also. The influence of women in affairs of state was doubtless greatly increased during the previous reign, when, there being no sons in the royal household, the daughters naturally became more prominent. They were trained to understand and to deal with public business.

I have already referred to the kindness of the elder daughter, now not, as in former reigns, the head-wife, but the only wife of the new ruler. By birth she was of higher rank than he; and she was in every way worthy of the high position she now assumed. Hers was, in fact, the strong intelligence and steady will that kept her more passive consort from errors into which he would otherwise have been led. At this particular juncture she was needed as a check against the Prince’s more ambitious and less principled half-brother. She had a woman’s instinct to discern a point, and a woman’s revulsion against lawless acts, even when done by her own father. In honesty of purpose she and her consort were one, for his kindness of heart had drawn to him more dependents than any other prince in the land possessed. The murder of the Christians they both regarded as “worse than a crime—a blunder.” For the present, however, there was no indication of the sinister forces which came into play later. All in authority seemed to be honestly carrying out the orders from Bangkok concerning the missionary work.