Part 5

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."

But his heart was not at rest. When the supper was finished, he walked to the door and looked out. Again the thunder of the rain had ceased, the sun was shining brightly, and mist was rising from the earth. He could see with his mind's eye the thick jungle extending hundreds of miles away and growing darker and darker. It was not the thought of the jungle which troubled him, but of the inhabitants whose hearts were darker than their skins, darker than the shadows of night which would soon settle down. He had now a new question to trouble his peace.

"What can one man do?" he said to himself.

* * * * *

Ten more years passed, and this morning the sun shone clear and unclouded. The rains were over, and fine weather was certain for weeks to come. David remembered as he rose that the eleventh anniversary of his coming to Africa had passed unnoticed. He had an important matter on his mind and he dressed quickly and came and stood at the doorway of the mission house, waiting a little impatiently for his breakfast.

The mission house had changed in appearance; the roof was sound and the floor safe to walk upon and there was comfortable furniture everywhere. Even more changed was the aspect of everything without. It seemed as though on all sides the jungle had been pushed back and the sunlight had been let in. Before the mission house was a garden; near by stood a chapel; here were dormitories; there were workshops. Surrounding the mission grounds were plantations of coffee trees.

Not only were there pleasant things to look at, but there were pleasant things to hear, the sound of children singing, the cheerful jingling of the breakfast dishes, and, above all, the soft pleasant splash of the waterfall in the river.

There were even funny sounds. A pet monkey sat on the porch railing and chattered at David—whom, by the way, we should now call Mr. Day. The poor monkey had yesterday learned a lesson which all naughty creatures must learn, to keep his hands away from that which did not belong to him. His aim in life was mischief; he liked to steal, to tear down pictures from the wall, to open ink bottles and smear ink over nice clean paper, or, better still, over paper which had been laboriously covered with reports.

But yesterday, in hunting for ink, he had opened a bottle of strong ammonia. For a moment he had been paralyzed by the fumes, then he coughed and sputtered and scolded and screamed and ran to the top of one of the tall palm trees in front of the house. He would never open any more bottles! He seemed to be saying so as he chattered.

After breakfast a bell rang, and Mr. Day hurried to the chapel. It was time for prayers, and then he would get at his important task. He had, besides a loving heart, a good head, and he believed that it was not enough to teach men about Jesus and to persuade them to have faith in Him. One must also give them work to do so that their minds and hands might be occupied and they might be self-respecting and busy. Then the tempter would not be able to win them back to sin.

Each boy and girl and each man and woman in the mission had a task. In the first place they went to school, and hundreds had learned to read the Bible, some so well that they could teach others. They did the work in the mission house and on the coffee plantations, they toted the baggage, and they farmed for themselves.

Mr. Day not only believed that they should work, but he believed that they should have good tools and labor-saving devices just as the white people had, and this morning a long-looked-for steam engine was to be set in place. There was no use to try to have any other work done, or even to keep school. Mr. Day was excited, but he was the least excited of all the people for miles around.

He conducted chapel soberly, and then he went down to the river, followed by a great crowd. There were little girls in neat gingham dresses and little boys in white cotton trousers and shirts and older folks who were also clean and neatly dressed. Behind them came another throng who lived near by, but who did not belong to the mission. At their head was a chief who had fixed himself up for the occasion by borrowing all the clothing his friends owned. He wore shoes which were too tight, and consequently he took mincing, awkward steps. The rest of his wardrobe consisted of three heavy coats, the lower one very long, the upper one cut off so as to show the tails of the other two, and a high paper collar.

Like all the rest, he was afraid of the large object which lay at the landing. Not much of it was to be seen through the crate which covered it, but he could tell that it was black and dangerous looking. He muttered as he went along.

"We no made for do dis ting. 'Merican man got dat sense. Country man too fool; no sava (know) dem ting called steam. Sava cook, sava eat, sava rice; but dis ting pass him."

