Chapter XXXV: Conclusion 413 (4)

“Since our last mail was despatched, tidings have been received
from the mission families in North Laos which have greatly
distressed and alarmed us, causing no little anxiety for their
personal safety. This outburst of persecution from which they
are now suffering must have been quite unlooked for, for their
letters down to September 10th were full of encouragement. Never
had the king and the princes[8] seemed more friendly; never had
their prospects seemed brighter. Seven interesting converts had
been baptized since the year began, and they had just been
enjoying a wonderfully favourable opportunity to make the gospel
message known to the people from every part of the kingdom....
What has caused this sudden change in the demeanour of the king
of Chiengmai toward our missionaries there, does not appear....

Footnote 8:

That is the Prince of Chiengmai and the nobility. These terms are so
used generally throughout this correspondence.—ED.

“Thus far they seem to have had no apprehension for themselves
personally; but the next letter, of two days’ later date,
indicates that something had occurred or had come to their
knowledge which led them to believe that their own lives were in
jeopardy. On September 29th Mr. McGilvary writes hurriedly to
his father-in-law, Rev. D. B. Bradley, M.D., of the A. M. A.
mission as follows:—

“‘Dear Father and Mother:—We write to tell you that we may be in
great danger. If you never hear from us more, know that we are
in heaven. Send some one up here to look after our Christians,
and do not, we beg you, grieve over the loss of our lives. Two
of our church members died at the martyr’s stake on the 14th of
September. Warrants are out for the others. What is before us we
do not know. We are all peaceful, and very happy. We have
written letters giving the full facts, but dare not send them
for fear of their interception.

“‘Lung Puk left here on the 12th direct for Bangkok. Should he
never reach you, you may fear the worst for us.... He had a
large mail with our reports, etc. Should worst come to worst, we
have counted the cost beforehand, and our death will not be in
vain. Love to all the dear ones. Good-bye, dear father, mother,
brothers, sisters, and friends—perhaps till we meet in heaven!’”

Dr. House then continues:

“That these letters—the last one especially—awakened our deepest
solicitude, I need not assure you. The brethren from the
Pechaburī station reached Bangkok, to attend the annual session
of Presbytery, the very day the startling tidings came; and
anxious were our deliberations, and earnest our prayers in
behalf of those brethren beloved and their helpless families. A
month had then elapsed since the date of the letters. Were they
still in the land of the living?

“It was deemed advisable that some of our number should proceed
as far up the river as possible—to Rahêng at least—to learn the
existing state of things and extend all possible assistance.
After consultation this service devolved on Bros. McDonald and
George.

“Owing to the peculiar allegiance which holds the Lāo tribes
tributary to the Siamese, it was thought best not to press any
doubtful treaty rights and claims through the United States
Consul—that is, the protection they would be entitled to claim
anywhere on the soil of Siam proper—but to throw ourselves on
the friendliness and goodwill of the Siamese Government as old
residents here, most of us, who are greatly troubled lest harm
should befall our friends who are living in one of their
tributary states. What could they do to help us?

“The deputation, consisting of Dr. Bradley, Mr. McDonald, Mr.
George, and myself, were most kindly received by the new Regent
of the kingdom, the late Prime Minister—were received in every
respect as friends, and the best endeavours of the Siamese
Government were promised. A government official would be
despatched at once bearing a letter to the king of Chiengmai,
enjoining on him to give protection to the missionaries. But the
Regent added, ‘It is difficult to deal with a man so moody and
arbitrary as this Chief of Chiengmai. He is like King Theodore
of Abyssinia.’—This too significant comparison had already
suggested itself in anything but an agreeable way to ourselves.

“The Siamese move slowly at the best, and the brethren who have
consented to go on this errand so full of perplexity and
possible peril started several days before the royal messenger’s
preparations were completed. We are waiting with the greatest
solicitude further tidings. I must say from what I know of the
character of the man in whose hands and at whose mercy they are,
that I have great fears. Others here, however, are confident
that no harm can come to them personally.”

The following, from a note of mine to the Board, will throw further light on our letter to our friends and on our situation. It was dated October 31st, while we were anxiously waiting for the reply to our letters.

... “But the particular fact that filled us with deepest anxiety
when we sent that note to Bangkok, was a rumour that the king
had, in person, stopped a boat in charge of our old servant whom
we had sent down to Bangkok after money and supplies, and had
put him, his wife, and all the boatmen to death. That rumour was
currently believed here, and we had so many questions asked us
about them by persons in high and in low station, that we were
constrained almost to believe it. And if that had been done, we
knew not what would come next. Of course we had serious
apprehensions regarding our own safety; yet our duty was clear.
However dangerous our position, we felt that flight would be
more dangerous.... Our strength was to sit still....

