Chapters 12
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1 01 - Early Days 16:57
Early Days. Auguste, Lyons, are you ready? Yes, mother. Eugenie and Pauline, you have the lunch-basket packed? Yes, mother. Gerard, Constance, Marie, one of you is looking after Joseph. This time there was silence, as three of the de Wuster children looked illily at each other. "'I thought you,' began Constance. "'But mother told you,' broke in Marie. The two sisters turned on their brother. "'After all, he's a boy,' said Constance, as Marie nodded agreement. It would seem as if you—oh, stop blaming each other, exclaimed their mother. Go look for him and see that he's not into some mischief. Which he probably is, she added under her breath. I don't see why that boy need always be doing what he mustn't.
It was not that Joseph was a naughty boy—not at all. He was agreeable and honest and obedient. But, too, he was a strong, healthy five-year-old with a very active mind, which could always think of new projects and activities. He seldom did what he had been told not to do, but poor Mrs. de Wooster sometimes felt that if she hoped to have him stay out of trouble she would have to tell him to do nothing but sit still, and to sit still would, of course, have been quite impossible for Joseph. Today she had little time for repairing torn clothing or doctoring bruises and cuts. The fair, or Kirmes, as it is called in Belgium, had opened in the nearby town of Worcester, and the whole family was going to it for a day of pleasure.
Mr. de Wooster was a thrifty man. It was necessary with such a large family. But he was also a generous father, and the children felt sure that after they had eaten the hearty meal brought from home, they would have treats of cakes and sweet drinks, and perhaps the girls could each buy a bright ribbon for her hair. The boys, too, would each have a gift. They all stood breathless in the big kitchen, waiting for Gerard to find and bring in what they felt sure would be a dirty, disheveled Joseph. If he was too dirty, too disheveled, there would be a delay while he was tidied up, and their father did not like being kept waiting. He was even now hitching the horses to the wagon, which would carry them all to the Kiermez, and no Joseph.
Just as the big wagon left the barn and rumbled across the yard which separated from the house, Gerard burst into the house with Joseph, and amazingly unexpectedly cleaned Joseph by the hand. The girls beamed at each other and at their mother. Doesn't he look nice? They chorused. He's a good boy. Where did you find him, Gerard? asked Mrs. DeVoster. He was sitting on a big stone under the tree, just sitting and doing nothing. Joseph looked solemnly around the group, rolling his great dark eyes from one to the other. "'I was so doing something,' he said at last. "'I was telling my angel to tell your angels to take care of you to-day and not let you get lost.' "'How about you? Is there no fear that you'll get lost?' asked Leonce, suppressing a smile.
"'No, of course not. My angel always takes care of me.' The family hurried out without comment, as Mr. de Wooster reined the big, flimminous horses before the door. The children boosted their mother up to the high seat beside her husband. Then the older boys climbed into the back of the wagon to give the girls and Joseph a helping hand. The little boy snuggled down beside Pauline, his favorite, and listened wide-eyed as she described the color and fun and excitement they would find at the fair. There will be music and singing and dancing, she explained, and a puppet theater, perhaps, and many other interesting things to see, and perhaps some special treats to eat. Joseph wriggled closer, anxious not to miss a single detail of this wonderland.
Some people will be dressed in funny clothes, and they will play jokes on the others. There will be acrobats, too, people who do wonderful tricks, she explained. realizing that the word acrobat wouldn't mean much to her little brother. "'Will they all be nice people?' asked Joseph. "'All our neighbors will be there, and many others,' Pauline answered. "'Perhaps we will see Grandfather de Booster, too.' Joseph's eyes shone. There was a particular friendship between his grandfather and himself, and they understood and enjoyed each other very much. The other children all joined in the story, telling what they had heard of Ferris in other places. Wondering what new amusements this one would offer.
There would be swings and games of skill, and the big boys boasted a little about what they would accomplish, if given the chance. Your aim is very good, Gerard assured Lyons. You can throw darts against anyone. I have a stronger arm. I'll do better if we throw balls. Lyons agreed to both statements, and they went off into a discussion of their own feats and those of various friends. while the girls talked of the ribbons and laces and linens which would be displayed. Little Joseph drowsed off, while these, to him, uninteresting conversations were going on. When they were still some distance from the streets, given over to the fair, the sound of music and shouting and laughter floated over the low hills to meet them.
The excitement seemed to touch the very horses, and with no urging from Mr. de Wooster, They hurried a little faster along the cobbled road, flashing by the people who traveled afoot on the dusty paths bordering the highway. "'Wake up, Joseph! Wake up! We're nearly there!' Pauline roused the sleeping boy and brushed his hair back from his forehead. He bounced up and down on the floor of the wagon, hardly able to wait until the horses were driven into the field, where they were to be left. "'These good friends will have their dinner first,' said Mr. de Vooster, hitching his team under a wide-spreading tree. He reached under the front seat and drew out two leather nose-bags, each containing a generous measure of oats.
Then he loosened the horses' girths and took off their bridles, replacing them with loose halters, which allowed the animals to feed easily from the bags. He now fastened to their heads. While he was so busied, Mrs. De Booster opened the lunch-basket. The children watched with eager eyes, as the goodies were taken out and placed on a white cloth Marie had spread on a level patch of ground. Mr. de Wooster said grace, and between hunger and excitement the meal vanished as if by magic. "'When we get to the Kermes,' directed Mr. de Wooster, "'we will stay together as long as we can. But the crowd is large and all intent on seeing everything, so we are sure to be forced apart. However, you older children will keep a firm grip on the hands of the little ones to make certain they don't get lost.' He looked about to be sure his words were understood, and then, guiding them in front of him as a shepherd does his sheep, he marched proudly beside his wife into the streets of Kermes.
Pauline and Joseph were soon separated from the rest of the family, for the little boy was startled by the noise and clamor, and hung back from the crowd in confusion. Music to him had meant the singing of his family and their friends, or the little organ in the church, and not the loud, brassy clangor of the wandering bands of musicians. The people in funny clothes, of whom Pauline had spoken, He had pictured us looking like himself and his brothers and sisters when they played games at home. Here they were dwarfs and clowns, with grotesque costumes and painted faces which frightened him, and the pushing crowd, he felt lost in a moving sea of legs. He tried bravely to keep his dismay to himself, but when a passer-by playfully hit him with a bladder fastened on the end of a stick, the action in the loud pop upset Joseph completely.
He jerked his hands from his sister's, and wriggled his way through the masses of people, intent on one thing only—to get away from these terrifying merry-makers. It happened so quickly that before Pauline was fully aware of the fact that her little brother's hand was no longer in hers, he had disappeared from her sight, swallowed up in a sea of strangers. She called, but hardly hoped that he would hear her over the din, or that he would, or could, find his way back to her. She turned, and with what speed was possible, followed in the direction she believed he had taken. But the hearty, pleasure-seeking people could not understand why anyone should be hurrying through the kermis. "'A pretty girl.
Will you dance with me?' "'Little lady, don't go so fast. Let me show you the ribbons I have for sale. Pretty ribbons for a pretty miss.' "'Pauline,' a neighbor this time, "'is your family here? And how is your dear mother?' Everyone was determined to stop her. and, all the while, Joseph, her charge, her dear little brother, was getting farther away. She was almost in tears when she saw two of her older brothers coming toward her. "'Leonce! Gerard!' They didn't hear her frantic call. She tried again, even louder. "'Gerard! Leonce!' This time they caught her voice pronouncing their names, though they could not tell from what quarter it came. "'Here I am! Here! I must see you!' The boys spotted her, and good-naturedly made their way over to where she stood, believing she had some amusing tale for them.
But her distraught face told a different story, even before she spoke. "'I've lost Joseph!' She burst out as soon as they were near enough to hear her. A few quick questions and a simple plan, and the boys were off. Pauline was to remain in front of the puppet theatre, where she had been when Joseph pulled away. The boys would make a circle of the streets, alerting any of the family or any friends they might meet on the way. They would come back to Pauline to report at intervals, and when the child was found, he would be brought there. It seemed a lifetime before Leonce hurried back, looking at Pauline across the heads of the crowd, and when she shook her head, sped down another lane. Gerard followed, before long, and shortly afterward, her parents, whose worried faces made Pauline feel even more unhappy.
Joseph was such a little boy, and the crowd, though kind-hearted enough, was apt to be rough. Oh, why hadn't she held his hand more tightly? In spite of her fierce efforts to hold him back, tears welled up into her eyes. Her vision blurred. She was not aware of the approach of her grandfather, and started when he spoke to her. "'What are you doing here, alone and forsaken?' he asked jokingly. "'I've lost Joseph.' Like a cascade, the story poured out. Nonsense! Joseph isn't lost, broke in the old man gruffly. Have you seen him? No, I haven't, but I know where he is, and so should you. Keep your family here as they arrive, and I'll be back soon.
The square-shouldered old man pushed his way through the crowd and hurried down the street. Mr. and Mrs. DeVooster and all the children were grouped around Pauline, when suddenly she cried out, "'There's Joseph!' Sure enough, there was Joseph. His head high above the crowd, as he read placidly on his grandfather's shoulder. "'Joseph!' cried Mrs. de Booster. "'Where have you been? Why did you run away? We were so worried when you were lost.' "'I wasn't lost, mother,' said Joseph. "'My angel was with me, and I didn't run away. I was afraid of the people and the noise, so I went to God's house.' His grandfather nodded. "'Where else would he be but in church?' he asked. "'In the northwestern, or from the mish part of Belgium.
in which the de Boosters lived, farming was hard. The soil was thin and sandy, and the growing season short. Every pair of hands was needed in the daily work. Even little Joseph helped with the weeding and cultivating, and his sturdy legs ran many miles fetching and carrying for the older ones, whose strength was more needed at the heavier tasks. He fed the chickens and kept their water-pans filled, and if he sometimes jumped astride a stick, and in the role of a crusader chased the screaming hens, flying in all directions. The creatures soon forgot, and continued their business of supplying the family with eggs. At regular periods, Mr. de Vooster went to market with the grain from his fields.
On those days, as a roll, the children worked doubly hard, not only because the strongest, most capable pair of hands was missing, but because they were unsupervised, and honesty compelled them to do what they might otherwise shirk. At the close of such a day, Mrs. de Wooster would settle down and read to her boys and girls stories from the lives of the saints, tales of the crusades. Joseph, quiet for a change, was always the most attentive. The stories he particularly enjoyed and asked for most often were the ones which told of the saints who lived alone in forests or desert hermits who prayed to their maker in solitude. It was an odd choice, Mrs. de Wooster felt, for such a friendly, active little boy.
One day Mr. de Wooster went into Antwerp with his grain. Leont and Gerard apportioned the day's tasks, and the family scattered to their various duties. Mrs. de Wooster was busy in the house. She was surprised at mid-morning to hear a knocking at the door, for she knew that all her neighbors were as busy as she, and would not come calling at such an hour. Straightening her neat white cap and apron, she went to see who the visitor might be. "'Good morning, Mrs. de Vooster,' said the boy who had rapped. "'Is my little brother Thomas here?' Mrs. de Vooster was surprised. "'Why, no!' I thought he might be playing with Joseph. They are such good friends. "'Joseph is not playing this morning, Bernard,' explained Mrs.
de Vooster. "'My husband has gone to the grain market, and all the children are at work in the fields. Is Thomas lost?' "'Well, perhaps he is around our place, though I couldn't find him.' He was supposed to help me clean the barn, but when it came time to start, he was nowhere in sight. But it's a job he doesn't like much, and he may just be hiding. I'll look again, and thank you. Somewhat later in the morning, a woman hurried to the de Fooster door. "'I'm looking for my Anna. Is she here?' she asked breathlessly. "'No, Mrs. Vanquick, she isn't.' "'I thought perhaps she was playing with Joseph,' the neighbor explained. "'All the children like being with him. He's a real leader, that boy.' No, I'm sorry.
Bernard was just here, too, looking for his little brother, but I explained to him that all my flock are working in the fields to-day. While the two women were still conferring, a farmer from farther down the road drove up, looking for his two small children. By this time, all three adults knew that something odd was afoot. "'I'll call Joseph in from the field,' offered Mrs. de Booster. He may have heard them making plans for the day.' Stepping toward the door, she picked up a mallet and struck several blows on a piece of iron, which hung suspended near the door. It gave off a high, clear sound that carried far over the fields. The Devooster children came running from several directions. "'It surely can't be noon yet.' "'What's the matter?
Is there trouble?' "'No, no trouble,' assured their mother. Then her face clouded a little. "'Where's Joseph?' "'Was he not with you?' "'Not with me. Nor me. Nor me.' Mrs. de Vooster shook her head and turned to her visitors. "'I suppose your children are with Joseph,' she said, "'but where that would be I could not guess. I'm sorry.' "'I won't worry if Anna is with Joseph,' said Mrs. Vinnick. "'He is not reckless.' "'They'll be home when it's noon and they're hungry,' said the farmer. But noon and mid-afternoon, and finally early evening came, and still no Joseph. Mrs. de Vooster was first resigned and then annoyed. When it was nearly dark she began to be fearful. But before she could take any action, she spied first one, then a second, then three, four, five little figures plodding down the steep side of a wood-topped hill.
It was Joseph with a train of four other small children. Joseph, she called, and ran toward him. Where have you been? Is that Anna with you, and Thomas, and—I told them about Hermes, Mother, the ones you read about, who got to be saints. We decided that we wanted to be saints. So first we were going to be hermits and live on fruits and berries. But we didn't bring much fruit, added Thomas, and we couldn't find any berries. And I didn't like living in a hollow tree when it got dark, put in Anna. We'll be hermits and saints later on, I guess, said Joseph. Mrs. DeVoster sighed and called her older boys to see the other children safely to their homes. Her own small visionary she fed and put to bed.
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2 02 - Skating With An Angel 13:03
Skating with an Angel. Skating was the most popular sport in Ninde. This was the name of the small village in the Belgian district of Tremelieu, on whose edge the de Wuster farm was situated. Two little streams, the Deemer and the Loch, joined just above the town to form the river Dyle, and in one of its sheltered spaces the children of Chimelu, and their elders, too, when time permitted, spent every possible moment during the winter skating and playing on the ice. Races and ice sports of all kinds were popular, and Joseph de Wuster's sturdy legs and arms and strong will made him a star, even among boys and girls who had learned to skate almost as soon as they walked. He often competed with boys much older than he, and even when outdistanced by lads with longer legs and stronger muscles, he'd keep right on skating just as hard as he could.
If he started out to skate a certain distance at his best possible speed, he'd do it regardless of what speed anyone else might make. "'You never know when you're beaten,' the other boys teased. "'Oh, yes, I do,' Joseph would answer airily. But I'm not going to quit just because I can't win every time. I went four times around just as fast as I could, which is what we agreed on. But the others were finished when you were only half around the last lap, protested the others. So they were, agreed Joseph. They were faster than I, now. But maybe some day I'll win. Contentedly he took off his skates and went home to the brick house, where his chores awaited him. The next day the sun shone brightly, flashing along the blaze of skates that swung from the boys' shoulders on their way to school.
Each young student also carried a bag made of wax cloth, containing his school-books, and carefully wrapped in a clean napkin some sandwiches, which, with the apples nestling at the bottom of the bag, would make up the noonday meal. But Joseph's mind was occupied neither with books nor with lunch. He had spent all the previous evening shining and sharpening his skates. Today he was going to really skate, faster than he had ever skated before, faster, perhaps, than even the big boys, whose long, powerful legs had so often now distanced his shorter ones. The forenoon dragged for Joseph. Frequently the teacher reprimanded him for staring at the sunlit outdoors when his eyes should have been on his book.
Frequently, the master had to pull the boy's mind back from the river, where he was picturing himself skating so fast that it was like flying. Noon came, and the boys stampeded outdoors to a sheltered space at the corner of the building. Here, out of the wind, they squatted or stood to eat their home-packed lunches and have their talks. "'Say, that sun is hot,' exclaimed one of them. "'I hope it doesn't melt the ice and make it slushy.' "'Oh, it won't do that.' Joseph spoke confidently. The skating just had to be good, for to-day, he was sure, was to be his day. The afternoon session seemed to him at least twice as long as the long forenoon, but at last, when he had almost given up hope that such a thing would happen, it came to an end.
Like one great multi-legged animal, the boys poured out of the school-yard and down to the river. In an instant, it seemed all had their skates on and were swooping and gliding over the ice. Joseph's freshly sharpened skates bit into the smooth surface, and his legs, which seemed to him to have twice their usual strength, thrust like powerful pistons driving him forward with ever-increasing speed. A warm feeling of assurance filled him. "'Let's race three times around,' he yelled to a big boy near him. Together they struck out to circle the little cove in which much of their skating was done. The older boy hung back a bit at first, to give Joseph a small head start, but before they were once around he began to regret the gesture.
He was finding it very hard to make up the lead he had permitted. On the second lap he drew up beside the flying Joseph, but that was the best he could do. Try as he would, exerting himself to the limit, he still could not forge ahead. And he was supposed to be the champion scooter of Tremolue. By the time they had begun their third circling of the cove, the other boys were aware of what was going on, and all drew to one side to watch what they now realized for the first time was a real contest. Hurry, Joseph, hurry! He's pulling ahead! Don't let him get the lead! Faster! You can do it! Joseph's classmates were nearly wild with excitement. What a day it would be if one of the younger boys beat Henry, who usually could outskate any boy on the river.
Don't let a small kid beat you, Henry. You can outskate him any day, the older boys screamed at the champion. But in spite of their faith in him, in spite of his best efforts, the end of the third lap was in sight, and Henry could not pull into the lead. Worse, he was tiring, while Joseph seemed to be as fresh as when the race started. It looked as if there would soon be a new champion in Tremolue. A few yards from the finish line, Joseph's skate struck a tiny reed frozen into the ice, and he tottered for a moment. He regained his balance without falling, but that moment's slow-up gave Henry the chance to use the end of his strength in one last burst of speed and pull ahead, the tired victor, in a race which had surprised him as much as it did those watching.
Joseph swallowed his disappointment, and waved a congratulation as she flashed by. You win, this time. Now let's skate out on the river for a while. Without pausing for an answer, he swung away from the shaded, shallow cove and headed out toward the main body of the river. The feeling of defeat had vanished. His heart was singing. This was how the gray gulls must feel as they soared over the water. The skating seemed effortless to him, as his keen blade shot over the ice sparkling in the sunshine. There was a yell from the boys behind him, but he made no effort to understand what they were saying. They probably wanted him to come back and try another race, but he was happy where he was and didn't even turn.