As they approached the river's edge, the men of the mission pressed forward to the side of Mr. Day, whom they called Daddy. They were very proud of their importance, but they were half afraid. Daddy was already fastening the ropes to the boat in which the engine rested.

"Now, boys, pull her up!" he called.

There was giggling and laughing as a hundred hands laid hold on the ropes. There was also a great deal of boasting, such as boys do in our country.

"Me strong man!"

"Me pull powerful!"

"Dis ting nosing! Me pull whole house."

"Me pull whole tree down!"

"Ready, all together!" called Daddy.

In a few minutes the boat was high up on the sand beside a strong tripod of poles and the mission wagon which had been placed there. With still louder shouts the heavy box was swung into the wagon. There was laughter and more boasting.

"Me pull strongest of all!"

But now came the tug-of-war. The wagon sank deep into the soft soil and when it would not move, each black man let go the rope and began to shout reproaches at his mate.

"You no work!"

"You weak man!"

"You little baby!"

Daddy was for a moment in despair. Then his ever-ready smile returned, and he said to a bystander, "Get a drum."

The drummer began to beat, the crowd began to sing, the boys and girls began to dance, and the wagon moved. The rope was so long that the women and children could take hold. In a little while the engine had come to the end of its long journey from York, Pennsylvania, to Muhlenberg Mission, Africa.

But it was not yet set up, and Mr. Day was puzzled. He stood earnestly reading the directions, and then he began to give orders. He was so pressed upon by the crowd that he had to shout to them to stand back.

A smart mission boy read the number on the engine.

"Him say, 'No two four one seven.' That him name."

They were all so busy with their own thoughts that they did not see that the last section of the engine was in place and that Daddy had filled the boiler with water.

Suddenly a black boy began to yell.

"Daddy burn him engine up! Daddy burn him engine up!"

Daddy smiled again and piled under the boiler the splintered wood from the crate. The fire grew hotter and hotter, the people forgot their fear and pressed closer and closer.

Daddy was elated; for years he had prayed for this engine, and for months he had known that it was coming and had wondered whether he would be able to set it up and run it. Now here it was, put together, and with the steam pressure mounting higher and higher. He could not express his joy, but he had something at hand which could. He supposed that this fine engine had a fine whistle and he opened the valve and set it off.

Such a sound had never been heard in that part of the world. It was shriller than the monkey's chatter; it was more penetrating than the roll of the war-drums. Men, women, children—everybody—ran for the woods. Even the goats and the chickens fled. Daddy laughed and laughed, and presently they began to venture back.

"How he live for (does he) holler?" asked one.

"He shoot off wif he mouf!"

"Daddy say he have biler. Where de biler?"

"Yonder de biler!" And half a dozen fingers pointed to the smoke-stack.

Daddy let the fire go down and went back to the mission porch. It was almost noon, and the hot sun commanded all men with white skins to get under cover. He sat down to tell his friends in America that the engine was in place, and, as he wrote, he remembered his arrival at the mission, its desolation, the sinking of his heart. His pen dropped from his fingers.

One man had, after all, done a great deal.

Mr. Day had, after awhile, a new title, given to him by a college at home. First he had been Dave, then David, then he had been the Reverend Mr. Day, then "Daddy," and now he was "the Reverend Doctor Day." Probably he liked "Daddy" best of all.

He had ceased entirely as he grew older to think about other people caring for him; what he wished for was to care for other people. He had had many to love, the dear wife who worked with him, and two babies whom they could only keep for a little while. Then there was Leila, a little daughter who was brought up in America. When she was nine years old she went to Africa, but lived only a short time.

He had also hundreds, even thousands, of black boys and girls and men and women, those who came to the mission as children and married there and bought themselves little farms near by, and those who came and stayed only a little while and then went back to the jungle. Of these, some forgot all they had learned, except one thing, that here was a man who had come from so far away that they could not measure the distance, simply to do them good.

For twenty-three years Dr. Day worked on, almost without rest. Mrs. Day came home to America, worn-out, but with high courage to the end of her life. She would not let anyone say that she would not get well and that she could not go back and work with Dr. Day.