“After waiting a month in suspense about our servants, we have
just learned, on pretty good authority, that they were not
murdered. They have been reported as having passed Rahêng. In a
few days we shall know the truth. If they are safe, our greatest
fears were groundless. We wait to see the Lord’s purpose in
reference to this people. We yet believe they are purposes of
mercy. The excitement has somewhat died down, and we have daily
many visitors. But there is great fear of the authorities. No
one feels safe; no one knows what will come next.”

I quote from a letter of Mr. Wilson to the Board the following account of the suffering and death of the martyrs, written January 3d, 1870, after all the various rumours had been sifted, and the facts were clearly known. Meantime the Commission referred to in the letter of Dr. House had come, and this letter was brought to Bangkok by it on its return. This letter and the one cited just above were printed in the _Foreign Missionary_ for March and for May, 1870.

“Till within a very short time before their execution, we had no
apprehension that any serious obstacle would be thrown in the
way of the Lāo becoming Christians. All the baptisms had taken
place publicly. The number, and some of the names, of the
Christians had been given in answer to questions asked by the
younger daughter of the king, and by others of royal blood. We
had become convinced that the king must know that some of his
people had become disciples of Jesus. His two daughters had
assured Mr. McGilvary that no one should be molested for
becoming Christians. With such an assurance from the highest
princesses in the land, we flattered ourselves that the king
would tolerate Christianity. The fearlessness, also, with which
all but Nān Chai professed Christ, made us feel that there was
no danger to the life of any one who had received baptism.

“Nān Chai, however, seemed anxious. Some two months before his
baptism he requested us to write to Bangkok and get the King of
Siam to make proclamation of religious toleration. Not a month
before his baptism he asked me, ‘If the king should call me and
ask, “Are you a disciple of Jesus?” would it be wrong to say
“No”?’ We knew that for some time he had loved the Saviour, but
he was following Him tremblingly. His position as overseer
(ex-abbot) of the monastery made his renunciation of Buddhism a
more noticeable event, and rendered him more liable to
persecution than some of the others. I may here state that those
who, after leaving the monastery, are appointed overseers of the
temple, are, by virtue of their position, exempt from the call
of their masters to do government work. Nān Chai belonged to
this class. His resignation of this post when he became a
Christian, both proved his sincerity, and made him a mark for
Buddhist hate and reproach.

“Noi Sunya’s work was to tend the king’s cattle, and in this way
he performed his share of public service. He also worked a farm,
and was a physician. He was of a genial disposition and cheerful
temper, always looking on the bright side of life, happy
himself, and trying to make others happy. He was thus a general
favourite. His reception of the truth was hearty and childlike.
How his face beamed with joy that communion Sabbath! Next day,
Monday, September 6th, about noon, he started for his walk of
nine miles across the plain to Mê Pō Kā. In bidding him good-bye
we little thought we should see his face no more.

“Our teacher, Nān Chai, came in the following Thursday, somewhat
sad because the head man of his village was urging him for some
government work and supplies that were then being raised for the
army. After resigning the oversight of the temple, being
virtually without a master, he had come in to the city to put
himself under the king’s younger daughter. On Saturday morning,
the 11th, she gave him his protection papers, for which he paid
the usual three rupees. Some ten days before, when Mr. McGilvary
had called with him in reference to this matter, he had, at the
princess’ request, made a statement of his Christian faith, even
to the repeating of a prayer.

“On that same Saturday afternoon a message came from the head
man of the village for Nān Chai’s immediate return home. The
message was so urgent that he concluded not to wait for the
accustomed Sabbath morning worship. Knowing that there was a
disposition on the part of some of the public officers to find
fault with the Christians, I thought it best for him to go home,
and not return to us till quiet should be restored. He seemed
very sad, and said that his master was disposed to oppress him.
All that I could say did not rouse him from his depression. He
took leave of us about ten o’clock at night. When we awoke on
Sabbath morning, he was gone. We know now that shortly after the
princess had given him her letters of protection on Saturday
morning, she despatched a messenger to the head man of the
village ordering Nān Chai’s arrest. Imagine that Sabbath
morning’s walk of nearly nine miles, much of the way through
water nearly knee-deep! Dear gentle heart, full of care and
fear!