They yelled again, but the wind, strong now that he was out of the shelter of the cove, carried their words away. Left, right, left, right, his skates hissed as they cut into the ice. From the cove, far behind him now, came another yell. They were certainly anxious to tell him something. Well, he'd find out what it was when he got back. He couldn't be bothered now. It was strange, he thought, as he sped along, to realize that below him were fishes. Did they swim around and hunt for food, he wondered? Was it completely dark under the roof of ice, or did some light from the bright sun filter through? He tried to picture the half-lit world, weeds still moving in running water, fishes darting in and out among them.
It must be very cold down there, he said to himself. If a person were in that water, he probably wouldn't last very long. His muscles would freeze so he couldn't swim or try to save himself. It's fortunate that a fish's blood is different from that of people. The good Lord looks after his creatures. By now he was far out in the river. The shouts of his companions had faded completely, or they had tired of calling to him. Perhaps. He didn't know which, and really didn't care, for he was enjoying himself completely. Left, right, left, right, his skates seemed to his strength and a will of their own as they flashed in the sun. There were no other skate tracks where he was now. No one had been out this far since the last freeze.
He looked down at the glistening white sheet, and saw, to his horror, that just a few yards in front of him, the whiteness stopped sharply and was replaced by a soft, Mushy-looking gray. The sun, or an underwater spring, had melted the ice. He couldn't possibly stop his forward flight before reaching the dangerous spot. He had just a fleeting instant of panic. Then, lifting his right foot, he swung it with all the force he possessed across to the left side of his body, rising at the same time to the tip of his left skate. The ice flew out in a feathery spray as the left skate bit in, but he jerked the blade out of the ice. wheeled, and struck back quickly for the cove, where his friends, who had tried to warn him of the danger, were straining terror-stricken eyes in his direction.
But he had taken no more than three or four strokes on safe ice when he stopped and fell on his knees. "'Thank you, Heavenly Father,' he cried, for giving me a guardian. And thank you, dear Angel, for making me look down in time. I am sorry to give you so much work to do.' He added ruefully. If it hadn't been for you, pride would have gone before a drowning, or at least a drenching, that time. Joseph practiced his skating daily during the rest of the winter. He felt sure that by next year, when the time came for the competition between the skaters from the Hanlons and Tremolue, he would be ready to enter the contest. And each time he skated he had a vivid picture of the immersion and possible drowning in icy waters from which he had been saved.
When spring came, he had cause to thank his guardian angel once again. Constant skating had made his legs very strong, and he became one of the fastest runners in the school-yard. So the children invented a game to play on their way home from school at the end of the day. With their school-bags slung over their shoulders, the boys and girls who lived near Joseph would line up hand in hand with Joseph in the middle. They would spread out across the road and start running, Each doing the best he could. The little ones at the end of the row would tire first, their older brothers and sisters soon after. But Joseph would keep pounding along, tugging the laughing, stumbling children in his wake. This V of Mary's shouting youngsters was careening down the road one afternoon, squealing with the particular excitement they always felt when they came to a sharp curve that was very hard to negotiate.
Joseph speeded up a trifle and gave an extra tug with his left arm to haul those children who had to run the wider ark. They swung around the blind corner, only to see facing them, almost on top of them, a team of galloping horses, driven by a farmer, in a hurry to reach his home. He was driving much too fast, it is true, approaching this bad turn, but on the other hand, he could not have expected to find the highway filled by a flying wedge of boys and girls. Frightened, he held up his reins. The bit tore at the horse's mouth, but the rushing animals could not stop in time. It seemed that there must be carnage on the road. But Joseph, thinking quickly, stiffened his arms and pushed. Boys and girls tumbled into the ditches on either side of the road.
Joseph was alone on the highway with no time to jump either to right or left. The wagon thundered past, lurched dizzily around the corner, and came to a stop a few yards beyond. The shaken driver climbed down and walked back around the curve, thinking sickly of the crushed and broken body he would find. He would have to bring the child, probably dead, but surely maimed, back to his parents. Trembling, he turned the corner. The child was in the road on his knees. A bump on his head was swelling rapidly, and a torn shirt showed that his shoulder was cut and bruised. "'I'm thanking my guardian angel,' said Joseph as the farmer drew near. I got bumped when I fell, but my guardian must have rolled me in between the two horses.
The farmer gulped, hardly daring to believe that his dreadful furors were proving to be baseless. He stood Joseph on his feet and felt his every bone and joint. Surely the boy could not have escaped without injury. How was it possible that he had missed being struck by the eight iron-shot hooves, or crushed by the heavy wheels? Yet that seemed to be the case. My guardian angel, sir. explained Joseph again, wincing a little as the farmer's big hands touched his bruised shoulders. My angel guardian took care of me. The farmer glared for a moment, angry at the cause of the overwhelming fright he had suffered. Then Joseph's earnest solemnity softened him. You need two guardian angels to keep you out of trouble, I think, he said.
Get into the wagon. I'll drive you home and explain your twin clothes to your mother.
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3 03 - Joseph Grows Up 8:16
Betts. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Maria Therese. Chapter Three Joseph grows up. As Joseph grew older, he loved to be alone. He was still lively, ready for a romp, rushing headlong into trouble. But there was another side to his nature, which demanded that he spend much time thinking and considering. This need for solitary hours made him ready and willing to take over a job heartily disliked by his brothers—that of tending his father's sheep. He got the nickname, The Little Shepherd. "'You must be as stupid as the sheep are to want to be with them so much,' his friends taunted. "'I don't think sheep are stupid,' grinned Joseph. "'They do what they are created to do.
They eat and grow wool for us, and become mutton for us, and they don't talk to me all the time.' I like sheep. He turned a cartwheel, leaped over the stone water trowel in the stable-yard, and ran off to the hillside with his untalkative charges. For some time he just sat and watched and chewed on the stem of grass he had plucked. But wearying of the inactivity, he began playing a game he had invented. He picked a field flower and waved it before the nose of a nearby lamb. The little creature stretched out to bite the flower, and Joseph moved back. The lamb took a step forward, and Joseph moved back again, with a knock-kneed baby lunging after him. Sometimes, when the lamb felt frisky and was enjoying the game, it lasted for a quarter of an hour.
Then the little creature would be rewarded with the prize morsel. This time, though Joseph was unaware of it, he had an observer. The lamb's mother, a cranky old ewe, watched what seemed to her to be unkindness to her baby. She'd put a stop to that. Head down, she charged Joseph, her sharp little hooves cutting into the turf, her hard skull ready for the impact. Unconscious of what was in store for him, Joseph leaned over to surrender the flower to the lamb, which was tiring of the game. He presented a perfect target for the angry, fast-traveling ewe, and before he knew it he was sailing through the air, then rolling head over heels down the hillside. He lay there stunned for a moment. Then he carefully got to his feet, and walked slowly and painfully back to join his flock.
He stood for the rest of that day. Sheep certainly are not stupid, he said to himself, and I guess that's the end of that game. Joseph finished with the elementary school in Worcester when he was thirteen. This meant, according to the custom of his day, that he was through with schooling. His two older brothers, Lyons and Gerard, were already doing men's work on their father's farm. and now Joseph was ready to join them and do his part too. Ploughing, harrowing, seeding, cultivating, harvesting, Joseph did them all with the boundless enthusiasm he brought to everything, whether work or play. Nothing seemed hard or distasteful to him. No obstacle could thwart him. Whether it was a stump to be grubbed up, a bulky cow to be milked, or a hard-packed field to be ploughed, he would stay doggedly at the job until he had completed it.
The outdoor work certainly seemed to agree with him. He shot up in height. In no time at all he was seven inches taller than Lyons, his eldest brother. But he was no bean-pole. He gained in width and in strength, too. On market days, when Mr. de Wooster was going into town with his grain, Joseph would swing the two-hundred-pound sacks onto the wagon as if they had no weight at all. That Joseph! Mr. de Vooster would say with paternal wonder and pride, that boy is as strong and as smart as four ordinary boys. Look at him herd those cows. You'd think they understood every word he said. And his barns, so clean and sweet, a person wouldn't be ashamed to live in them. Whatever he does, he does well.
He'll make a great farmer. He has a way with animals. Joseph's way with animals was called into use before long. Not far from the de Vooster home there lived an old woman alone in the world. She owned her little house, a few acres of land, and a cow, which provided all her food, except what Bitt's kind neighbors could tactfully get her to accept. When Mrs. de Vooster baked, she always put in an extra loaf, which she would then send over with the message that she was over-supplied, and hoped the neighbor would help eat the surplus. One evening, when Joseph went on some such errand, he found the old woman in the shed, with her precious cow. The animal was on its side. Gasping, and its owner was crying bitterly.
Joseph was dismayed at the scene. "'This cow's very sick,' he said. "'Shall I run for the veterinary?' "'He's been here and gone,' sobbed the woman. "'He says that he can do nothing to help my poor cow, that she's going to die.' Joseph knew that the impoverished old woman would never recover from such a loss. He must do something to help before it was too late. Carefully he looked over the suffering animal. Don't let's give up hope, he said encouragingly to the woman. Go into the house and boil up these herbs, he named the ones he wanted, and bring the mixture out to me. Bring any cloth you can spare, too. Hot poultices on the outside, and frequent drinks of the herb medicine may help. The woman hurried to do her young friend's bidding, and was very quickly back with the requested supplies.
"'You go to bed now,' said Joseph kindly. "'You can be of no more help here while I'm working.' Through the long hours of the night, Joseph tended the suffering animal, forcing doses of the herbs down her throat and changing the hot packs on her distended body. "'Get well, good cow,' he urged. "'You know that your owner depends on you for milk and cheese. She accepts from you what she couldn't or wouldn't take from us. Get well, good cow.' Praying, doctoring, nursing, cajoling, Joseph poured out all his energy on the task in hand. The moon rose, crossed the heavens, and sank. Grey dawn came. A rooster challenged the sun to rise. The cow, still lying on her side, gave a great sigh, and Joseph's heart sank.
Had he lost his long fight? He looked at the sick animal sadly, then with joy. The creature was slowly getting to her knees, then to her feet. Thanks be to God! Joseph, near to tears, as the cow moved over to the hay-rack in the corner of her shed, pulled out a few wisps, and began munching on them. The de Vuster family had shrunk in the past few years. Eugenie, who became a nun, had died at Uddin. August was in the novitiate of the Sacred Heart's Fathers at Louvain. Pauline, always closest and dearest to Joseph, had entered the Ursuline order. Mr. de Wooster now decided that he could run the farm with the help of the two older boys, Lyons and Gerard. Joseph, he determined, should become a grain merchant, and to prepare for this business career would need more schooling.
So, in 1858, at the age of 18, Joseph entered the school of Brayne-le-Comte. He was big and awkward, and his education had stopped when he was 13, but his good nature, strength, and athletic skill made him popular with the other students, While his determination to learn endeared him to his teachers. With the same whole-hearted enthusiasm he had brought to the farm work, Joseph attacked his school work. He read and studied with a concentration that amazed his fellow students. He played vigorously, too. Then, at night, after a strenuous day, he would lie awake praying with the same fervor. For Joseph had already decided that he was going to give his life to God. He was trying to think of a way to break the news to his father and mother.
He realized that it would mean hardship for them. They had already given three children to God's service. Now they were undergoing the expense of giving Joseph extra schooling so that he could take his place in the business world to help his father. We can understand why he found it very hard to tell these generous parents that their plan for him could not be carried out.
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4 04 - Joseph Becomes Damien 18:27
Betz. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Maria. Chapter Four Joseph Becomes Damien. In January, Eighteen Fifty Nine, the Congregation of the Sacred Hearts had a new candidate, Require Ruther, Tall, strong, attractive, Joseph de Wuster had secured his parents' consent to enter. It was a great disappointment to him not to be accepted as a student for the priesthood, but he was four years behind in his education and knew no Latin at all. Much as he longed to be ordained a priest, he realized why it seemed out of the question. Too much was lacking in his background studies. However, as choir brother, He would work in the chapel or the infirmary, or might help in the business office.
All of these duties appealed to him, and, above all, he was consecrating his life and strength to God's service. That was what he wanted most. In February he took the habit, and the name by which he would now be known. As Brother Damien, he flung himself into religious life, with the same enthusiasm which had always marked his efforts. Heavy labor was not new to him. and his heart was gay as his great muscles bulged on the tasks set for him. He was precise and neat and fast, but he was also hot-tempered. Try as he might to hold his temper in check, it would time and again get the better of him. Then he would speak very sharply, often not considering what he said, or to whom. As a schoolboy he had been accustomed to settling matters with his fists.
As a brother he knew, of course, that that was not possible. The restrictions that he laid on his temper made it even harder to keep under control. But whenever he did let go, the end of the storm left him deeply distressed. "'I must, I must learn to hold my tongue, to be master of myself,' he would say to his brother remorsefully. At last he hit upon a plan that he was sure would help him win the battle. He went busily to work in the classroom, and when the other students arrived, he was sitting happily in his place with an immovable reminder in front of him. The words, silence, recollection, prayer, were directly before his eyes, carved into the wood of his desk. The reprimand he received for this gave him a good opportunity to practice humility and self-control.
The other novices used to call him that good, big Damien, and all of them were fond of him. His helpfulness and high spirits were as inexhaustible as was his determination to do whatever he was called on to do, as well as he possibly could. He studied furiously and prayed tirelessly, and whenever he and his brother August, Pamphile in religion, were to gather, he would begat the older boy to teach him Latin, for Damien had not given up hope that some day he would reach the priesthood after all. His spiritual aspirations didn't interfere with his physical exertions whenever these were needed. Both strength and courage were put to the test when a chapel was being remodeled near the Louvain house of the congregation.
Every free moment he had was spent helping on the project. One day a problem arose. Near the old chapel stood a chimney, dangerously high, dangerously shaky because both the bricks and the mortar between them had become crumbly from age and the action of the weather. The chimney obviously must come down. But how, exactly, was the raising to be accomplished? Dynamite, or any other method of collapsing the chimney, was ruled out, because whatever way the tall stack fell, it would damage some building. Yet it was so insecure that there could be no question of climbing it. It must come down before the workmen can proceed with their work on the chapel, said the superior. "'I agree, father,' said the boss-mason, "'but I will not risk the lives of my workers by trying to tear it down, nor will I risk the safety of your buildings by trying to knock it down.' The two men stood silent, staring at the chimney, and pondering the problem it presented.
They were interrupted in their thoughts by various workmen, who came along to suggest methods, for someone else to try. Little groups formed around the ground, chattering, gesticulating, explaining. Many various schemes were worked out, but no one seemed ready to put any of them into operation. Suddenly, Brother Damien left the crowd, to reappear shortly with a long ladder. Silently, he scaled the wall of the now almost dismantled chapel, and parched himself in a seemingly impossible position on the steep skeleton roof. Slowly, carefully, he balanced himself, stretched his long, powerful arms to the chimney, and began removing the bricks. A murmur ran through the watching crowd. Amazed, fearful, admiring, they watched the good big Damien.
As, brick by brick, he tore down the dangerous chimney. Gradually the tottering structure shrank to a height which the workmen could reach with ease. Then Damien returned to the ground with the contented sense of a job well done. A sigh of relief went up from the watchers, and a spontaneous cheer from the workmen. A little embarrassed that a seminary student had dared to do a job they had shied away from. Probably the only person in the crowd in no way surprised was Pamphil. He knew his little brother, knew his tenacity of purpose, his disregard of self. He remembered that from early childhood Damien had been ready to take on any necessary job, no matter what obstacle lay in the way of its execution.
Difficulties, to Damien, were a challenge to be met and conquered. Pamphil smiled as he thought of the same brick-by-brick method Damien had used in tearing down the chimney, was being followed by him in building a road toward the priesthood. At first Damien had learned from his brother simple Latin greetings and the names of ordinary objects. Then he had learned phrases and how to construct a sentence. Pleased, though not surprised, for young Joseph de Wooster had always been a conscientious student, Pamphil had taken his courage in both hands and gone to the superior with a report of Damien's progress in Latin. The good superior was moved by the force of a vocation that impelled the big choir brother to take on so much extra study in a day already filled.
He called the young man to him. So, you are determined on the priesthood. Damien flushed and cast his eyes down. I feel I am called, he answered. I want it more than anything in the world. There was silence for a moment, and Damien wondered if he had been presumptuous. Half-finished thoughts flashed through his mind. He was not worthy to be a priest, but—the superior knew best the work for which he, Damien, was fitted. So—you may join the Latin class. On trial—damien could hardly believe that he had heard the wonderful words. This might—this just might—be the first step on the path he longed to follow. In six months he was doing difficult translations from early latin writers. His eyes, from constant overuse, began to give him trouble that would always be with him.
But he felt that was a very small price to pay for the joy of being part of a class that studied for the priesthood. In June 1860, twenty months after his probationary work had begun, he went to Novitiate at Isse, outside Paris, to spend there the last months of his preparation. In October he was sent to the mother-house, Unru-Picpus, Paris, where he made his vows. Latin, Greek, Philosophy, Big Damien threw himself into his studies, with the same vigor young Joseph de Wuster had brought to his games. Plotting determinedly through the assignments, he acted as if he were unaware of the difficulties which were before him. The year, 1860, had been a dramatic one in world history. Both bad things and good were stirring mankind.
In Syria, there had been a dreadful massacre of Christians. Japan, making real contact for the first time with the Western world, sent an embassy to the United States. The war between Spain and Morocco ended. In Italy, Garibaldi, who had seized control of the government, resigned and permitted King Victor Emmanuel to take the throne. In France, Napoleon, the third, although he was emperor, was allowing freedoms that usually are permitted only in a democracy. None of these things, however, occupied Damien's mind. He had found the realest world of all, the world of God, and other things, even important ones, made little impression on him. There was so much he wanted to do for God, and so little time, so this strong young man felt, in which to do it.
The Vincennes wood, through which the seminarians had been in the habit of walking each Wednesday, now was invaded by worldlings and lost its enchantment for him. Before this, Damien wrote to his parents, one could be quiet and enjoy the pleasures of a walk. Now we see nothing at every turn but gentlemen and ladies, riders in carriages, which are a great distraction and annoyance. Distractions were annoying to Damien, now, perhaps, more than ever, for his mind had fastened on a new desire. He wanted to go to the South Seas as a missionary. The first missionaries to the islands had been sent by the Holy See in 1825. Twenty-eight years later, the entire archipelago of Oceania was entrusted to the Congregation of the Sacred Hearts.