"In Africa everything depends on how brave you are. I expect to go back."

Dr. Day saw many of the missionaries who came to help him fall by his side; he saw his first native helpers grow old and die, but he was as brave as Mrs. Day.

"This is my work," he would say. "I need no rest. This is my place."

In 1896 he came home. It was December, and more than thirty years had passed since that December day when he had started out in the bleak morning leading his poor horses. He traveled on a fast steamer, but it was clearly to be seen that before he reached the dock he would have started on another journey. The friends who came to meet him found only his tired body.

But all over the country hearts ached and ached, from Maine to California and from Canada to Florida, and out in Africa there was mourning. It was hard to realize that this was the boy who, when he was young, had wished so desperately for "just one person to care for him." Now thousands cared for him. The explanation is very simple, so simple that any child can understand and can imitate him. It is this—he cared for others.

VII

UNDER TWO FLAGS

It was New Year's Eve in China, even though the calendar on Jennie Crawford's desk in the hospital in the city of Hanyang said, "January 31, 1911." Three years ago, she had left her home in Lynn, Massachusetts, to go to Hanyang because there were more nurses in the state of Massachusetts than in all the great Chinese Empire.

"If I should live in China fifty years," she said to herself as she looked at her calendar, "I'd never get used to February first or any other day than the first day of January being New Year's Day. It seems so strange to have a different day every year and none of them January first."

She walked to the window and looked out. The night was stormy. Loud peals of thunder startled the people who hurried along the streets, and occasional flashes of lightning illuminated the crowds gathered there.

"It's not a good sign for the New Year," said one old Chinese to another. "When it thunders on New Year's Eve there will be a bad year!"

"We must make sure tonight that the evil spirits are all frightened away," answered his friend. "We must take no chances on any being left to get into the New Year."

The two men joined the crowd who were beating gongs and setting off firecrackers. Here and there Buddhist priests went up and down, urging the people to make just as much noise as possible.

Inside the houses mothers were trying to rouse their sleepy children because, unless the whole family kept awake and very watchful, the evil spirits would get into the houses and stay all the year. When the sleepy children could no longer hold their tired eyes open, their mothers hurriedly fed them a vegetable with a bad odor so that the spirits might be frightened away.

New Year's Day was clear and beautiful, and all China had holiday. The shops were closed, and the houses were decorated with strips of red paper inscribed with Chinese characters which meant "happiness," "long life," and other blessings. On most of the doors were pasted new pictures of idols. These were the "door gods" who were expected to frighten the evil spirits away.

It was a busy morning for Jennie Crawford. As in most hospitals, there seemed to be more work than there were people to do it. She assisted with two operations, she made a visit to every bed, sometimes saying only a word of encouragement, but oftener lending a hand in a delicate dressing or superintending the bathing of a very ill patient. She was an expert nurse, and the poor women and children looked at her affectionately, knowing that when her tender hands were compelled to hurt them, it was because she loved them.

As Miss Crawford looked down the street, she could tell the houses of Christians because on them were no hideous pictures, but, instead, beautiful verses from the Bible giving God's promise to care for those who trust in Him.

Everyone goes calling on New Year's Day in China, and many callers came to bring good wishes to Miss Crawford. Little Mrs. Tsao, the wife of the Chinese Christian pastor, came early. Her hair was brushed until it shone like folds of black satin.

"Oh, that the light of God may this year shine upon China just as the sun shines today!" she said.

Next came Miss Crawford's Chinese teacher, who was so dressed up for the New Year that she scarcely knew him. He did not lift his hat as he came in, for that would have been most impolite. From the long, full sleeve of his coat, he took a package wrapped in a yellow silk handkerchief. He unwrapped the package and handed one of his large, red paper calling cards to Miss Crawford.