“He reached home about noon. After dinner he called upon the
head man of the village; but no one knew the nature of the
conference. He was permitted to sleep at home that night. Next
morning came the order from the chief man of the district for
the overseers of the temples and those doing the king’s own work
to appear at his house. This order included, of course, both our
brethren, Noi Sunya and Nān Chai. But to make their attendance
doubly sure, armed men were sent with clubs and pikes to conduct
them to the appointed rendezvous. Noi Sunya took leave of his
wife and six children in tears. He knew what that call and those
clubs and spears meant. When they reached the house of the
district chief, they found a large armed force ready to receive
them. When arrested at their homes they had been charged with
refusing to do the king’s work. But now Nān Chai was asked, ‘Are
you an overseer of a temple?’ He answered, ‘I was, but am not
now.’ ‘Have you entered the religion of the foreigners?’ ‘Yes.’
Noi Sunya was asked the same question, to which he also answered
‘Yes.’

“They were then seized, and after further examination were told
that they had been condemned to death. While Nān Chai was giving
the reason of the faith that was in him, one of the examiners
kicked him in the eye, leaving it bloodshot and causing it to
swell till the eye was closed. The arms of the prisoners were
tied behind their backs. Their necks were compressed between two
pieces of timber (the death-yoke) tied before and behind so
tightly as painfully to impede both respiration and the
circulation of the blood. They were thus placed in a sitting
posture near a wall, and cords were passed through the holes in
their ears and tied to a beam above. In this constrained and
painful position—not able to turn their heads or bow them in
slumber—they remained from Monday afternoon till Tuesday morning
about ten o’clock, when they were led out into the jungle and
executed.

“When Nān Chai was arrested, his wife started on a run to inform
us, supposing that he would be brought to the city to undergo a
regular trial. In that case she hoped the missionaries could
ensure his release. She had arrived in sight of our house, when
a messenger from the head man of the village overtook her, and
informed her that if she called on us, it would be at the risk
of her life. She returned immediately, to join him at the
district chief’s house; but was informed that if she made the
least demonstration of grief, she too would be put to death. She
sat down by her husband for a time. They conversed together as
opportunity offered, being narrowly watched by the merciless
guard. The prisoners both said, ‘Oh, if the missionaries were
here, we should not have to die!’ Nān Chai’s last words to his
wife were, ‘Tell the missionaries that we die for no other cause
than that we are Christians.’ One of the guards angrily asked
what he had said. She saw that it was best for her to retire,
and they parted.

“When Nān Chai knew that he and his comrade were doomed, he said
to one of the officers, ‘You will kill us; we are prepared. But
I beg you not to kill those who are in the employ of the
missionaries. They are not Christians, and are not prepared to
die.’ What a triumph of faith in this once fearful disciple!
What a noble forgetfulness of self in that earnest request for
the lives of others!

“And now, after a long and weary night of painful watching, the
morning of Tuesday, the 14th, dawns upon them. The hour is come.
They are led out into the lonely jungle. They kneel down. Nān
Chai is asked to pray. He does so, his last petition being,
‘Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.’ The tenderness of the scene
melts his enemies to tears. The heads of the prisoners—prisoners
for Jesus’ sake—are drawn back by slightly raising the cruel
yoke they have worn for more than twenty hours. The executioner
approaches with his club. Nān Chai receives the stroke on the
front of the neck. His body sinks to the ground a corpse.... Noi
Sunya receives upon the front of his neck five or six strokes;
but life is still not extinct. A spear is thrust into his heart.
His body is bathed in blood, and his spirit joins that of his
martyred brother. Their bodies were hastily buried. Their graves
we may not yet visit....

“Only a few days before his death Nān Chai wrote, at Mrs.
Wilson’s request, a little slip which she forwarded to her
friends as a specimen of the Lāo language. The last line—the
last, no doubt, that he ever wrote—contained the following words
‘Nān Chai dai rap pen sit lêo. Hak Yēsū nak’ (Nān Chai has
become a disciple. He loves Jesus much).”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

X

THE ROYAL COMMISSION

After the despatch of our hurried notes by the Burmese on September 29th, 1869, we felt reasonably sure that our friends would learn the news of our situation, and we were in a measure relieved. But at that time we still believed the reports about the murder of Lung Puk. In fact, it was these reports, which we had just heard before writing the letters sent by the Burmese, that caused the great anxiety expressed in them. But though we poured out our hearts and unburdened our fears to our friends, no one in Chiengmai outside of our two families ever knew the fears that agitated our breasts. For two months or more we still feared that we might be treacherously murdered under colour as though it were done by robbers or dacoits. We knew not on lying down at night what might happen before dawn.