Now, in 1860, Bishop de Pono Yacine of Tahiti had returned to France after thirteen years in the islands to prepare and publish a Tahitian dictionary, a task subsidized by the French government. While engaged in the work, the bishop stayed at the mother-house, where he related many things about his life and experiences in his far-away diocese. He had no more interest at Listerner than Damien. Coral islands, palm-trees with leaves whispering in the breeze, sea-winds rippling and hissing through the long grasses, high cliffs with ocean-spume at their feet, and their heads seemingly cloud-capped. The enchanting land was made doubly desirable. by the fact that it held thousands of souls who had not yet heard the word of God.
With all his heart, Damien wanted to go there. He wrote to his brother, Pamphiel, recounting all he had heard of Oceana. He told of his climate, of its natural beauties. He described the natives, a gentle people who had lived happily in the tranquil part of the world, until a white man came, bringing disease of soul and body. He told of how they prayed to their many gods, never knowing of the one true God. Pamphil, too, took fire. The brothers were in accord. They decided that, above all things, they desired to go and preach and teach in this land on the opposite side of the world. In a letter to his parents, Damien wrote, Monseigneur, the bishop, will soon return to his mission, and I think will take one of us with him.
Wouldn't you be happy if it were to be me? With this in mind, Damien studied harder than ever. His overworked eyes troubled him. He was now wearing thick-lensed glasses, but he ignored this, as from boyhood he had ignored any obstacle in a path he had chosen. His brother, Panphio, was now ordained a priest, and set his first mass, which all the de Wuster family attended. Damien, having finished his studies at the Picpus Street House in Paris, went back to Louvain to continue his training. Every possible minute was given to his work, for he was not only covering the regular theology courses, but of his own volition, had added many elective courses at the university. There seemed no limit to the desire and ability to work possessed by the good Big Damien.
September 1863 arrived. In the United States, the Civil War was raging, and the President was preparing to call for 300,000 more volunteers. Mexico, which had hoped to become a monarchy with a king of its own, was suddenly overrun by the French army, which seized the capital. But these momentous affairs, if they were known at all by the de Wuster family and their friends, made little impression on their minds and hearts. Something far more important was taking place. On the 19th of September, they all traveled to the cathedral at Malines, where Damien received minor orders. Now, at twenty-three, he was really on his chosen path. The very walls of Louvain seemed to exude tension and excitement.
Hopeful questioning was in the hearts of all the young priests. Will I be chosen? Will it be I? Even the dry leaves fallen to the ground seemed to stir inquiringly as the young men walked on their way to the studies. And the wind, rifling through the leaves, gave the answer. Perhaps— It was known that six priests and six Sacred Heart nuns were to be sent to the island kingdom where the need was so great. Time seemed endless before the names of those selected appeared. Father Pantheon was one of them. Unselfishly happy for his brother's good fortune, Damien would have been more than human if he had not felt a slight twinge. Naturally, he would not have denied his brother the privilege and joy, but he himself did so long to go.
However, he pitched in with all his might to help Pamphil get ready for the journey. Father Pamphil had hardly enough time for even his small preparations. An epidemic of typhoid had struck Louvain, and the young priest was too busy with the sick to give much thought to his own needs. The days before departure grew fewer and fewer, and suddenly Father Pamphil himself fell victim to the disease. Damien, what shall I do? he moaned. All my life, from earliest boyhood, I have longed to be a missionary. And now, when the gift is so near my hands, it is taken away again. I know I must accept God's will, but it is hard.
Big Damien bowed his head, sharing the other's grief. This opportunity— This wonderful opportunity, and I cannot seize it. Pamphil went on. Oh, Damien, this is indeed a cross. Damien tried to console his brother, whose suffering he truly understood. Then an idea came to him, an inspiration. Perhaps he would be permitted to go in his brother's place. Nonsense, he scolded himself. You are not ordained yet, and the vicar apostolic once priests. But wouldn't it be worth a try? A voice seemed to whisper. Arrangements are all made, and the fares are all paid, and it would be a pity if only five sailed instead of six. Would Pamfield be sad or resentful? Before the thought could really form itself, Damien cast it out.
His brother's great—his only—desire was to have the word of God brought to the islands. Hesitatingly, Damien offered Pamfield his idea of substituting one de Vuster brother for the other. Weakly, the sick priest nodded agreement and approval. As Damien hurried from the infirmary, he turned the matter over in his mind. He would go at once to his superior. No, perhaps that might not be wise. The superior might well have other plans for him. Instead, he would write his plea to the superior general in Paris. Yes, that was the thing to do. He seized his pen and began the letter, pausing once in a while to marshal the facts in orderly array, then rushing along as he put into words his own personal reasons for making the request.
Although he tried to keep his emotions under control, the fire of his missionary spirit flamed through every line. Then came a time of waiting and wondering, of rising and falling hopes. Surely, surely his request must be granted. But why should it? Ordained priests were wanted, and he was not yet ordained. But it would be too bad if only five missionaries went where six had been promised. True, but there were several other priests ready and anxious to go. Oh, but Father Pamphil was so disappointed when illness debarred him from going. What joy it would give him if his brother were allowed to replace him. But why should he, Damien, an unimportant student, think that he could replace Pamphil? It was when he was at dinner that Father Capres, his superior, entered the refectory.
His face was stern, almost angry. As he went over to Damien and laid an open letter on the table before him, "'What presumption,' he said coldly, "'to wish to leave so soon for the missions!' Submissive to authority, though he was, Damien hardly heard his superior's words. His eager eyes were drinking in the message that his mind hardly dared accept. His request had been granted. He—' not yet an ordained priest, was to be allowed to go to the South Seas, with the mission band. He was so excited, so overjoyed, that without thinking, without waiting for the meal to be finished, and Grace said, he jumped up from the table and ran full tilt to the infirmary to tell Pamphil the news. His very hair seemed electric with a joy that overwhelmed him.
He, big Damien, whose schooling had been so broken, who was not yet ordained, Damien, who had kept his guardian angel so active, was going to be a missionary. The first thing for him to do was to go to his family in Ninde for a farewell. It was not likely that, once having left to go to the other side of the world, he would return to see them again. The neat brick farmhouse had not changed much, either outside or in. The children were scattered, but love still warmed and faith still blessed it. Damien went from room to room, impressing each dear spot on his mind. He walked over the hillside, where he attended sheep, and smiled in recollection of his first attempt at being a hermit. How easy sainthood had seemed in those far-off days!
His thoughts went to his mother, whose early lessons of piety and devotion had turned his mind along these lines. His dear mother, trying so hard to be brave about parting, She realized that her son was blessed in this call from God, but her heart found it hard to let Joseph, her baby, go off into unknown danger and hardship.
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5 05 - Adventurous Voyage 15:11
V.
Adventurous Voyage. The sailing vessel, R. M. Wood, tugged at her mooring lines, anxious to be off on her journey halfway around the world to the islands of the Pacific. She was a sturdy ship built along Dutch lines. Set in her bow was a short mast, carrying heavy rings made of rope. These slid easily up and down the mast to raise or lower the attached sail. When it was in use, the sail was held taut by the heavy boom to which it was attached. This gaff-sail was used instead of the jib, worn by the usual sailing vessel, and it served to keep the ship's nose steady in heavy ocean winds. The wharf at Brimmerhaven was filled with sweating, shouting stevedores, who were loading the ship for her voyage to Honolulu.
Coopers were heading up large casks, some as much as four feet across, in which every commodity would be stowed—provisions, water, spare sails, cool for the galley stove. Farther down the wharf, men were busy scraping the sides of casks, destined for use on other ships, Casks which, while not in use, had been buried in sea-weed, so that they would not dry out and shrink or crack. To the eyes of the missionaries making their way toward the gangplank, it looked as if everything were in such chaos that their vessel would never be ready for sailing. But they found very soon that it was an orderly disorder, that every move had a purpose. Damien could hardly control his excitement. The scene delighted him, for he had always enjoyed seeing competent workmen at their tasks, he who himself did each allotted job so well.
Also, he was looking forward to the sea voyage, but most of all his spirit soared in the knowledge that this was the first stage on his missionary road. He found himself torn between anticipation of the rare and unusual trip before him, and impatience to have it over to reach his destination. In no time at all his bundles and bags were aboard, opened, their contents disposed of, and Damien was out on deck watching the final storing of the cargo. Then the heavy hatch covers were tugged into place, mooring lines cast off, and sails unfurled. The voyage had begun. The six missioners watched the shores recede, shores of the homeland they would in all probability not see again, unless, Old or broken in health, they came back home to die.
The trip, if all went well, would take four and a half months. They would go down the coast of Europe, past the bulge of Africa, across the Atlantic, and around the terrible Cape Horn, graveyard of uncounted ships, and then off into the Pacific, that ocean which so often believes its name. Over a hundred days of journeying, that time must not be wasted. The Sacred Heart Fathers drew up a schedule for their days, They set times for mass, prayer, study, and allotted certain periods for recreation and manual labor. But nature pays no attention to schedules. From the first day out, Father Christian, the oldest, and therefore the leader of the group, suffered from sea-sickness, and as the little ship got farther from land, the rest, one by one, were laid low.
All except Damien, who seemed immune. As each missioner retired, Damien took on his duties, until at last he was sacristan, Infirmarian, steward in charge of the wardrobe, all at once. In this last capacity of wardrobe-keeper, he took an obvious and practical step. He had little time or skill for sewing and mending, but traveling on the wood were six sisters of the Sacred Hearts, also bound for Honolulu. One day Damien knocked at their door. Perhaps, sister, he began hesitantly, holding out a robe, obviously in need of a patch. Of course, brother Damien. The good sister did not wait for the request to be completed. Bring us whatever sewing or mending you have. We will be happy to do it. So Damien had much more time for his other work, and for the studies upon which he still spent as many hours as he could.
When he found it possible, he also gave a hand to the crew. They all liked this powerful, good-natured Flemish man. Though some of them were startled when his youthful missionary zeal led him to ask them about their religious state and to urge their betterment. Captain Gerkin, master of the vessel, who was not a Catholic, took a friendly interest in the ardent young missioner. Often they would argue various points together. The days passed. The Canary Islands had faded from sight. The horizon showed fewer ships. They were headed toward the Horn. Damien by now was a fairly competent sailor, and one who enjoyed his self-imposed duties. With his head for heights, his fine muscular development and coordination, it was no unusual thing to see him, with his soutane, tucked up out of the way, clamber up the rigging to free a foul line, or stay a loose sail.
This active participation in the daily life of the ship appealed to Damien. Always eager to be up and doing, he was not one to lose himself in the mere beauties of nature. But he did often stand at the rail, gazing not at the water before him, but at a picture within his mind, the missionary station that awaited him. One day, as he stood thus occupied, a black form leaped from the water to a height seemingly impossible for such a great creature. Captain Gerkin, he called excitedly. Did you see that? The captain had just left his quarters, and was stretching his legs with a short walk on the deck. It was a porpoise, he said. Watch, and you'll see more of them. Look, they are off the port bow. Sure enough there were a dozen of the great fish leaping and convorting.
Are they playing? Damien asked. Just now they are probably eating. The passage of the ship stirs up the small fishes, and these great ones go after them. But I have an idea that they enjoy the jumping and tumbling, and continue it long after their appetite is satisfied. See there? Look at the mother and her baby. Damien watched, fascinated as the big fish guided her little one into the middle of the excitement, but always she used her own body as a shield between her baby and the others, so that the young one ran no risk of having three or four hundred pounds of leaping porpoise land on its back. If you look carefully, you may see the flying fish that they are after. Captain Gerkin said. Flying fish?
Damien was puzzled. Yes, look. Damien, Following the direction of the captain's pointing finger, at first could see nothing. But suddenly he spied, silhouetted against the dark water, a tiny, silvery body, three or four inches long, which rose from the water as if shot from a catapult. With fins, or wings, spread, it soared on the air currents, and traveled a distance of thirty or forty feet from the starting-place. A dozen or more of the little creatures hurled themselves into the air, followed by the leaping porpoises. Hunting, always hunting, said the captain, but they hunt that they may live. I will be a hunter, too, thought Damien, a hunter for souls, and I will hunt that others may live in eternity.
But knowing Captain Gerkin's feelings, he did not develop his thought aloud. November passed, and December. With the help of the older priests, and under their direction, Damien was poring over his theology, trying desperately to make up for the years he had lost in beginning his preparation for the priesthood. In January they neared Cape Horn. Now a feeling of tension spread over the ship. Ropes and lines were tested, sails examined, the cargo was checked to be sure it would not shift in tossing seas, and the hatch covers were battened down doubly secure. The strain increased throughout the first and second weeks of the new year. Twenty years before, the sailing vessel, Marie Joseph, had gone down in these ravenous waters, carrying with her twenty-six Sacred Heart Fathers, on their way to the missions.
When the wood, burying Damien and his confereuse, reached the site of the tragedy, they chanted the office of the dead for the brave souls to whose place they were taking. As they entered Drake Strait, the fathers began a novena to Our Lady, asking her help in placing themselves in her care. Then suddenly one morning the captain announced, "'We are now in the Pacific. We have rounded the horn.' "'We can't have rounded the horn.' Damien was completely incredulous. "'Every one has told us what a dreadful experience that would be.' We can't have done it without knowing it." The captain smiled. "'No place is always stormy,' he said. "'The Pacific was aptly named,' Damien commented. "'Sailing here is like rolling along a table-top.'" "'No water is always calm, either,' warned Captain Gerkin as he moved off about his duties.
Two days later the truth of his words was demonstrated. Damien was up early and out on deck, looking at the ocean. Several thousand miles were yet to be covered before they reached their destination, and the wind, seemingly in no hurry to get them there, barely filled the sails. The air had a thick feel to it, and the gray water looked sullen. It seemed hardly to move, though the rolling of the ship testified differently. The low swells would lift her prow high, then drop it again, as if they were considering just what disposition to make of this little toy. Captain Gerkin passed, but didn't pause for a chat with Damien, nor did the mate, who hurried past with a couple of seamen in tow. All seemed intent on some grave business.
As Damien watched the sulky rollers, far off in the distance something light sheared off the top of one, scattering in a flurry of spume. Another white crest appeared and vanished, and another. The phenomenon aroused his curiosity, but the crew were busy, and he had no one to question. Rapidly the white-capped waves drew nearer the wood. Then, without warning, wind hid the ship, and a towering sea broke over the deck on which Damien stood, drenching him and almost throwing him down. He started for the companion-way which would leave the shelter. Before he could reach it, another great wave struck, and he fell. He struggled to his feet, and shuddering with the cold, made his unsteady way to his cabin.
The motion was dreadful. Pitching fore and aft from the ground swell, the wood rolled from side to side as each new tremendous sea crashed against her. Damien could see the crew in boots and oilskins, reefing as much sail as they dared. With too much sail up, if the canvas held, they might capsize. But they must have some sail set to keep the ship under control. If control could be called, Shrieking Wind and Snarling Ocean seemed to be doing just what they wished with her. Damien tried to enter his cabin, but the door was apparently fastened tight. "'Is anyone in here?' he called, pounding with his fist and raising his voice to a shout that would carry over the storm. There was no answer, and he rapped and called again.
Still no answer. He shoved with his shoulder, and the door gave slightly. He threw his whole great weight against it, and it opened enough to let him peer inside. The wooden chest in which he kept his clothing had been hurled across the cabin by the rolling of the ship. And now the heavy thing was wedged against the door. It took all of Damien's strength to force an opening wide enough to let him squeeze through. He paused to catch breath, then dragged the chest to its place under the bunk. All this time the noise was growing in intensity to a dreadful clamor like nothing that Damien had ever before experienced, and this abated it not at all during the long night that followed, in which the ship rolled and tossed and strained until it seemed certain she must fall apart.
Day came, but there was no let-up in the storm. Chairs in the dining-saloon were hooked to the bulkheads to keep them from overturning. Few of them were used. Not many passengers made the effort to get in for meals. Those who did were scantily fed, for the cooking-galley was almost unused. Every able man was needed to keep the pumps working, and the ship headed into the wind. Damien saw two of the helmsmen come down for a hot drink and a short rest. They had spent their watch lashed to the wheel to keep from being swept overboard, and their bloodshot eyes were as red as their cheeks, were all from driven salt spray. The day passed with the tempest still raging. Damien's ears were sore from the constant uproar, and when the priests prayed together for the fifth day of their novena, the second of the storm, he found it difficult to hear the prayers and make his responses.
All of them wondered if these prayers might be among their lasts, and throughout the night that followed they knew that death stayed very near. The next morning it seemed to Damien that when the ship rolled to the lee side she took a little longer righting herself. Once, when she was side down into a trow, a tremendous wave washed across her deck and pouring off carried the rail away. Two seamen rigged a lifeline to hang on to as they passed down the deck, but even with that they were almost swept overboard. Damien tried once to get out on deck to see if he could be of any use, but he was stopped by an impenetrable wall of wind-driven rain and spume. Sailors battered by the pounding waves were working on the fastening of a hash cover, which had torn loose.
They must get it fixed as quickly as possible, for if the rampaging seas could manage to pour down below decks through the opening, the wood would be lost. The screaming demons of the air kept up their fearful noise. Once the wind found a The long-pointed bone-toll used by the sailors in splicing rope, and carrying it like a dart, rammed it deep into the creaking wood of the masts. Later, one of the casks split with a sharp, rending noise as it gave way, at last, to the double pounding of the fresh water on the inside and the sea-ways on the outside. The good drinking water poured out into the salty wilderness of ocean. The third and fourth days came and went. Dawn of the next day was strange, with a weird purplish cast to the sky and cloud scud whirling crazily.
The wood climbed a mountainous wave, shadowed for a moment, and nosed down. The passengers all felt sure she was headed for the bottom. "'Mary, Star of the Sea, pray for us,' begged the missionaries. Somehow the ship did find her way out, only to meet the heavy artillery of the ocean again. It was February 1st, the eighth day of the Novena, the fifth of the storm. With some grimness, Damien recollected his pleasure in watching the porpoises at play. The ship itself was porpoising now, plunging through and under the waves, rather than riding over them as the ship was built to go. Strong faith alone kept Damien and his fellow missionaries from despair. Ordinary common sense judgment told them that no ship could endure this savage and seemingly endless storm.
But faith was strong and justified. On the last day of the Novena, the Feast of the Purification, Mary, star of the sea, came to their rescue, and the exhausted, incredulous sailors saw the gale die suddenly to be replaced by a gentle wind from the south, which carried their better ship safely and quietly on its appointed course toward the islands.