A procession of fifteen men from the Christian Church came together. Their hair was plaited in long queues which hung down their backs. The queues were tied with long black silk tassels which almost touched the floor. All wore their longest and handsomest gowns. The bright red buttons on top of their black satin caps meant that they brought congratulations, for red is the color of happiness in China. Each man bowed very low and shook his own hand instead of Miss Crawford's to wish her a happy New Year.

All day long the callers came and drank tea and ate Chinese sweets. In the evening Miss Crawford and her friend Jennie Cody, a teacher in the Bible School, sat down together.

"The people in Hanyang are learning to trust us and to really love us," said Jennie Crawford, happily. "Better still, they are learning to trust and love God. Did you notice how many of the doors had Bible verses over them today instead of those hideous gods? I'm glad every day that I came to China."

"Would you still be glad if we had such fighting and riots here as they had across the river in Hankow last week?" asked Jennie Cody.

Jennie Crawford laughed. "I've never had a chance to find out what I would do in a battle," she said. "I'll tell you about that later."

"Things look as if you might have a chance to find out very soon," said Jennie Cody.

Presently a native Bible teacher came in and sat down with them.

"We were talking about the rumors of war," said Miss Crawford. "Do you think there will really be a revolution?"

"There must be a revolution," she answered. "You Americans would never have had freedom to govern your own country if you had not had your revolution. It is even worse in China. Three hundred years ago the Manchus came from the north and took the government away from the Chinese, put a Manchu emperor on the throne, and made the yellow flag with its dragon the flag of China. They compelled the men of China to plait their hair in queues, and whenever a Chinese man dared to cut off his queue, the soldiers of the emperor cut off his head. The Chinese want to be free to rule their own land as you do in America."

"I wish that China was a republic like the United States, but I'm afraid I'd make a poor soldier in a revolution," said Jennie Cody.

* * * * *

In October came rumors of riots and warfare. One evening as Jennie Crawford sat writing in her room in the school building, she heard a loud knocking at the door and a voice calling. There stood Jennie Cody holding up a letter. She had sped across the drill ground of the school and along the dark city wall to the hospital.

"A letter has come from the father of a pupil," she gasped. "He is a Chinese official and he says that there are rumors that a rebellion will start tomorrow."

"We have heard many rumors of war," said Jennie Crawford. "This is only another."

The next day passed and the next and the next and still all was quiet. That night she slept without fear.

Early the following morning a Bible woman came to her. "I've been up all night," she said. "The people are fleeing to the country by hundreds, carrying on their backs bundles of bedding and clothing. All night there has been a procession leaving the city. They say that the revolution is beginning and that the hardest fighting will be in Hanyang because the guns and powder are stored here in the great arsenal, and both armies will try to capture that."

Before noon another letter came. Jennie Crawford read it quickly.

"The American consul says, 'All American women and children must leave Hanyang for a place of safety at once. Fighting has begun near by!'"

Dr. Huntley, the physician in charge of the hospital, called a meeting of all missionaries.

"We don't want to go," said Jennie Crawford. "The school is full of girls, and the hospital is full of patients. We don't want to leave them."

It was agreed that the women and children in the hospital and the girls in the school would be safer at their homes. Jennie Crawford and the teachers found escorts for pupils and patients, while Dr. Huntley went across the river to Hankow to consult the British consul.

"The missionaries in Wuchang thought they would not have to leave," said the consul. "Now the gates of the city have been closed. The American consul has been trying to get them out, but he cannot reach them. Fighting is going on all round the mission. You must get the American women and children out of Hanyang before the soldiers enter."

Dr. Huntley hurried home. The frightened boatman did not want to wait a minute. As he stepped out of the boat, Dr. Huntley took out his watch.

"It is twenty minutes after four," he said. "Promise me that you will wait here with your boat until five."

The boatman promised, and the doctor hurried to the hospital. At the tea-table in the dining-room sat Mrs. Huntley with Jennie Crawford and Jennie Cody.

"We have no choice, we must leave in thirty minutes," announced Dr. Huntley. "Get together a few things and take no more than you can carry."