One of the hardest things of the situation was that, in the presence of our own dear children, we felt obliged to speak to each other of these matters by signs alone, since it seemed wise to conceal our fears from them. When we had native callers, or in our visits to the natives, we preached to them just as if nothing had happened. Some that we know were sent as spies to see what we were doing and what we were planning to do, had nothing to report except the Gospel message which they had heard.

Then was the time when a few tried friends endeared themselves forever to us. Among these was the Princess Būa Kam, and the abbot of the Ūmōng monastery, both of whom have been mentioned before. The silver plate with a little rice or fruit from the Princess never ceased to come; and the abbot often made an excuse of errands elsewhere in our neighbourhood that he might have occasion to call and express his sympathy.

One incident which occurred before the various rumours had been cleared up, though well-nigh tragic at the time, seemed afterward amusing enough. After the appalling treachery of the younger daughter of the Prince in regard to Nān Chai, while professing constantly such personal friendship for us, we naturally regarded her with profound distrust. What, then, was our surprise, when, one night in the darkest time of our troubles, a summons came for me to go at once to her palace with the officer who brought the message. I was by no means to wait till morning, and I could get no clue to the object of the summons. But it was almost a royal command. Whatever it might mean, nothing would be gained by refusal; so I promised at once to go. But a difficulty arose. My wife positively refused to let me go alone. If the worst were to come, she would be there to see it.

So the children were left in bed, and off we walked three-fourths of a mile in the dark to the palace. We found it brilliantly lighted up. Was it for the final act? But our fears were soon allayed. The Princess received us as she always had done—probably a little surprised to see Mrs. McGilvary with me. A foreign rug was spread for us, and soon was produced a formidable package of documents in English, which the Princess wanted us to translate! They were from the court in Maulmein, and had reference to the lawsuits. They had just arrived, and she could not wait till morning. We glanced over them, gave her the substance of them, and promised that if she would send her scribe down next day, we would translate them. She was relieved to find that there was nothing more formidable in them—and so were we. The whole interview did not last more than fifteen minutes; and when ready to return, we were escorted home by servants with lanterns.

For a time we had very few visitors even for medicine. But the monasteries were always open, and we were welcomed in nearly all the homes of the princes. I regularly called on the Prince. When he was in a pleasant mood, I had pleasant conversations with him. If I found him moody or busy, I paid my respects and retired. His elder daughter and her husband were always pleasant, and she was always interested to talk on the subject of religion.

Another friendship formed the year before was then a great comfort to us, though no one could really help us. A wealthy Chinese, who had charge of collecting nearly all the revenue of the government, had been shot in the city of Lampūn, eighteen miles away. A messenger with an elephant was sent, begging me to come at once. It seemed at first impossible for me to go, but finally I did so. The ball had entered below the knee while the man was lying down, had followed the bone, and had lodged in the soft part of the thigh. It was extracted, and I remained there till the patient was out of danger. The wife, a Siamo-Chinese, was a merchant, and acted as our banker for ten years. At this writing, the family has not yet forgotten the service rendered.

But our hourly thoughts were directed to Bangkok. What would be the outcome of our letters? We were continually asked what we were going to do. Our reply was that, of course, we intended to remain. There was no telegraph then, nor even a monthly mail. It was not till November 26th that the first news of what was doing in our behalf reached us. It was brought by messengers sent on in advance to notify the government that a Royal Commissioner had arrived in Lampūn, with two foreigners and a train of eighteen elephants and fifty-three attendants. They were to be in Chiengmai the next day. No intimation, however, was given as to what the object of the Commission was. But plainly it must be a matter of no slight importance.

Early on the morning of the 27th every one was on the alert. A body of men under the direction of an officer were scrubbing the old sālā next door to us, for the letter had asked that preparations be made for the party. A prince whispered in our ears to enquire whether we knew what the “Kā Lūang” was coming for. But we knew as little as he did. We were so hopeful, however, that we began to prepare for our guests, too. The whole place seemed in an attitude of expectancy. The sudden arrival of a Kā Lūang was not an everyday occurrence. And then the two foreigners—two “white kolās”!

In the afternoon the curiosity of every one was gratified by the arrival 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.

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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.

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.