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6 06 - The Islands 16:52
The Islands. It was hard for Damien to believe that he was really at the islands, where his life as a missionary was to begin. The eager travelers had watched them all day, first, mere gray smudges on the horizon, then taking on shape And now, on the following morning, near and vivid in all their breathtaking beauty. Breezes from the land were scented with the odor of exotic flowers, and though the mountains stood tall and forbidding, the gentle waves on the beaches seemed to ripple a welcome. "'You will be glad to land, I am sure,' said Captain Gerkin to Damien. "'But I must warn you, you'll find walking a little difficult for a while.' "'Why should that be?' Damien asked. "'Because you have sea legs now.' You're accustomed to a rolling and pitching deck.
Aw, but that will not make it hard when I'm on firm, stable land. Wait and see," the captain laughed. You'll walk as if you had drunk too much schnapps. I know. I've seen it. Won't you do the same? No. Sailors develop a sort of rolling gait that keeps them steady, whether afloat or ashore. It's not pretty, but it's safe. The war from which the missionaries debarked was filled with interested Hawaiians or Kanekas. Tall, gentle, handsome people, they watched with fascination as the six white-robed missionaries and the ten nuns came down the gangplank. These natives were a kindly group, but found it difficult not to laugh aloud at the picture they saw, for to the people who had lived so long aboard the wood, the wharf and the ground beyond it seemed strangely wavering, and their own steps wavered to match.
This is the oddest sensation. Damien was torn between amusement and annoyance. I know that the ground can't be moving, but I feel as if it were surging up to meet my foot, or else plunging away from me. He glanced at the nuns, trying to be dignified, but walking for all the world as if they were tipsy. He had no trouble choking back a chuckle, for just at that moment he himself reeled and staggered. What a way to enter my new missionary land, he thought. But he was not yet ready to start his apostolate. On the vigil of Easter, he received the subdiagnet, a further step toward the priesthood, and was sent to college at Oumain for a final study period of two months before ordination. In May 1864, Sherman had begun his march to the sea.
Japan and France signed a pact of friendship. Italy, Brazil, and Spain discussed the possibility of undersea telegraph lines to America, and on May 21st Damien received holy orders, Now and forever, He would be Father Damien. Almost at once he and Father Clement, ordained on the same day as Damien, were assigned to work on Hawaii, the largest island of the group. He could hardly wait to start on his missionary life. I wish I knew more of the language, he said to himself, and had had more time to talk with older men who have been in the field for years. He paced the garden walk, his mind churning, trying to leap from the quiet place in which he was, to the yet unseen and unknown parish to which he would soon go.
I hope I have plenty of work to do, he mused. I like to work, and in such a cause. The thought remained unfinished, as a wave of joy and gratitude swept over him. He, Joseph de Wooster, of Tremeloo, was now an ordained priest in the mission service. He wondered if the natives would like him. wondered not for any reason as self-conceit, but because he knew that if they liked him, they would listen to him. He burned with zeal for the opportunity to tell these pagan children of God about their father and Savior, and about his church. Along with Father Clement, who had been ordained at the same time, he was to be stationed on the island of Hawaii. The bishop, now making the pastoral rounds of his island diocese, would take them with him to their stations.
One hot June night, Therefore, the three embarked on a little ship. The first stop was the island of Maui, where three priests were stationed. "'I wish I could stay longer with those three veteran missionaries,' said Fr. Damien, as the party returned to the ship. "'There was so much they could teach me.' "'You are young,' replied the bishop. "'But so were they once.' "'I have studied my theology,' Damien went on. "'But I know little about how to teach these pagans. How to—' "'There is the boat whistle.' The bishop interrupted. Let us hurry. The captain will not wait. Damien felt keen disappointment at being cut off before making his deep desire clear, but he had learned obedience and did not argue.
There was nothing, however, to prevent his speaking to God about the matter. A strange thing happened. The ship was hardly away from the pier when a cry of fire was heard. Father Clement, where is the bishop? Is he safe? Father Damien, who had been on deck when the alarm was given, rushed to the gangway. I am here, Father Damien, said the bishop quietly. Let us see if there is anything we can do to be of help. There must be no panic aboard. There was none. The boat put back, and the bishop went ashore with the two young men to spend the night where Father Damien had longed to be, with the three kindly experienced missioners. He was delighted to talk again with them, to learn more of the many things they could so easily teach.
Their three hosts were somewhat surprised when the three guests, so lately departed, returned for a longer stay. The bishop and his party would have to remain at Maui until another ship came by, and no one was just sure when that would be. The bishop was impatient to get on about his affairs, but the delay was completely to Damien's taste. He adopted Father Albert as his teacher, and began learning the Hawaiian language. Throwing himself into this new project with all the furious energy he lavished on any task, physical or mental. Secretly he hoped that a ship would be a long time in arriving. Although he was anxious to get to his mission field, he well knew that the ability to speak to the people easily in their own tongue would bring him much closer to them.
The days passed, and Father Damien became steadily more proficient in the new language. Side by side with his growing skill, there grew a great desire to put it to use. Hesitantly, he asked for permission to go to one of the mission churches about fifteen miles away, and there preach his first sermon. His request was granted. The walk seemed short to him. The heat went unnoticed. He strode over the rough ground, his heart singing. He was on his way to speak from the pulpit for the first time, and nothing else mattered. He began his sermon very easily, but after a moment or two the words seemed to desert him. He cleared his throat and went on a little farther with the instruction he had planned, while the Hawaiians sat in rigid politeness.
He stumbled, stopped, started again. Now the language of which he had believed himself to be master began playing strange tricks with him. He pulled a large handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his perspiring forehead, and as he did so he caught just the faintest indication of a twinkle in the eye of one of the men of the congregation. A flash of embarrassed anger flared up for just an instant. Then the humor of the situation struck him. Father Deming smiled widely at his patient and polite flock, and they smiled back. He returned to his preaching, this time going slowly and selecting his words with care. He was not discouraged when he left the church, and on the long hike back to the house where he was staying he outlined another sermon, determined that this time he would be better prepared.
His mind was still busy with plans for perfecting his Hawaiian and with other plans for future use of the language when he reached the home of the three priests. He was eager to tell them, as well as the bishop and Father Clement, All about his experience. For a moment he did not comprehend what Father Albert was telling him. "'The bishop and Father Clement have gone, Father Damien.' "'Gone?' Father Damien repeated the word, as if he had never heard it before. "'Yes. A ship came while you were away. The bishop tried to get the captain to wait for a while, but he could not, so they left to go on about their business.' "'Left?' Father Damien echoed again. Then complete realization came to him. You mean that Father Clement has gone to his parish and the bishop on his visitation, and I am left behind?
You state the case exactly. Father Albert could not restrain a small smile at the perturbed young giant who towered over him. I have confused matters, it seems, said Father Damien penitently. But very soon he cheered up. He could not be truly sorry that, because of the unexpected arrival of a ship, he was to have a little more time for work and study under the guidance of the three missioners. He had not been at fault, as far as he could see. The June sun in Hawaii is not kind. It thins the blood and saps the strength, even of those who are accustomed to it. But it seemed only to give more vigor to Father Damien. Tirelessly, morning, noon, and night, he strode about the island, working among the people.
Dedicated as the three resident priests were, it tired them even to think about the miles Father Damien tramped on Maui. At last another ship bound for Hawaii put in. This time, Father Damien was aboard in good season. He planned to catch up with the bishop and Father Clement at the latter's newly-dedicated chapel, and go on from there to his own parish. But when he reached Father Clement's church, he found that he was late again. The bishop had moved on. Now he was deeply disturbed. Would the bishop think him too unreliable to be put in charge of a parish? He set out on foot to cut across the island, hoping in this way to make better time than the bishop would on the little coastal steamer, with its many stops.
For a time, while still in the settlement, he walked along with a postman who started him upon his way. But all too soon he was alone, to find, as best he could, the route over a hundred and fifty miles of mountain and gorge and river-land. Now the guardian angel, on whom he had always relied, would have plenty to do. He struck off into the wilderness which lay between him and the district of Puna, where among the volcanoes he was to have his pastorate. Once away from the shore the heat became heavy and humid. Leaves of vine and tree were covered with a fine red dust brought in by the trade winds. Climbing grew more and more difficult, but Father Damien plunged on. "'I have twice lagged amidst the bishop,' he told himself sternly.
"'I must reach Puna while he is there.' Late one afternoon he came to a high plateau. The air was somewhat lighter there, and his powerful body cried for rest. But ahead of him he could see a cloud-capped mountain, over which he must pass. and he decided to get as near to it as possible before sleeping. If he could attack that dreadful climb, while fresh from a night's rest, he could make more speed in the ascent. As he drew nearer, the mountain looked more and more formidable. Obstacles are meant to be conquered, Father Damien told himself resolutely. We will attend to that one tomorrow. The obstacle did not look any less awesome when viewed in the light of day. He saw, too, that there was a deep gorge between the spot where he stood and the mountain that he must climb, but his courage did not falter.
A gorge and a mountain blocked his path. Then he would go through the gorge and over the mountain. And what of the difficulties of descent on the other side of the mountain? Those he would take care of when he met them. And take care of them he did—rushing mountain stream, treacherous ravine, heat of day, cold of night. He tramped the whole hundred and fifty miles and met his bishop as he had hoped. Four days later, with instructions from his superior, he left for his own district of Puna. There, at last, he would begin to preach, teach, baptize. In his tremendous district there were only three hundred and fifty Catholics. Some others who had been Catholics, in the years when there had been no resident priest, had fallen, or been drawn, away.
Many others were still pagan, making offerings to Pille. the goddess of volcanoes, who, according to Kanaka belief, lived in one of the great volcanoes of Puna. The few Catholic chapels which had existed were now fallen into disrepair or ruin. Another man might have been discouraged by this situation, but not Father Damien. He welcomed the outlet it gave for his spiritual and bodily vigor. His flashing smile as he worked was one of the things that first endeared him to his new parishioners. He started a trip around Puna, Making friends with Catholic and non-Catholic alike. When he could, he borrowed a horse or a mural. When he couldn't, he walked. It took three days of traveling to complete the circuit of his parish.
A joyous journey for him, because in the trip he had thirty baptisms. His gratitude to God was almost inexpressible. His next step must be the construction of some chapels. Now, the skills he had learned in the years on his father's farm came into play. He designed the little chapels, directed their building, and did much of the heavy labor himself. While busy with the manual work, he never, of course, lost sight of the spiritual needs of his people. He taught, catechized, trained, instructed. Gradually, Catholicity in Puna began to be a vigorous, vital force. In the meantime, his friend, Father Clement, had been working in the district of Cahola and Hamakia. This was a tremendous mountainous area, and before long it was obvious that a man of rare stamina was needed there.
Father Clement was somewhat frail, so after eight months in Puna, Father Damien exchanged parishes with him. Now the challenge facing him was even greater than before, and he met it by throwing himself even more enthusiastically into his work. Eighty miles long and thirty miles wide, his district had fifteen Roland chapels to be replaced, and countless souls to be won to God. He was unceasingly busy. "'Where is your home, father?' a kanaka asked him once when they met on a dangerous mountain trail. Father Damien, standing beside his horse, pointing to the saddle with a smile. "'That's my home,' he answered. One day a messenger came to tell him of an old man who was dying. As for years, he lived, all alone.
He had not been to church in a long time, and was anxious to see a priest before he died. "'Will you lead me to him?' asked Father Damien. I will go part of the way, father, and direct you how to go the remainder of the trip. Father Damien mounted his horse and started off through the jungle. He and his guide saw little animal life, but from the crackling of twigs and rustling of leaves in the bushes and vines on either side of them, they knew that bright eyes were watching and noting them. Now I must leave you, Kamiyano, said the Kanaka. You will stay on this path until you reach the top of that mountain. The cabin is there. With thanks to the man, Father Damien went off alone. The sun was now directly overhead, and the steam in the air made breathing difficult.
The horse was tiring. "'Come on, old friend,' said the priest encouragingly. "'You can't quit now. We must get to that poor sick man before he goes to meet his maker.' The horse seemed to respond to his tone, and for a while went more swiftly. But the trail grew steeper. As they climbed, vegetation disappeared except for a few scraggy bushes and discouraged-looking vines. Father Damien's mound had to pick its way carefully between sharp rocks, where a rolling stone might spell disaster for both animal and rider. The zigzag course became every instant more difficult. At last they came to a sudden, steep rise, which seemed to offer no foothold at all. The horse refused to try the ascent. Father Damien dismounted and surveyed the situation.
He could see a few crevices offering possible finger and toe holds. Grasping the reins tightly, he scrambled up the steep slope to the little plateau above. From this vantage point he could see that, a few yards to the left, rough stones lay about it in such a way as to permit the horse to scramble up, if he could be induced to try. The priest walked carefully over to the place of possible ascent, and gave a little jerk to the reins. The horse at first stood immovable, But Father Damien continued his play on the reins, his encouraging talking and clucking. At last the animal, put a cautious forefoot on the large rock, hesitated a moment, then decided to chance an effort. Its shoes struck sparks from the rock, it slipped and nearly fell, but at last, with a mighty heave, it was up on the ledge.
The relieved rider at once leaped into the saddle and was on his way. He reached the old man in plenty of time to hear his confession. Anoint him and comfort him before he died.
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7 07 - "Kamiano!" 14:45
Betz. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Maria Therese. Chapter Seven. Come on.
Many parts of father Damien's tremendous parish were almost impossible to reach, would have been really impossible for anyone less strong of body and heart. One chapel was situated at the end of a twelve-mile journey through six deep gorges between rocky cliffs, and with a final two-thousand-foot climb up a rock-faced hill. When it was just a question of exerting overwhelming personal effort, Fr. Damien was seldom delayed. The forces of nature sometimes offered more difficult problems. One Christian settlement was in a small cove around a spit of land extending into waters that were often turbulent, Always treacherous. But the people there were part of his parish, and the priest was determined to visit them.
He was not sure of the number of baptized there, or of how vigorous a faith might be among them, for they had been a long time without a priest. The only possible way to reach this spot was by boat. With an impulse of caution that was not usual in his planning, he postponed his departure until the water was relatively calm. One whole day of soft breeze and quiet sea seemed to him a signal of another good day to follow. So early the next morning he summoned the native who was to wheel the paddle, and together they entered their boat, a canoe-like craft made from a hollowed-out tree, and much the style of an American-Indian canoe. They put off from shore, and the little boat danced over sunlit waters, skimming along swiftly under the powerful strokes of the Kanaka.
Father Damien became deeply absorbed in plans for work among these members of his flock, who had been for a long time without seeing a priest. His eyes roamed over the island, its lush green vegetation, its sudden rocky outcroppings, the tall cones of volcanoes thrusting into the sky. From one of the tips, a lazy plume of smoke arose waveringly to blend with the fleecy clouds. The beauty of the scenery did not detain his thoughts. He saw it as a series of challenges to be met in visiting his parishioners, as a setting in which he would construct a series of chapels. So concentrated was he on his various problems that for some time he was not fully aware that the Kanaka was speaking. But at last the words penetrated his consciousness.
"'I do not like it,' the boy was muttering. Father Damien looked up. "'You do not like it?' The boy shook his head. "'The wind speaks of evil.' The water is angry. The priest pulled his mind away from designs for the future to concentrate on the present. They had come a considerable distance, and the village of their destination was plainly visible on the shore, but around them on the sea things were not so promising. He observed for the first time that the sky, which had been blue, was now grey. The sun still shone, after a fashion, but as if it were coming through fog. The water, instead of dancing, was heaving in long, sullen rolls. The boy's descriptive word, angry, was apt. He was aware that there was now a field of danger between the boat and the village, which seemed so near.
He had barely grasped the change in the scene about them when the boy shouted, Look out, Father, Danger! A big ruler, rising higher than the rest, lifted their little craft, turned it on its side, and then completely over. Father Damien's first thought was of his companion. For an instant he feared that the boy had been caught beneath the capsized boat. Then he saw his head bob up on the other side of it. "'Can you swim, father?' the boy yelled. "'Yes, but I am not really dressed for it,' father Damien answered with grim humor. As the two struck out for shore, the priest was once again grateful for his boyhood in Tremoloo, where he and his brothers had spent many hours swimming in the Dio River.
It seemed a long pull to the beach, but they made it at last. Father Damien, weary and trembling, since he had been hampered by his clothing. He started to press the water out of the soggy garments, only to discover, to his grief, that his breviary was gone. It was his only one, and particularly valued, because it was small and compact, and fitted easily into his pocket. His heart sank, and he looked toward the water, as if moved to swim out again and hunt for the book he could not easily replace. But the water was wide, and the breviary was small. A quick smile flitted across his face, and he turned to the watching Kanaka. "'Let us first thank the good God, who brought us safe to shore,' he said.
"'Then we will go on to the village.' The villagers were delighted to greet their new priest, and led him at once to the largest hut in the settlement, where they hoped to hear mass. "'Not this time,' Father Damien explained, "'but I will come again soon and bring all the mass things with me.' Even so the day was a busy one for him. He baptized children born since a priest had last been there, visited the sick, spoke to the uninstructed. The next morning early, one of the men from the village went to the top of a small hill, where he blew a series of blasts on a horn made from a conch-shell. To all who heard it, the sound meant, "'The priest is here!' From every direction there came scurrying men, women, children, hoping to assist at mass.
and when they found that impossible, anxious at least to go to confession, to say the rosary in unison, to receive instruction in their religion. Father Damien appointed two of the older, better-trained men as prayer-leaders to conduct services on the Sundays when he could not come. He preached a touching sermon about God's love for all. Then, in a bigger boat than the one from which he had been parted on the way in, he left the settlement and went home. Constantly in his thoughts was the urgent need of chapels. He could design them, he could even build them, but he needed money for land and for materials. In Honolulu, the office of the Provincial, the priest in charge of the Holmissian territory, began to receive a barrage of letters, signed, Damien de Wooster.
The Provincial, while agreeing wholeheartedly with the young priest's desire, tried to point out to him that the covering of his parish with chapels would not be an overnight project. The plans were splendid, but their execution must necessarily be slow. But Father Damien did not know how to go slow. He decided to approach the Hawaiian rulers themselves. Kamahamaha V was king of the islands, and the priest wrote to his queen, asking her for a grant of land, in Hamakua, large enough to permit the building of a church. He received in reply the concession of a generous number of acres. On such a tract he envisioned a church, a school, perhaps some day, even a convent, and a house for himself. Not long after he had secured this land, the provincial was able to send him some money.
Now, at last, he would be ready to start building. The island trees were quite different from those he had been familiar with at Tremolu. Here, instead of willow or oak, he must use wood of Tamanu, or mango, and breadfruit trees. But he quickly learned their qualities, bought what trees he needed for lumber, and was ready to begin. There had never before been a chapel in the area where his land lay. The natives were delighted with the project. Two kanakas, familiar with the use of saw and hammer, were to be assistant carpenters. Several more volunteers as laborers. They began struggling with the great trees which had been felled, trying to move them from the forest to the spot on the mountain-side where the chapel was to stand.
For a while, Father Damien watched their efforts. Then, wanting immediate action, as usual, he made a lever of a stout branch across a rock, raised one of the huge logs slightly from the ground, and wedged it, got a good grip on it, and single-handed snaked it out into the open, where the carpenters could work, sawing it into boards. The natives stared wide-eyed with amazement at this new demonstration of the strength and skill of their beloved Camiano. The word spread quickly. Father Damien had land and lumber, and was building a chapel. Eagerly men, women, and children volunteered their help. They gathered on the beach seven miles from the site of the building project, and slept there in the cool breezes to prepare for the coming day.
At sunrise they woke and recited their morning prayers in unison, then started the difficult climb up the mountain. Leaping from stone to stone, because there was as yet no path, the children romped ahead, while the parents followed at a more sedate pace. There were tasks for all. Clearing way vines and bushes, piling up the smaller stones, carrying tools for the workmen, and bringing them gourds of cold drinking water when the sun was high. No pair of hands was too small, no body too frail, to do its part in preparing a home for their lord. In so short a time as to be unbelievable, the church was finished, even to a beautifully polished two-foot cross on the roof. Father Damien was justifiably proud of the achievement, but he was not content.
Soon, if God wills, he said, I will erect another chapel about twenty-five miles from here. He dreamed of the time when he would have a series of chapels all around his tremendous parish. Even without a church building, of course, souls can be saved, but he knew that no Catholic group could function normally for very long without a fixed center, a place where Mass is said and the Holy Eucharist is tabernacled. Then, too, the priest was aware of the impact of church ceremonies and ceremonials, on the beauty-loving Hawaiians. Flowers, lights, pictures, the incidentals of liturgical rites moved the natives strongly towards appreciation of supernatural truths. From his Belgian ancestors, Fr. Damien had inherited an ability to manage money, when he could get any, and the rather shrewd business sense.
Now he raised crops that were in demand, such as string-beings, tobacco, and so on, and exchanged them for supplies for his mission. The paint for his chapels, which steadily increased in number, was bought from the sale of potatoes. He had judiciously stored his potato harvest until the arrival of the whaling fleet brought him a big market for the vegetable. In the spring of 1865, Abraham Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation giving slaves their freedom. Finians, in Ireland, were fighting for freedom. There was war between Paraguay and Argentina in South America. But even if he had heard of these events, they would have made little impression on Father Damien, for it was in that spring that nature decided to show the young missioner just what could be done by the elements.
The Hawaiian Islands are volcanic in origin. Many of the cones constantly smoke and rumble, and, on occasion, a lava lake in the center of some cone will boil up and over, the edges rolling down the mountain-side and destroying all that it touches. In early March of 1865, there were a few ground tremors, disturbing but not too frightening. As the month progressed, they came oftener and lasted longer. It was evident that there was some major disturbance in the earth, that some catastrophe was in the making, of which these tremblers were merely a forewarning. Suddenly, on the second of April, one of the mountains literally blew its side out, and the earth heaved in a paroxysm that opened a twenty-five-mile-wide crack, which at once filled with a river of stones and mud.
Some poor souls who had escaped being buried in the debris of the exploding mountain were engulfed by this new horror. The air was filled with demonic noise. Giant boulders dislodged from rocking hill-sides crashed down through forests, splitting and felling great trees, which died with a screaming round of wood. Birds, terrified by this disturbance of their quiet jungle, flew distractedly about, and the shyest of animals left their rocking lairs and fled into the settlements. But there was no quiet there. Sobbing prayers of terrified people were drowned out by the frenzied clangor of church bells ringing in their rocking steeples without the aid of human hands. Cows bawled for cows, which had fallen into earth fissures.
Lambs bleated for use, lost in rock slides. The sulphurous air was filled with dust from the multiplied wreckage that obscured the sun but reflected the volcanic glow. It was hard to distinguish day from night or night from day. Fr. Damien had trained a number of catechumens to instruct and catechize to lead the prayers and read the gospel on Sundays when he could not reach their chapels. Many of them were buried in stone and rubble along with the chapels they loved. Then nature decided to show her versatility. Under the water, far out at sea, several volcanoes were preparing to erupt. As an athlete might draw a deep breath before trying some feet of strength, the undersea mountains drew the water out from the shore, leaving an uncanny nakedness on beach and water line.
Breath having been gathered, the waters were spewed out in a rushing, ravaging tidal wave that swept everything before it. Boats, houses, animals, men, women, children, all were carried away by the swirling fury. The very boulders which had stood sentinel at the ocean's edge vanished into its depth. For a brief time late on the night of April sixth, there was a pause, a cessation of the commotion. This in itself was nerve-racking. It was obviously not the end of the days of disaster, but an interval, while nature gathered her forces for one more fearful blow. On the morning of April seventh, a great volcanic mountain erupted through half a dozen vents all around its circumference. molten, glowing, sometimes sending weird fingers of flame high in the air as escaping gases ignited, the deadly streams poured down the mountain in all directions.
For anyone who might be in their path, there was no way to run, no way of escape. Then, as if exhausted from its orgy of destruction, the earth was still. Father Damien was everywhere at once. He found shelter for the shelterless. He visited the sick. He buried the dead. He fed the hungry and gave drink to the thirsty. He consoled the widow and the orphan. And he set to work to rebuild all that had been destroyed. Two years later he could report that once again his chapels were standing, that his mission had a small flock of sheep, a cow, five horses, two colts, and two mules. By 1872 he was satisfied that he at last had enough chapels and rectories with farms to support them. He planned now to give more time to study, In which he knew he was lacking.
But God had other plans for him.
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8 08 - Molokai 28:14
Malachi. The Hawaiian Islands were growing, growing in industry and in population. On the island of Maui, great sugar plantations flourished, and many laborers had been imported to work among the kings. Father Lenore had finished building a fine church at Waluku on Maui, and when time came for the dedication, Bishop Magritte decided to make the ceremony as solemn and colorful as possible. He knew that this would impress the natives, that it would please those who were already baptized members of the church, and interest those who were not. Elaborate arrangements were made for carrying out every detail of the ritual in all its splendor. Priests from nearby islands were summoned to swell the ranks of the ordained who would pay homage to God and the new church.
Father Damien could leave his island with some peace of mind. The chapels he had planned were now built. He had well-trained catechists to share the task of instructing their fellow-natives and preaching to them. His priest's assistant knew the island and was known by his people. He answered the bishop's summons by boarding a small sailboat which would take him to Maui. It was a great joy to him to see once again the church's ceremonies beautifully carried out. He met and talked with priests recently come from Europe, who gave him his first news of the outside world. But that world became unreal, and lost all interest for him when the bishop spoke to the assembled clergy after the dedication was over.
He praised them for their tremendous accomplishments. There had been scores, hundreds, of baptisms. Chapels had been built in jungle and wilderness. Fallen away Catholics had been brought back to the fold. But there were still places gravely in need of missioners. Molokai was one. Molokai, the leper colony. From the earliest days of human history, leprosy has been a disease hated and feared. In biblical times, people so afflicted were outcasts, compelled to live beyond the city walls, and to utter the warning cry of, Unclean, if anyone approached them. Even much later, in England, lepers were treated as if already dead, so far as civic or property rights were concerned. In Hawaii, where the disease had been introduced by European settlers and had made dreadful inroads, lepers were taken from their families and sent to the island of Molokai.
But no further provision had been made for them. There were neither doctors nor nurses on the island. There was no hospital. There was not even shelter beyond what the sick themselves could arrange. The poor sufferers took care of themselves and each other as long as they could, and then they died. It was a grim and terrible place. Some missioners, both Catholic and Protestant, had gone to Molokai for brief intervals, but that was not enough. Even more desperate than the physical need was the spiritual need. A priest should be at hand always to minister to the sick and dying. The year before, Brother Bertrand had been at Molokai, where he had built a little chapel dedicated to St. Philomena. Talk to the bishop, the natives had urged, while the building was in progress.
Tell him it isn't enough for us to see a priest once a year. We've got a lot of time to die between visits. How are we to save our souls without a priest? That incident, and others like it, were in the bishop's mind as he moved about among the little groups of priests who were chatting together about their work and exchanging news from their homelands. He stopped to greet four of them who were standing together, Fathers Damien, Goulston, Boniface and Rupert. I am disturbed about Molokai, he told them after a few minutes' conversation. The numbers in the settlement are growing constantly. No one on the islands needs a priest more than these poor outcasts, yet I hesitate. Bishop, urged the four, speaking almost as one man.
Only say the word, and any of us will go there. The bishop pondered the matter. Could you set up a rotating system? he asked at last. You could take turns replacing each other at stated intervals. The priests eagerly talked it over among themselves. It would be possible, they agreed, for each to leave his own district every year for three months, which would be spent on Molokai. In that way, none would be obliged to give up his assigned parish, yet the leper settlement would have constant attendance. Father Damien's heart was beating tumultuously. His eyes were shining with the light of a new ideal. This, he felt, was the work for which he had been ordained. On Molokai he would find the true purpose for which his physical and spiritual strength had been given him.
It was decided, the rotation idea was accepted, and Damien was chosen as the first to go. It would be for a few weeks only, according to the plan. Yet, within himself, he felt some mysterious assurance that he would be permitted to stay there. Very shortly thereafter, the bishop and Damien boarded a vessel which was taking some lepers to Molokai. A ship leaving a Hawaiian port is usually sung away from the dock. The departing passengers wear necklaces of flowers called ls, which they cast on the water when the ship is a little way out from the shore. Legend says that anyone who throws these tributes to the sea will surely return again. Father Damien's ship pulled out to a very different accompaniment.
not songs, but sobs and anguished words from those departing, and those left behind filled the air. When the flowers fluttered down from the deck, a great groan went up. For these poor souls there would be no return. They could not hope to see their loved ones again in this world. To hope for that would be to hope that the others would be stricken with leprosy, too. The families could be reunited only in the colony at Molokai. There was little conversation between Bishop Magret, and Father Damien that night. Yet there was little sleep for either. They spent the long hour sitting on deck, each deep in his own thoughts. By dawn they were near Molokai. The island was cut in two by a jagged mountain range, which was considered almost impassable.
The little ship pulled in toward the end, occupied by Kalawao, the leper colony, and the fifty doomed passengers were put into boats to be roared ashore. "'Are you sure?' Father Damien, the bishop asked anxiously. More sure than I was before, answered the priest. His heart had been torn by the tears of the sick ones during the night, by the sight of their disfigurements, which would grow steadily worse as the disease progressed. He was consumed with a desire to get started on his work among them, to bring comfort to the living, consolation to the dying, to all a knowledge of God and His goodness. The bishop got into the boat, which was to bring him and Father Damien ashore, and sat, head bowed as the sailors pulled the heavy oars that drove the craft over to long rollers and on to the beach.
He glanced at Father Damien and saw his eyes, filled with a light of compassion and love, fixed eagerly on the shore. The bishop felt humble. "'My children,' said the bishop to the crowd of unfortunates who had gathered eagerly on the sands, "'you have had priests visit you before, but now I have brought one who will make his home here among you. He will indeed be a father to you.' Be good and obedient children to him, and love him, for he loves you. Father Damien kissed the episcopal ring, and bowed his head, as the bishop blessed him and blessed the people. Then the long-boat pulled away, and he was left with his pain-racked, disease-eaten flock. Father Damien walked around his new domain of Kalawaho, that part of Molokai partitioned off for the lepers by human laws in impregnable mountains.
He had seen people with leprosy before. but none in an advanced stage of the disease. Here he met men and women minus fingers and toes, feet and hands, lips and eyelids. These organs had literally rotted off their bodies. He could not, of course, control a human revulsion at such sites, but he could, and did avoid showing it. From the first he forced himself never to indicate by the slightest sign the sick disgust and horror inspired by the eaten bodies. Even stronger than his repugnance was his love and pity for the poor creatures treading their road to Calvary. He strode about in his white castock, looking with dismay at the crude lean-tos which served as homes for the sick and suffering. Often he stopped and spoke to the children.
Some, strangely enough, were healthy and normal. Many others were dwarfish and distorted from the disease. Coming at last to the chapel of St. Philomena with its tiny cross above the door, He entered and knelt before the little altar. "'O God, grant me the strength and courage I will need,' he prayed. "'Make me wise in directing these poor ones you have given me for my flock. And, dear guardian angel, I will need you now more than ever.' After a moment he got to his feet and looked around. In one corner was a broom made of twigs. He set to work, sweeping out the dust and leaves and debris which had drifted into the little-used building. Now there would be a priest here regularly. His heart lightened as the dirt flew.
A shadow fell across the floor, and he looked up to see a man standing there timidly offering a gift of fruit. He held it in one hand, balancing it with the other arm, from which the hand was almost gone. Father Damien set his broom in the corner. "'Thank you, my friend. I was ready for lunch. Will you share the meal with me?' For a moment the man stood motionless. Then he mothered something unintelligible, and backed away a few steps. And to his dull eyes tears had come. He waited until Father Damien took a piece of the fruit and ate it. Then he quietly withdrew. The priest went back to his work, to be interrupted a short time later by another sufferer, this time bearing a gift of flowers for the altar.
Again Father Damien took the offering graciously, hiding his dismay at the cruelly ravaged face which tried to smile at him. Pitiful heart, have pity on him, he silently prayed. As the afternoon and the cleaning progressed, the number of visitors to the little chapel grew. More flowers were brought. Some of the people helped with the dusting and arranging. By the day's end, he had made many new friends. Also, he had greeted with mixed emotion of welcome and sadness a few who had been his parishioners in Hamakua. The clean, decorated chapel pleased him. As he was about to leave the flower-filled altar, a man ran in to ask his help. One of the sick people had died, and his friends were about to lay his body in its last resting-place.
Would Father Damien officiate at the burial? Of course, my son. Father Damien stepped from the chapel. Will you lead me to the cemetery? When he arrived at the tragic spot, Damien could hardly conceal his dismay. The body, wrapped in rags, was being placed in a grave not more than a few inches deep. It was the best that the poor people could do, but it proved yet more forcibly to the priest The dreadful need which existed on the island, even in the most elementary matters. He thanked God again for the health and strength he would be able to throw into his task. To the list he had already begun in his mind, he added two more items—the digging of proper graves and the building of coffins. Suddenly, as happens in the tropics, the sun was gone.
Father Damien's first day on Molokai was over. He had helped and comforted a few people. He had cleaned and refurbished the little chapel. He had done many things. But one thing he had not done. He had not thought of where he would spend the night. He wandered over to the great Prandano's tree, which grew near the chapel, and sat, leaning back against the massive trunk, smoking his pipe. His mind was filled with a kaleidoscope assortment of thoughts and pictures. The misery, hungry, and poverty added to illness that he had seen, flashbacks to the comfort, decency, and order of his boyhood home in Tremolue, the vast amount of physical labor to be done in the settlement, the need of awakening the outside world to the inhuman way in which these poor sufferers were treated.
He finished his pipe, knocked out the ash, and swung his body away from the tree. Stretching out on the ground, he looked up through the canopy of leaves at the soft stars above him. With a short purr on his lips, he fell asleep under the tree that was to be his home for some time to come. As the days passed, Father Damien was more and more deeply disturbed over conditions around him. The people here had been removed from their homes, Forcibly, in many cases, and sent to the leper colony, and then, so it seemed, to the priest, largely forgotten. All they received were rations and a scant supply of cotton clothing. There had been some effort to provide quarters for the earlier comers, but the numbers now far outstripped the accommodations.
The few who had money were able to bring with them adequate clothing and small comforts, and sometimes to secure the shelter of a roof. The rousts were dressed in dirty rags, and slept on the ground in hovels made of grass or boughs. For a long time no one had cared what the spiritual or physical condition of the lepers was. Shortly before Father Damien's arrival, a new superintendent, Mr. Meyer, had been appointed. He did not live in the leper colony, but directed it, as best he could, from his home in the other part of the island. He was interested in the welfare of his charges, and did all he was able to with what the government provided, which was very little. He was delighted with father Damien's arrival.
Impressed with the warmth of his personality, deeply moved that this tall, strong, vigorous young man should, of his own choice, cast his lot with the lepers. He did not know, nor did the priest himself suspect, that the very presence of father Damien would precipitate changes in the life on Molokai. The newspapers in the other section of the island found material for articles in a sacrifice they could not understand. They called him the Hero of Molokai, and turned the eyes of that part of the world upon the lepers and their needs. The Board of Health in Honolulu, which had until that time sent lepers to the island to live or die untended and almost forgotten, was not pleased to have the searchlight of public interest turned on Molokai.
They resented the acclaim given Father Damien. But Damien's temperament was not one that depended on anybody's approval. He loved the sick and oppressed because he loved God. For his sake he worked for them, and in Kalawau there was much work waiting to be done. He must try to achieve a little cleanliness, a little order among his people. Handsome, laughing, tireless, Father Damien little by little instilled into his flock a certain sense of hope, a spark of ambition. Not hope that they would be cured, nor ambition to get away from the colony, but hope for a little love and attention from this strong friend who had come to live among them, ambition to earn its approval. Damien's first eight days on the island were filled with heavy manual labor as well as spiritual ministrations.
He set to work digging graves and transformed the poor bodies from the shallow burial-holes where the first wind exposed them to deeper, more secure resting-places. He built coffins to have them ready for the almost daily need. He cleaned out filthy huts and washed the long, untended bodies of the sick. The Board of Health heard of his labors. The publicizing of the necessity for them angered the men, and they came up with a plan they felt sure would force Father Damien to leave his charges. If you do not leave at once, you must stay there permanently. This was their threat. They were sure that no man would willingly accept that sentence to living death. Father Damien's eyes danced when they heard the ultimatum.
He had been so afraid that his superiors would not leave him there, but now he had to stay. One of the first tasks which he set himself was the bringing of some sense of law and decent behavior into the settlement, a thing which government representatives had never been able to do. The lepers had been in the habit of distilling a powerful liquor from plants which grew wild in the colony, and drunkenness had brought all sorts of evils in its train. Damien knew he would have to persuade his children to give up the stills. Before the sun was up each morning, he had left his bed under the pendennis tree, and was hard at work. And this labor continued until long after the sun had disappeared again.
Besides being the colony's priest and gravedigger and carpenter, he was its doctor, too, for there was no medical man on the island. It was in his role as sanitation official that he was most severely handicapped, for water was scarce, and without water there could not be cleanliness. Molokai is an island which has been torn, plowed, and harrowed by volcanoes. The natives call it the land of the cliffs. Kalawao, on a promontory jutting from the northern coast, is cut off from the rest of the island by the Pali, Craigie Hills thrusting in places more than three thousand feet into the air. Damien felt sure that those high places must offer good water supplies. If that water could be found and piped down to the leper settlement, it would be of tremendous help.
As things were, the lepers had to carry water in cans and bottled from a stream some distance from the colony, a stream which sometimes ran very low. One day, accompanied by two men and several of his boys, he set out for a valley where he had heard there was a natural reservoir. Traveling was rough through the gulch, but after they had made their way well into the valley, they came upon a basin, which nature had hewn at the foot of a cliff. Full seventy-five feet long, it was, they found by plumbing, twelve feet deep, just off the side where they stood, and eighteen feet not much farther out. With a prayer of deep thanksgiving in his heart, Damien turned back to the leper colony. He had found the water, which would bring cleanliness and some measure of ease to his suffering flock.
Getting the water from where it was to where it was needed might have seen an insuperable problem to some people, but not to this rugged Belgian. who had spent his whole life meeting and overcoming obstacles. He presented his plan to Mr. Meyer, the colony superintendent, who wrote at once to the government in Honolulu, asking that pipes be sent. There was no answer. Damien asked that Mr. Meyer write again and include further requests for medical supplies, building material, and a doctor. Again, no answer. Then Father Damien inaugurated a regular bombardment of letters, and finally a load of water-pipes was delivered to the island. No workmen came with them, but that was the least of the good priest's worries.
He himself was big and strong and accustomed to work, and he felt sure that some of the less badly affected among lepers could help him in the project. His first simple, reasonable request met no success. The people were used to the unsanitary conditions and would not bestir themselves. Then he had recourse to oratory. He pleaded and argued and made speeches. The childlike Hawaiians were fascinated out of their torpor, and before long he had a band of volunteers marching to the shore where the pipes were being unloaded. The sailors handling the task were all sturdy men, accustomed to, and able for heavy work. What a grand thing it would be, thought Damien, if strength like that were available for laying the pipe, too.
Perhaps he would be able to interest them in helping. Father Damien talked with the captain, eagerly and excitedly, describing the project, the need for it, and the good which would result. His enthusiasm was contagious, and probably before Captain Boulke quite realized it, he had offered the help of his men in placing the pipe. The captain and the priest sketched out on the sand the way in which the new water system would operate. When the plan was clear in his mind, Father Damien rushed off to supervise the work, and to do much of it with his own strong hands. Before long, the clear, clean water from the mountain was pouring generously into the village. The dreary hopelessness left the eyes of many of the lepers as they began to realize the wonders worked by the faucets placed near their huts.
But to Father Damien this achievement only pointed up the contrast between what was needed and what was available. The huts themselves, even with the new miracle of water, could never be cleaned from the accumulated filth of years, and try as he would he could not interest the government in doing anything about it. One day he woke to see a lowering sky and scudding clouds. The sea was in turmoil, and, as he gazed, he was startled by the bullet-sharp crack of raindrops on Lita's Pondano's shelter. Almost at once the wind came roaring in from the sea. The flimsy structures called home by many of the lepers were snatched up, torn to bits, and scattered far and wide. Almost as quickly as it came, the storm passed.
Father Damien hurried about, doing what he could for the sufferers, but while he regretted anything that made the lot of his children more difficult, he was not wholly sorry for the wind's work. The government in Honolulu had been deaf to his pleas for building materials, but now, with even the rude squall at shelters gone, he was confident that he would be able to get some action. There was another factor in the case. More and more people, as he knew, were becoming aware through the newspapers of conditions on Molokai, and he felt that this must help his cause. He sat down and wrote a long letter to the Board of Health, describing conditions in the settlement, and demanding aid. Just as he finished the epistle, a ship carrying some new patients dropped anchor.
Damien hurriedly got into a canoe and paddled out to give his letter to the captain for delivery in Honolulu. Ahoy, father! He looked up and saw that the ship was the Warwick, the same one which had brought the pipes. The captain and crew, since helping with the water supply project, had taken an active interest in the whole colony. Now came the question. And how is our water system working? Fine, Captain, just fine. Will you come aboard, Father? Yes, if I may. I have a letter I want you to deliver. Father Damien clambered aboard. He was greeted with interest and affection by the seamen, and escorted up to the poop-deck, where the captain stood. The priest held out his letter. "'As you see, Captain,' he said, "'this storm has cleared the colony of most of its shelter.
I must have some solid buildings, which will not disappear every time a high wind blows. The letter is a request for supplies.' "'Will you see that it gets into the proper hands?' The captain thought for a moment. "'Why not come with us and deliver it yourself?' He smiled. Then you can add the force of spoken persuasion to the arguments you have written. The words brought the whole unjust situation sharply to the priest's mind. But there should be no need of persuasion, was his stormy reply. These are sick and suffering human beings. Children of God, the same as you and I. Just look. That is the point, father. Look. Your people are out on this island. Nobody sees them. The government are a group of men who would prefer, if possible, to forget their very existence.
Come with me and be the public conscience. While the two talked, the boy who had ridden out in the priest's canoe had been lazily stroking the water to keep the small craft close to the warwick's side. He looked up as Father Damien hailed him. Take the canoe back to shore. I am going with Captain Bull. You're not leaving us, Father. There was consternation in the boy's voice. For a few days only. Damien replied. I have business in Honolulu. I want building material and more food from my people. I will be back very soon. During the short trip to Hawaii, Father Damien marshalled the facts he wanted to present. He realized that he must make a good case, but he found it impossible to understand how anyone could know of these mortally sick people, underfed, needing clothing, without shelter, and not feel it a privilege to do something for them.
The sale to Honolulu was a pleasant interval for the priest. Fresh air came gratefully to his lungs, accustomed to the stench of corrupted bodies in unclean huts. Eris, habituated to the moans of the suffering and the dying, rejoiced in the sound of wave and wind. But though his senses relaxed, his ever-acted mind was at work. Almost as soon as the warwick touched the dock, he was off and away to see the bishop. It was to him that the first report must be made. Bishop Magritte listened with sympathetic interest. He understood Damien's problems, and promised wholeheartedly to do all he could in the line of spiritual and material aid, and, what was especially encouraging, he promised to do it at once.
Then Father Damien hurried off to the offices of the health board. This organization was composed largely of people of white stock who had been born in the islands. They held office under the native king. Some opposed Damien because of difference in religion. Others resented any sort of interference from an outsider. Now they made him feel it. The officials were displeased at the popular claim which had been given to the hero of Molokai. They were unhappy, too, at the exposure of conditions prevailing in the leper colony. From office boy to receptionist and secretary, they all did what they could to keep the priest from having the interview he wanted. They had thought they were dealing with an ordinary man who would be impressed and confused by this demonstration of official red tape.
They learned how wrong they were. Here was a dedicated man, one accustomed to meeting obstacles and overcoming them. He had come to see the president of the Board of Health, and he proposed to see him. He did see him, but his reception was angry and discourteous. But my people need—they must have—better food and clothing. Why, some of them are wearing the tattered remains of garments they had on when first they arrived on Molokai years ago. They need better houses. They need—they need—they need—they The president broke in. "'Sir, you are interfering in matters which do not concern you. You are a priest who has decided that the Catholics in the leper colony need your spiritual ministrations. Suppose you confine your activities to that field.' Smog, well-clothed, well-fed, the man twitched in his chair and picked up papers on his desk.
As far as he was concerned, the interview was over. Father Damien did not see it that way. The temper which he had fought so hard to control flared up. He became quite explicit about his feelings concerning the Board of Health, its members severally and collectively, and their method of operation. The man across the desk grew purple with rage. You seem to forget, Father Damien, he broke in at last, that there is a law which states that anyone from the leper settlement is forbidden to leave its boundaries. I am not a leper, replied the priest. True, but you live in the settlement, and your coming here is an infraction of the law. I suppose you are going back to Molokai. the official went on, and I warn you that if you ever appear here again, or so much as cross the mountains to visit any other colony on the island, I'll have you jailed.
Father Damien looked at him, a slow, considering stare which completely evaluated his opponent. Then he spoke. "'There are times when it is imperative that I see my bishop,' he said firmly. "'I will see him. There are Catholics on the island, not of the leper colony. I will visit them.' The president of the Board of Health arose, shaking with fury, and left the room without replying. The bishop was prompt in sending the materials he had promised. On the same boat with his contributions, the Board of Health was represented by a letter. It simply repeated the threats of arrest if Damien again left the leper colony to go anywhere for any reason. A pronouncement was also made that in the future no one but lepers destined for the colony could land on it.
Father Damien seemed really cut off from the world. The trip to Honolulu, while it had resulted in these new prohibitions, had produced better things, too. Besides the contributions from the bishop and his flock, public interests had been reawakened, public pressure was applied to the government, and a shipload of lumber was the first result.
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9 09 - The Queen Sends a Cross 29:47
The Queen Sends a Cross. Now began busy days in the leper colony. Huts, real huts of wood, hammered together with nails, were to be built, replacing the hovels of branches and leaves, which the wind had carried away. Every one, man, woman, and child, who had a working hand or arm, was given work to do. Some of the tools were makeshift, but there were a few good usable saws and planes and hammers. The men who had been carpenters, or who knew a little about woodworking, became very important people—a sort of aristocracy, by popular claim. The sense of hopelessness among the sick people decreased, and now and again, above the noise of sawing and hammering, a strange new sound was heard. Laughter.
As each sturdy cabin went up and received its coat of whitewash, a fresh wave of industry and ambition stirred even the most apathetic. Father Damien was everywhere at once, directing, encouraging, doing the heavy labor. He stopped one morning to speak to a small boy standing on the little street between two rows of neatly placed homes. "'It's my home, Father,' the boy, beaming with pride, pointed to one of the newly finished cottages. Father Damien smiled. Are you going to plant flowers in front of it? He asked. Could I? I think flowers in front would look very nice, the priest assured him, and perhaps you could grow vegetables at the back, if you wanted to. The lad shouted in excitement, swung around, and hobbled as fast as he could into the house.
Breathlessly, he passed the idea on to his mother. Soon there were two sets of rivalries in the colony. Groups of the builders would each start a house at the same time, and race to see which would finish first. At the same time, the men, too barely crippled to work at Carpentry, labored with the women and children to lay out and plant attractive and useful gardens. The air was electric, charged with an entirely new element. Before Father Damien's arrival, the destructive disease had filled the minds and lives of everyone in the colony. The only thing they could plan on was death. But now there was constructive work to occupy them, and plans concerning the birth of flowers and vegetables in the gardens.
No one can plant a plot of ground and be without hope, Father Damien happily assured himself. The grief which mainly distressed him in the midst of this progress was a personal one. It was now four months since he had been able to go to confession. It was with joy, then, that one day, when the small ship stood off shore to land some lepers, he saw that his former superior, Father Modeste, was aboard. Father Damien at once paddled out to meet him, intending to take him to land in his own canoe, but the captain blocked that. "'You know that you cannot go ashore,' he told Father Modeste sternly. "'I have very strict orders to allow no one but the sick to land.' "'But I wish only to visit my confrere.
He is not a leper,' the priest protested. "'The rule is that you cannot go,' the captain repeated. Father Damien had pulled his frail craft alongside the ship and overheard the conversation. His heart sank. "'And I am not allowed to come aboard?' he asked. "'No, that, too, is the role. I'm sorry.' Suddenly an idea struck Damien. "'Father Modeste,' he called, "'is there anyone aboard who speaks French?' "'No one but me,' was the reply. "'Then I will make my confession from here.' announced Damien in a businesslike tone. It may be that no other priest will ever be allowed here, so I wish to make a general confession. Father Modesto leaned over the rail, and Father Damien, kneeling in his canoe, called up his confession.
He received absolution, and paddled happily back to the leper colony. The effect of the incident on the people aboard the ship was tremendous. The Catholics among them were deeply disturbed, and non-Catholics somewhat bewildered. But all alike were moved and indignant at the occurrence, and it became widely known. Public criticism of the Board of Health grew strong enough to make itself felt. The rule of complete isolation imposed on Father Damien was relaxed sufficiently to enable him to attend to his religious duties. It was now 1875. The first American cardinal, Cardinal McCloskey, had made his official visit to Rome. In France there had been violently destructive floods, and in South America Chile had lost seven towns in an earthquake.
Egypt had sent a military expedition into Abyssinia, but was defeated. But in Kalawao, the leper colony on Molokai, none of these incidents were known, nor would they have been of interest to the lepers. These were now all housed in decent huts. Father Damien even had a rectory for himself. a palatial building measuring about twelve feet by fifteen feet. There was, of course, a slight running battle going on constantly between Damien and the government in Honolulu. The priest knew what food would help his people, and felt that they should have it. He was convinced they needed more clothing and more medication than was available. At intervals, doctors were assigned to the leper colony, but after calling a few times, they invariably resigned.
Father Damien was really doctor and nursing staff combined, and he wanted medical supplies. He wanted, too, some musical instruments. Music played an important part in his plans, and his first instruments were made of metal salvaged from oil cans. Although he himself dug decent graves and built coffins, he found it hard to interest the kanokas in conducting services for the almost daily funerals. So he had decided to organize a burial society. The men of the society would be formed into a band, playing on flutes, guitars, horns, and drums, the solemn music which accompanied the body to its grave. Women members would wear distinguishing sashes. Father Damien then had an even better idea. He would form two societies.
The rivalry between them, he felt, would assure attention to his rules for dignity and decorum. He was quite right. There were also in the colony lepers not of his spiritual flock. Some of whom had begun by resenting him even while he dressed their sores. Before long, they, too, came closer, drawn by their love of music. They began attending Sunday Mass, for Father Damien was always insistent on including every beautiful bit of ritual. In consequence, he had many adult baptisms. Next, he began training choirs. They weren't choirs, really, but singing groups, which anyone might join. But here again he developed a sense of rivalry and of accomplishment, which up to then had been non-existent in Kalawao.
Almost every evening, Father Damien would seat himself under the Pandanus tree, which for so long had been his home. Snuggled close to him always were the children, his dearest parishioners. Around him would be seated the rest of his blind, crippled, maimed flock. All together they would sing. Sometimes the hymns would be old, traditional music. Sometimes they would be new tunes, with words made up to fit the people's own situation. Truly a lifting of the mind and heart to God. Fr. Damian was determined that the pall of gloom which had so long covered the colony should be lifted. He was wise enough to make use of games and diversions, and one of his acts was to introduce the sport of horse-racing.
The Conochus found, in this, tremendous pleasure and excitement. For the children who had first place in his heart, He made balls and kites and stilts, and invented numerous games and contests. Then he painted the church. He used a gaudy color scheme, which might have seemed laughable to outsiders, but which, to those who used it, was beautiful. Having accomplished so much, he began, months ahead, to plan for the Corpus Christi procession. The women who still had two hands began plaiting reeds for the making of baskets. Those who were not able to do this work spent extra hours in the flower gardens. Now, at last, the lepers were looking forward with anticipation, instead of backward with sadness.
Father Damien prayed thankfully to the loving heart of Christ. His few catechists were busy instructing the children, and some adults, as to the meaning of the great day approaching. It was good, they agreed, that all the children in the procession were to wear decorative rosettes, the women bright sashes, the men their best clothing, clean and fresh. But the day was a holy day, first and foremost, and must be observed as such. The classes listened eagerly to all that was said, and when the great day came, everything went as planned. Shortly after Corpus Christi, there was further excitement. Bishop Magret, having received permission from a new and more understanding government, was to make a pastoral visit.
So again, festive and religious preparations were made, and the people looked forward eagerly to the coming of a revered and beloved guest. On June 8th, every member of the colony who could walk or who had someone to carry him was on the rocky shore, as the ship carrying the bishop dropped anchor. With eager, burning eyes, they watched him being rowed ashore, and as he stepped on land and greeted Father Damien, a cheer arose. The band struck a platoon, and with flags and banners fluttering, the lepers formed a line to escort the priest and bishop to the colony. When they reached the priest's tiny house, the music was silent. One of the older men stepped forward, bowed toward the bishop, and began a little speech.
"'We wish to thank you for having allowed Father Damien to come to us,' he began. Poor Damien flashed thoroughly uncomfortable. "'He overwhelms us with his solicitous care,' the man went on. "'With his own hands he builds our houses. When one of us is ill, he tends us, and gives us tea and sugar and biscuits. To the poor he gives clothes.' And he makes no distinction between Catholics and Protestants. To Father Damien's great gratitude that was the end of the speech. Singing, the Kanakas moved off, and Damien and the bishop began an inspection tour of the colony. "'You have accomplished much,' said Bishop Magret, with satisfaction. "'This water system is fine, and the clean, sturdy houses are not to be mentioned in the same breath as the hovels they replaced.' Father Damien ignored the praise, but used the opportunity to put in a plea.
Our colony is growing. We could use many more houses if we had materials to build them. It was so throughout the day. The bishop found a great deal to praise. Each time, Father Damien brushed the kind words aside to point out how much more needed to be done, how many more of his flock could be comforted and encouraged if more money and material were available. The next day, Sunday, a solemn mass was sung. Among the gifts brought by the bishop were red cassocks and white surplices for the altar boys. The congregation was entranced at such splendor. Bishop Magritte, on his side, was then able to hold back his tears as little Zee's horse and choir voices sang a Mozart mass. The afternoon was even harder on the bishop's self-control.
The chapel was crowded with men, women, and children, all gaily decked with flowers and ribbons. Eager and excited, they knelt, while one hundred and thirty-five newly baptized walked or were helped to the altar rail for confirmation. More deeply moved than he had ever been, the bishop held his emotions firmly in check, so as not to delay the solemn proceedings. But often he was obliged to pause, trying to find on the forehead a piece of sound skin which he could mark with the holy oil. Damien and his bishop talked until late into that night. There were so many problems facing the priest, so many tasks which he could see needed doing. The orphans, he said, their case is the worst of all. They are on my mind day and night.
What have you been able to do for them? asked the bishop. Very little, Damien answered sadly. A few I have been able to place in homes, but many, both boys and girls, are living almost like animals. They find food and shelter where and when they can. An orphanage, the bishop suggested. If only I could get lumber, I would build one, for the girls at least. You shall have what you need, the bishop assured him. At the end of five days, a boat anchored offshore, ready to take Bishop Magret back to Honolulu. His visit had brought joy and encouragement to the people, help and consolation to their priest. It was wonderful to know that the bishop's return to his home would mean the shipping of material for the orphanage.
Of all his flock, the children were dearest to him. Lumber, nails, some pipes, a few new tools, all came on the next ship. With them were packages of clothing for the children, collected by the nuns on the island. If Damien had seemed tireless before, there was now no end to his strength. From before dawn until after dark he labored, and when, at last the girl's hand was finished, his joy knew the limit. A kind, loving woman, whose husband and children had been left behind in Honolulu, was put in charge of the orphanage. After a struggle, Father Damien succeeded in giving the government to increase the weekly allowance of meat and taro for the children. But since the supply was small and irregular in arriving, he planted a big field of sweet potatoes behind the orphanage to supplement the ration.
The question of proper food was constantly on his mind. It flowed from there to his pen, and letters to the Board of Health. He kept demanding medicine as well. At times, as has been said, the Board of Health would appoint a doctor to the island. The man would come on rare visits, flit hastily past the cabins, look into the hospital, and then disappear. Thereupon he would usually resign his charge, unable to tolerate the idea of another trip. Sooner or later, more often later, another man would be appointed. So medical attention was really the problem of Damien. He learned all he could about the art of healing, or at least of easing pain, and even taught himself a little crude surgery. But mainly he set himself to keep the hospital clean.
A few men with less advanced cases of leprosy, men who still had arms and legs, volunteered to help him. Father Damien outlined the procedure they were to follow. But when none of the men was available, the priest himself cleaned the sores, treated the wounds, scrubbed the floors, and went on to his next duties. The one consistent help he ever had on Molokai was the support and approval of Mr. Meyer, the government appointee in charge of the island. Both priest and governor were men of strong character, and they often disagreed, but on minor matters only. In what concerned the best interests of the lepers, they were sincerely and firmly united. The good father, Damien. That was the way in which Mr.
Meyer always referred to him. A girl's orphanage was completed. While it was too small to shelter all who needed shelter, it was a beginning. As to the boys, all Father Damien could do for them at present was to teach them religion at the school which the government provided. He plunged with full energy into the task of building a boys' home. At about this time, a letter from Father Modeste repeated a warning, Be careful. Do not expose yourself needlessly, and fall victim to this fearful disease. In answer he wrote, as he had written to his own worried mother, I live well. I have my two meals a day at home. For breakfast I have rice, sometimes meat and coffee, with a few biscuits. In the evening I dine on what is left from the morning, with a cup of tea, the water for which I boil over a lamp.
He carefully omitted the fact that if, at noon, he was in the home of a leper, he accepted food from the diseased hands, and shared the dishes and utensils used by the sick. He was often glad to get into the open and light his pipe. The smoke helped remove from his nostrils the dreadful stench which always surrounded these unfortunate people. It was the year 1882. The poet Longfellow died, as did the Italian revolutionary leader Garibaldi. Congress passed a bill suspending Chinese immigration for ten years. An attempt was made to assassinate the king of Serbia. British battleships intervened in Egypt to keep the Suez Canal open for world transport. But these matters were unknown, too, and would have had no interest for Father Damien.
An immediate disaster was threatening him. The carriage he used in driving about the island was falling apart. He had been nine years in the leper colony, and even his powerful body was beginning to feel the strain. His crisp, black hair was growing grey at the temples, and his eyes, long ago weakened by over-study, were tortured by the tropic sun. He desperately needed the carriage to transport the food and clothing and drugs which he carried about on his visits. Perhaps a nail, he suggested hopefully to the man who was helping him try to get the vehicle into shape again. A nail? Many nails would be no help, father. It must go to Honolulu and be fixed properly. To Honolulu? But that would cost a great deal, I'm afraid.
You're quite sure that we could not? I'm sure, father. We might get this shaft fixed, or cut a new one. But look at that axle. Father Damien looked, and sadly nodded agreement. We will send it to Honolulu by the next boat. The carriage went off, and for some days Father Damien tramped or rode horseback, loaded down like a peddler. He wondered hopefully if the Board of Health would underwrite the expense of the repairs. The present Board seemed more inclined to cooperate, he felt, although as yet he had not much contact with them. He waited eagerly, confident that within the month his carriage would be back ready for use again. But when the ship, which now came regularly to the island, put in the following week, the captain handed Damien a letter.
He saw upon it the seal of the Board of Health, and his heart sank. "'They cannot refuse to fix up my carriage,' he said to himself. "'It is outrageous. I'll write and say, but first I'd better read the letter.' He tore the envelope open and read its message. Hardly comprehending it. Reverend and dear Father Damien, some days ago you sent here for repairs the carriage which serves you at the lepersarium. It appears to me pretty well used up. Appreciating highly the services you so faithfully render to the unfortunate lepers, the Board authorized me to get you a new carriage. I am sending it to you, begging you to accept it with the expression of my affection and my profound esteem. The signature was that of the head of the new board, a man who was to show his regard for Damien time and again, Walter M.
Gibson, president of the Board of Health. And there, incredibly, was the carriage being unloaded onto the beach, new and shining, complete in all its parts. That evening there was much to talk about. It had become the custom for the natives to gather at dusk, and squatting in a circle around him as he took his tea in the clearing before his house, to talk and laugh and tell stories. They were always fascinated with his recollections of Tremolue and the life there. A world of brick houses, a skating of so many things, completely unknown to these people of the South Seas. They talked of the new carriage, and then of the carriages which Father Damien had seen in the Louvain and in Paris. The more accomplished of the group even took their guitars, and strummed a soft accompaniment to songs they made up about the new carriage.
Tea was finished, After the usual hilarity over who would share it with Father, because he had only six cups. Then he took out his pipe, gave puffs to anyone who asked, and the evening was over. The next day was Sunday, and the carriage was in use early. Father Damien said mass, distributing hundreds of communions. He then drove to various houses to which he brought prayer-leaders, who would conduct services for the really disabled uppers, those unable to travel as far as church. After this he went on to the second leper colony, which had been established farther down the island, a callapapa. The Kanakas loved music, and, before the disease reached their throats, many had had beautiful voices.
These singers were now and all in a state of excitement for the Christmas music was being prepared. Other preparations for the divine child's birthday were being made. On December, twenty second, father Damien spent the afternoon at the hospital hearing the confessions of those too sick to get to church. On the following morning, he brought Holy Communion to them. This was one of his hardest, most delicate tasks. He must do nothing to distract the patient from the awesomeness of the moment. Yet, on his own part, he must take great care that no indignity happened to the host while being received by a person who had no eyes or lips. After leaving the hospital, he said mass. Then the decorating of the church began.
All the young people who were able had been busy for days gathering greens, which had been skilfully woven into long ropes to be festooned about the church. The arches of the altar were outlined in green. Candles, carefully hoarded up for the great day, were placed in the six chandeliers of the church and in the candlesticks. Everything possible was done to prepare the church for the coming of the Christ child. Many of the kanakas were devoutly making the stations of the cross. They understood—no one would be able to understand more fully—the connection between the manger and the cross. Baptisms and confessions filled the afternoon of the twenty-fourth. At eleven that evening, Christmas Eve, Fr.
Damien rang the church bell. At the signal, the boys and girls board out of their houses dressed in their best. They hardly needed the lanterns and torches they carried, for the moonlight seemed almost as bright as day. The young people marched from house to house, waking on who might be asleep. Beating drums and calling, Happy Christmas! Happy Christmas! Father Damien looked at them, crippled, maimed, and yet full of the joy of the Savior's birth. Infant of Bethlehem, he prayed, come to them tonight and stay with them as they walk the road to Calvary. By a quarter past midnight the church was filled. Prayers were begun, and the choir burst into a Christmas hymn. The organist had been a concert pianist in Hallolulu.
Though the fingers of her left hand were gone, she managed the bass with a stick tied to her forearm and coaxed lovely music from the little harmonium. The altar boys prowled in their red cassocks and white surpluses, the newly-baptized receiving their first communion at this blessed hour, the congregation, many of whom went to Mass every morning, all felt the awesomeness, the breathless wonder of this midnight Mass. They shared awareness of the amazing miracle of the birth of the child Christ, whose body was being offered in an unbloody sacrifice on the altar. Living with death, they were aware of life. Few people came to the dawn mass, but at ten o'clock, when high mass was sung, the church was again filled well ahead of time.
Christ's birthday was being truly honored on Molokai. The hours between high mass and benediction in the late afternoon were filled with feasting and music and laughter. Every household would have liked to have Father Damien as guest, but he had desperately sick to visit a nurse, his dying to prepare. Christ had come to some of his flock. Others were going to meet him.
In 1881, Queen Regent Liliokulani governed the islands while her brother, the king, was traveling. She decided to go to see Molokai. A flower-deck quay had been constructed to ease the landing of the royal party, and seven hundred of the lepers were near the beach to extend greeting. They were dressed in their finest, which happened to be the uniforms of the burial society, but the queen was unaware of that. Children carrying flower-filled baskets marched ahead of the guests, strewing petals on the path leading to a flower-covered pavilion. Here, Father Damien and Mr. Meyer were waiting to receive the visitors. Luleo Colani looked eagerly about her. She had heard much of this leper colony, and of the priest who had devoted his life to its people.
The crowd grouped around her, both repelled and fascinated her. She looked more closely, and saw in the crowd a woman she had once known well. She spoke to her friend. The woman eagerly stepped forward, and then fell back. As a leper, she must not approach the queen. Tears came to the eyes of Lily Ocalani. She stood up, and the party made ready to move off. to spend to the best advantage the hour they were to be ashore. The queen wanted to see all of the buildings, all of the gardens, everything that was being done. The hour passed, and another, and the whole day. Uneasy, the captain made ready to move as quickly as possible when the royal party should arrive. Dusk came, and dark soon to be dispelled by a low-hanging moon.
Then, almost fainting in pride, came the lepers bearing the royal torches ahead of the queen. The privilege of carrying those lights was ordinarily reserved for members of the court. Lillio Calani stood on the beach to say goodbye. She held out her hand to Father Damien. With a quick, touching gesture of gallantry, he bent and kissed it. "'You are so good,' she said, her voice choked with emotion. "'You, a strong, healthy man, sacrificing your life to these poor lepers.' Father Damien was surprised. "'But these are my parishioners.' He replied simply, "'You are parishioners, my people,' said the queen." She controlled herself until she got aboard the ship, and then gave way to tears. Shortly after her visit, she wrote to Father Damien, paying high and sincere tribute to the work he was doing.
In evidence of her appreciation of his labors, she conferred on him the title of Knight Commander of the Royal Order of Kalakaua. With the title went the privilege of enjoying all the rights Perquisites and privileges which, by law, pertain to this order, and of wearings of insignia as have been established by warrant. Nothing could have interested Damien less than being a knight and wearing a decoration, but he did hope that the privileges would include a response from the Board of Health when he asked for better food and adequate clothing for his lepers. Bishop Magret, old now, and preparing to retire from active duty, went to Molokai for a last visit. The queen entrusted to him the jeweled cross of knighthood for Damien.
He was a knight, a crusader, long before the title was officially given him, said the bishop to the priest who accompanied him on the trip. His insigniae was, and is, the Sacred Hearts. The visitors landed on Kanaka'ai, the part of Molokai on which Mr. Meyer lived. He was to accompany them to the leprosarium. It is a hard trip, he said, looking doubtfully at the frail old bishop. We will manage, I think, smiled the old man in reply. Father Damien came to meet them, and at dawn the next morning the party began the difficult crossing of the uncrossable divide. They rode up the steep pally and reached the plateau at the top. Then Mr. Myers sent the horses back, and the men went on foot. The descent was grueling.
Often they were obliged to sit and literally inch along, hauling themselves by the heels, using their hands as brakes. Once they skirted a dreadful chasm into which, not long before, a herd of steers had stumbled to their death. Over the carcasses, vultures still hovered. At last the party reached the bottom. Since there was a reception committee awaiting them, they retired behind some bushes and brushed each other off as best they could. Then, behind a mounted guard, with a band leading the procession, they marched a mile and a half to Kalawao. The settlement was lavishly decorated. The lepers dressed in festal clothing. The women's white dresses were made from old curtains someone had sent for the chapel.
The heir was charged with excitement. The bishop spoke at length on the honor being paid Father Damien, and then read aloud the queen's letter of praise. The crowd laughed and sobbed and cheered. The bishop penned the gem-encrusted cross, symbol of his knighthood, on Father Damien's habit. A day of celebration began, but later on the bishop suddenly asked, "'Where is your decoration, Father?' In my pocket, grinned Damien, it shames my patched cassock. Come, come, father, said the bishop reprovingly. The people are proud of it, and like to see it. Put it on. If it makes my children happy, Father Damien reached in his pocket, took out the decoration, and pinned it on again. Except for the happiness of seeing his bishop, the day meant very little to Father Damien, and his hope that his request for help would be given more prompt attention was soon dashed.
Added to lack of interest in Molokai's problems, there was now actual antagonism in many quarters in Honolulu. Indignation that this annoying priest should have been given a coveted decoration by the Queen. "'Can you not send milk?' Father Damien wrote. "'The lepers, at least the children, should have it every day.' But no milk came. "'Diet is very important in this disease,' he protested in another letter. "'And we need more good food, and more variety. We need hospital supplies.' All too often the requests were unheeded. All too often Father Damien was without medicine or salve to ease the pain of his sick flock without bandages to cover their sores. The Board of Health tells me that funds are low, Father Damien groaned, that they cannot send money or supplies just now.
In their comfortable office, well clothed and well fed, it is probably very easy to be stern about sufferings they do not even see. Chapter Nine.
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10 10 - ...And God Sends Another 10:00
And God Sends Another.
As the months went by, and the queen's visit receded farther into the past, Father Damien realized that help, to the amount he had hoped for, would not be forthcoming. His disappointment was deep and bitter, But he was never short-tempered with his lovers. To them, the Kami Anno was always gentle and thoughtful and kind. For them he was a fighter, a man truly worthy of the title, knight, in its original, rather than its social meaning. As the personnel of the Board of Health changed, its policies changed. Sometimes they made and enforced rigid rules, and withheld funds from Molokai. At intervals, more aid was given. This wavering was not easy for Damien to understand. From his earliest days in the colony, Damien had always used the phrase, We lepers, when speaking to his people.
He had identified himself so closely with them that he was indignant when there was any stenting of efforts for their well-being. He felt that everyone should take their plight to hurt as he did. To outsiders who were not moved by anything like his burning charity, his attitude lacked moderation. His devotion to his flock was often misunderstood and criticized for this reason. His bishop wrote, The government doctors come to the leprosarium only as visitors, and the few that reside there with fat salaries rarely stay beyond a year, broken up by numerous absences. I do not blame them in taking all precautions in their dealings with the lepers, but what right have they to blame the devoted priests for not taking the same precautions?
He considered them useless since. From the first day he arrived, he generously consented to fall victim to the disease. He had consented, and his offering of himself had been accepted. For some years now, various signs had appeared to show that he might have contracted leprosy. However, the symptoms came and went. In 1884, for example, he suffered from violent pains in the left foot and leg, but the doctor diagnosed them as rheumatic symptoms. Then, late in December of that year, he reached his home one night, tired and aching from his long, wearying day. He decided to bathe his feet, hoping that this might relax him. He heated a basin of water on his little stove, and carried it over to his chair, where he might sit down and plunge his feet into the soothing bath.
The water had seemed neither hot nor cold to him, but when he took his feet out to dry them, he saw that blisters were forming on the skin. The water had been boiling, and he had not felt it. A specialist in leprosy, Dr. Arning, was visiting the island at the time, and Damien went to him for examination. As the test proceeded, the doctor's face grew more and more grim. When he had finished, he remained silent, his eyes fixed upon some papers, which he was nervously shifting from one place on the desk to another. "'Come, doctor,' Father Damien urged. "'Tell me what you found.' The doctor still hesitated. Then he looked up at the strong, calm face across the desk from him. The priest smiled. "'I must have your report, you know,' he quietly reminded the other.
The two men measured each other for a further instant. Then the doctor spoke. "'What you think is true,' he said. "'You have leprosy.' "'I am not surprised,' replied Damien gently. "'I have suspected it for a long time.' Life now changed for Father Damien in many ways. He worked just as hard, for just as many hours as ever, but now there was a new sense of pressure of working against time. He was completely familiar with the usual progress of the disease, knew that in all likelihood he would not have the full use of his hands for very much longer. He wrote to the New Provincial in October, 1885, to tell him of the situation. There is no doubt any longer, he said. I am a leper. Blessed be God.
Do not pity me too much. I ask but one favor. Send me in this tomb some one who can be my confessor. Now he had two crosses, the cross of knighthood and the cross of leprosy. He carried both equally lightly. The first meant nothing to him, because it had not brought to his flock the comforts for which he had hoped. The other he ignored as far as possible. By now the work of the Knight of Molokai was known throughout most of the world. Scores everywhere loved and venerated the big, courageous man, even though his heroism was of a kind, difficult for most people to comprehend. There was real grief when word went abroad that Damien was a leper. Those who disliked him were irritated. They talked almost as though he had done this thing just to get publicity.
Of course he has leprosy, they said angrily. He has been foolish and imprudent. By their scale of values, It was foolish of him to have gone to Molokai in the first place. It was even more foolish to have stayed. The bishop sent word, in March of 1886, that Father Damien might come at once to the leper hospital at Kakako, on the outskirts of Honolulu. Although it was called the Branch Hospital, it was, to all intents and purposes, a receiving station to which lepers were sent to await shipment to Molokai. When Father Damien had last seen it, it was a dreadful place. Nothing but a series of dirty, barn-like sheds inside a palisade on the salt marshes. It was then run like a prison, even having solitary confinement cells for disciplinary purposes.
In 1883, a group of nursing nuns, whose help Damien had long desired, arrived in Hallolulu on the invitation of the government. These seven Franciscan sisters had been a little startled by their reception. A gala with bands and flowers and songs terminating in an audience with the Queen. They had taken it with outward grace, but inward impatience to get to their work in Molokai. The Board of Health, however, had other plans. Now that these dedicated women were here, they didn't propose to have them leave. The Branch Hospital could use them. The nuns were aghast and dismayed when they saw the hospital. It was cold, unsanitary, unstocked, and filthy. But this last condition, at any rate, was one which they personally could do something about.
Mother Mary Anne, the leader of the band, was a woman with character much like Damien's own. She was a doer as well as a director, a person to take on the job at hand and carry it on to completion. She and her sisters rolled up their sleeves, got brushes and buckets of water, and set to work to make the hospital as clean and as sanitary as possible. No task, no matter how revolting, dismayed them. They had volunteered to go to Molokai. But since, for the time at least, they were to work at the branch, the branch would get all they had to give. By the time Father Damien reached there, the hospital was operating fairly well. He was to undergo a series of treatments in accord with a new method that was being followed in various parts of the world, with some apparent success.
With his flock ever in mind, he was interested in learning all he could about these treatments. But at the same time he grieved over the separation from his children and the interruption of his own work on Molokai.
Fr. Damien and mother Marianne got along well together. Both were hard workers, unsparing of themselves. Both loved, loved God and loved their fellow-men, especially the afflicted. The nuns were excited at having in their charge the man whose sacrifice had directed their attention to the work to be done on the islands. All of the patients at the Branch Hospital got the best possible care, but this particular patient called forth every kindness they could think of, every attention they could offer. Father Damien tried to be a good patient, but though he was a grateful one, he was always uneasy. It violated all his ideas of proper living for him to be ill, and others to be waiting on him and tending him.
He yearned to be back working on Molokai. Signs of his disease were visible now. His nose had begun to swell and lose its shape. His ears were becoming distorted. His complexion was taking on the typical purplish-copper color of leprosy, and his eyes constantly pained him. But the worst pain of all was the worry over those he had left on Molokai. The only thing he found at all satisfying about being in the hospital was the fact that he received there, and so learned about giving, the new treatment. This had been worked out by Dr. Goto, a Japanese. It consisted of lengthy medicinal baths combined with the taking of liquid drugs and pills. It was not supposed to be a cure, but had, in some recorded cases, arrested the progress of the disease.
Damien was eager to introduce it in his leper colony. "'Do you think, Mother Mary Ann,' he asked wistfully, after his two weeks in the hospital were over, "'that you can send me some nuns soon? We need them for the children particularly.' "'I understand, Father.' Deprescy is not inherited, you know, and if the children are taken into non-leprous homes, they need not become diseased. But often we find that they are not treated well by the people who adopt them, and we cannot have that. We need your sisters to operate an orphanage for them, especially the little girls. I will try and see what can be done, father. You know it is our wish to nurse and teach Amalekai. We will come as soon as the authorities allow it.
You must hurry. On Father Damien's disfigured face, there shone one of his old smiles. There isn't much time, you know.
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11 11 - Ira Becomes Joseph 16:05
Ira becomes Joseph. Among the people who had been moved and stirred by the knowledge of Damien's work, and then the news of his illness, was one Joseph Dutton. This man had been born in Stowe, Vermont, and christened Ira Barnes Dutton. When he was four, his family had moved to Wisconsin, where he had been reared a devout Episcopalian. At the outbreak of the Civil War, he enlisted in a volunteer company, serving in the Army until 1866. He was mustered out with the rank of First Lieutenant. For the next fourteen years he lived in the South, a government employee in civil service. Handsome, engaging in manner, he had been something of a social lion in the small town where he was stationed, although he was known to be a heavy drinker.
Suddenly he was missing from the parties and balls in which he used to be the center of gaiety. His absence caused discussion and bewilderment. Then the explanation leaked out. He had become a Catholic and was living in the Trappist Monastery in Kentucky, not yet as a member of the Order, but as a man trying to find himself. After about two years, he realized that he had no vocation for the contemplative life, and left the monastery. It was a little later, while he was in New Orleans, visiting at the Redemptorist House there, that he first heard of Fr. Damien. Joseph, the name given to Dutton in Catholic Baptism, was in the library looking through an old Catholic newspaper. In it he found an item about Molokai and Damien.
Though he had never heard of either name before, and though the story was brief, Dutton realized as he read it that it indicated to him where his real vocation lay. He knew that he must get to Molokai as soon as possible, and when he got there must offer himself for any work that he could do. On July 22nd, 1886, he arrived in Honolulu, and went at once to inform the bishop of his plan. Bishop Kochmann, who had succeeded Bishop Magret, was delighted, but could not, of course, give him permission to go to the leper settlement. Mr. Gibson, President of the Board of Health received him cordially, and the permission was soon granted. Dutton was offered a small salary, but refused it. He wanted to make a gift of his life.
On July 29th, Father Damien drove to the shore to meet the incoming boat. There stepped ashore a man in his early forties, dressed in a blue denim suit. It was to be his habitual dress until the end of his life. Dutton introduced himself, and the two voluntary exiles looked at each other. Father Damien saw an impressive figure, tall, well-knit, vigorous, carrying himself like a soldier. The newcomer's eyes were gray, and looked straight and keen at the priest, and his smile was warm. Dalton saw a man not much older than himself, a man whose body had once been as vigorous as his own, but was now beginning to be eaten away. With joy, Damien welcomed him. They got into the carriage together, and as they drove off, Damien was already telling Dutton of his plans for the settlement.
He wanted new buildings for the sick, a new and larger church, a convent where teaching and nursing sisters could live, a residence for priests and brothers. And we will call you the first of the brothers, Damien added, Brother Joseph. About the buildings, Brother Joseph began, I will be the carpenter, the man who does the heavy labor, interrupted Damien with a smile. You will be the skilled worker, the one who brings all the delicate work to perfection. I hope there will be enough work to keep me busy, Brother Joseph observed doubtfully. My training, my life so far, has not prepared me for much that will be of value here, I am afraid. You will learn, said Damien seriously, and you bring with you what could not be learned, what must come from within you, love and compassion.
At half-past four the next morning, Brother Joseph started his first full day at Kalawao. And a full day it was, such as he had never known before. Until ten that night he never wasted a moment. He bathed the sick and dressed their sores. He finished building some coffins that the priests had started. He helped in the gardens. And, above all, he talked with Father Damien, learning details of his plans, figuring ways in which they could be executed. The following day was the same, and the day after. He found a special outlet for his abilities in the home for boys. He knew little about bookkeeping, and was able to bring order into the accounts. He planned work and recreation, and introduced a healthy routine into the boys' lives.
His army training enabled him to exercise a firm but kind discipline. Damien and Dutton made an excellent team, the Flemish peasant and the American ex-soldier. In their very differences they complemented and stimulated each other. The priest, outspoken, obstinate at times, uninterested in his dress. Dutton, calm, reasonable, extremely neat, and devoted to Damien. Can't you take things a little easier, father? he would ask. Why not take a rest for a while, and— Rest, rest, Damien would cry. How can I rest? There is so little time and so much left to be done. So he continued his incredible labors. Dutton was always at his side, doing as much of the manual and mental work as he could. This left Damien a little more time for the spiritual help which he so loved to give, and the hours of adoration before the Blessed Sacrament, which, from boyhood, had been his dearest joy.
As each project was finished, Father Damien had a dozen more planned. A community kitchen was built, and establishment was constructed for medicated baths such as he had received in Hallolulu. Additions were made to the children's home, and when storms took off part of the roof of Damien's house, he himself replaced it. Brother Joseph gave himself wholly to Molokai. Nevertheless, his recollections of life in the army and his love for America remained an important part of his life till the end. Each year the G.A.R. sent him a silk flag, which was raised daily on a tall pole he had erected on Molokai. Even when he was sick, even when he grew very old, He would not dedicate this much-loved task to anyone else.
In 1908, there was great excitement in the settlement. Brother Joseph and all the lepers who could travel or be transported were at the shore. President Theodore Roosevelt had ordered that the Atlantic Fleet, then on the Round the World cruise, was to sail in line past the island of Molokai as a salute to the former army officer and his devotion to the lepers. When the First World War broke out, Brother Joseph offered his services as a veteran soldier. The offer could not be accepted, for he was then seventy-six years old. But from friends and benefactors all over the world, he had more than four thousand correspondents before he died. He collected nine thousand dollars for the war effort. And in 1925, the battle fleet once more sailed in review before Kalawao, while the octogenarian, Dutton, stood proudly beneath his flagpole.
Each vessel, in passing, dipped its colors in salute to the brother of the world.
Father Damien was failing rapidly. Each hand was now a single sore. His nose was so collapsed that it no longer functioned as an organ, and he was obliged to breathe entirely through his mouth. The sight of one eye was gone, and that of the other weakening daily. But the inexhaustible drive was still there. His mind still planned, and— Somehow his disintegrating body found strength to carry out the plans. He was now receiving help from many quarters of the world. An Anglican minister in England, the Reverend Hugh B. Chapman, read of Damien's heroic work, and wrote him, "'I wish I might offer you my personal services, but it is the will of God, I believe, that I remain with the poor here to assist them.' Mr.
Chapman did, however, raise several large sums of money, and what was equally important wrote letters to the London papers, which aroused interest in the work being done by the priests on Molokai. The interest took form in practical gifts for the lepers. Fr. Damien and brother Joseph were encouraged, but they did not sew up in their work. Brother Joseph always woke before daylight to the scream of sea-birds. The wind blew and briskly off the water, and waves made crashing music on the rocky shore. Rocks clattered down from the cliffs, displaced by the little wild goats that lived there. But Dutton had little time to notice or enjoy these things. There was always work, and more work, awaiting his attention.
For years, Father Damien had been physician for the souls and bodies of hundreds of lepers, had been priest, consoler, teacher, carpenter, painter, housekeeper, grave-digger. The authorities in Hawaii were by no means wholly undeserving of credit. From time to time they had sent supplies, appropriated money for the leprosarium, appointed doctors to work there. But it was hard to understand, when you were far away, just how much help the sick people must have, and no doctor thus far had felt called on to sacrifice his whole life to them. It needed a truly dedicated man, one ready to die, if necessary, for suffering humanity, one ready to live, as Damien did. The dirty huts which had sheltered More or less, the inhabitants on Damien's arrival were now replaced by rows of whitewashed cottages.
The lepers were somewhat better fed and cared for, but there was still much to be done, and Brother Joseph determined to do as much of it as he could. Each day he made it a point to finish a substantial amount of work before morning mass. Joseph suffered as he watched the good Damien, big, no longer, walk painfully to the altar. It was most difficult for the priest to kneel now, and when he bent low over the altar, Brother Joseph sometimes caught his breath and wondered if the head and shoulders would ever rise again. One morning in 1888, Father Damien went as usual to the shore to meet the incoming lepers. Now, too feeble to walk, he rode in a ramshackle old wagon. It was years since the episode of the fine new carriage.
Besides the duty of meeting his new parishioners, there was pleasure for him in the little trip. On this occasion he was thinking of distant days. He remembered very vividly all the details of a long voyage from Belgium. He remembered all he had learned about seamanship from Captain Gerkin and his crew. From years of observing the ships which passed the island, as well as those which put in there, he had come to know one from the other. He recognized the differences in the structure of the various vessels, and greeted them with the simple pleasure experienced in greeting old friends. There was always the possibility, too, that the ship might bring letters from home. As he waited in his usual perch on the rocks, he squinted against the sun.
It was very painful to his eyes. The water this day was choppy under an offshore wind, and the crew of the ship had some difficulty in loading the lepers into the lung-boat and getting them ashore. But finally that task was done. Then the crew stowed a quantity of crates and boxes in the boat, and a man, obviously in good physical trim, jumped briskly aboard. Father Damien was puzzled. He peered intently, trying to see who the visitor might be, and when the man came ashore, stood up to greet him. "'I am Edward Clifford, Father Damien,' said the stranger. "'I read about you last year in England, my home, and determined to come and see you in your work.' You are welcome, Edward, the priest smiled.
You will stay with my good friend, Mr. Meyer? I believe so, father, but if I may, I want to call on you often. These boxes and packages, they are yours, Damien asked. They are yours, father, the new arrival told him. Gifts from people in England. Some time previously, shortly after Joseph Thutton had come to help, a man named James Sinnott, who possessed a nursing experience, had asked the Board of Health to assign him to work at Molokai. Father Damien had at once named him Brother James. Then, in May, Eighteen A.T.E.A.T.E.A.T.E.A.T.E.A.T.E.A.T.E.A.T.E.A.T.E.A.T.E.A.T.E.A.T.E.A.T.E.A.T.E.A.T.E.A.T.E.A.T.E.A.T.E.A.T.E.A.T.E.A.T.E.A.T.E.A.T.E.A.T.E.A.T.E.A.T.E.A.T.E.A.T.E.A.T.E.A.T.E.A.T.E.A.T.
Added to the spiritual satisfaction of having a fellow-priest at hand, there was a human joy in the fact that the newcomer, Fr. Conrady, had been born and reared in Belgium. So now there were two priests and two brothers gathered at Damien's house to inspect the contents of Clyfford's boxes. First came a gift from Lady Mount Temple, a handsome engraving of, a good shepherd. The foremen were excited enough about that, but they almost lost their power of speech when the next crate was opened. The Honorable Maude Stanley had sent fourteen fine large pictures of the Stations of the Cross. Are these ladies Catholics? Fr. Damien asked. No, smiled Clifford. They are not. Not Catholics, and so good to my little Catholic Church.
Father Damien had grateful tears in his eyes. The next package, from Lady Caroline Shortress, held a music box. Now, by simply turning the handle, the lepers would be able to play about forty different tunes. We must show the boys how to use this, delightedly Father Damien beat on Brother Joseph. They will get so much joy out of it. Then, out of this seemingly inexhaustible treasure trove came a magic lantern with a collection of colored slides, then several gifts of money to be spent as Damien saw the need. Last of all, and with great care, Clifford unpacked a painting, The Vision of St. Francis. The artist, Mr. Byrne-Jones, painted it for you, he told the priest. Is it very valuable? asked Brother Joseph, noting the care with which Clifford had handled it.
It is by a celebrated painter, and I should imagine worth several hundred dollars, answered Clifford. Wordlessly, the other four looked at one another. On his way from England, Clifford had stopped off in India to get some gergent oil. It was used there, reportedly, with some success in arresting leprosy. The kind man had brought a case of it to Father Damien. The priest had no faith in the oil, but rather than run the risk of hurting this generous friend, he anointed his afflicted body with it. See, I can sing now, he later said to his guests, and I haven't sung in many months. Croakingly, painfully, for his lungs were affected, he forced himself through a simple hymn. I haven't been able to do that in a long time, not until you brought the oil.
That evening, when the lovers gathered for their usual visit with their beloved Kameano, they wanted, of course, to meet the visitor. They were eager to ask if he had brought any news from Honolulu. The home city of many of them. They hoped he would have some report to give about the great world, which, so far, many others knew only through Father Damien's stories. They told of the happenings of their day, recounted jokes on each other, and basked in the happy, kindly atmosphere that invariably surrounded Damien. Then, as darkness fell, Clifford and the brothers were busy about some preparations of their own. Suddenly, on the whitewashed wall, there blossomed out a picture of one of the very cities of which Damien had told them.
It was truly a magic evening, made so by the slides of the magic lantern. Scenes from Bible stories, from parables, pictures of far-away places were projected. The generosity of an unknown friend had brought untold pleasure to the lepers.
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12 12 - Damien Goes Home 18:04
Damien Goes Home.
The two priests and the two brothers were busy, for the Carnwardy, a colourful person, whose temperament had sometimes in the past brought him into conflict with his superiors, found the work on Molokai much to his taste. His career up to this time had been an active, generous, and sometimes stormy one. He had been a parish priest at Stavelot in France, where he had shown special devotion to the sick poor. Once, in 1866, when a dreadful epidemic scourged his impoverished parishioners, he had cared for them with no thought of his own rest or safety, giving them every consolation and comfort he could, up to and including his own bed. He had gone as a missionary to India, and then to the United States, where, for fifteen years, he had tramped through Oregon, preaching, teaching, and baptizing among the Indians.
Blazing sun or cutting sleet had never held him back, nor was he deterred by hostility in his audience. The unfriendly Indians knew that this man rode unarmed, unafraid of the scalping-knife. War paint and battle-cries would never make him shudder. Other steps must be taken against him. One day they delegated a brave to wait on Father Conrady, with worry that the Indians planned to hang him. Father Carnarady considered the message for a moment. Then he gravely took out his watch. Here, he said, you must take this. The startled brave stepped hastily backward. What? What? Did you not understand what I said? He stammered. We planned to—you planned to hang me. The priest finished smoothly. Since you make such a kind offer, I must respond with a gift.
Here, take it. Again he stepped forward, offering the watch. Again the confused Indian backed away. "'I must have time to consider this,' he said, and left hurriedly for the Indian settlement. The elder chiefs of the tribe were called together in consultation, but even the most experienced among them had never before met such a situation. "'He offered his watch as a gift,' one asked incredulously. "'The brave nodded. He understood what you said, that we planned to hang him.' pressed a second. Just what did he say? demanded a third. He said, You plan to hang me. Since you make such a kind offer, I must be summed with a gift. Those were his words. The old chiefs sat solemnly around the fire. There was something very strange, possibly dangerous, about this man who offered a good watch for the pleasure of being hanged.
Such a mystery it might be well to leave alone. They thought a little longer. I think it will not be well to hang this man, said the first elder finally, nor to shoot him with arrows or scalp him, added the second. This man we will leave alone, said the third, and all the others of the council agreed. So Father Conrardy went unmolested about his mountain parish. It was so large that it took him three days of travel on horse and a foot to cross it. It was so poor that the priest used, as candle-holders on the altar, potatoes which he later cooked and ate. In 1877, Father Conrady heard for the first time about Father Damien. At once, and at last, he knew where his calling was. Father Conrady was not a member of the congregation to whose care the leper calling had been given, but he placed himself under his jurisdiction.
Even so, his going to the island was not understood nor approved by some members of the congregation. But that there was some conflict about this, which was bound to disturb Father Damien, There was joy and comfort, too.
He is a veteran missionary, wrote Damien of his new helper, who is clearly at home here. He has done me many a good turn in the two months that he, like a cheerful brother and a good companion, has spent at my side, leper though I am. In September of 1888 Damien developed a bad fever. He was confined to his room in the small house, which he had described as looking out on his lovely garden of the dead. the little cemetery he had dug and decorated almost by himself. Somewhat nearer the house, as if he still wanted to keep watch over them, the children were buried. Damien had been old for six weeks when, in November, three nuns arrived at the settlement.
Sister Mary Ann, who had been so kind when he was at the hospital in Honolulu, was in charge of the group. All the nuns were eager to do what they could to ease good father Damien in his final days. Shortly after the sisters' arrival, Fr. Wendelin Muller's was assigned to Molokai as pastor of the church at Kalapapa. Fr. Wendelin was a member of Fr. Damien's own mission congregation, and when Damien first heard the news, he feared that Wendelin was coming to replace him. The thought that he might be removed from his work had upset him very much. But a letter from the bishop made it clear that it was not a question of removing Damien, if pastor, at Kalawau, but of having a priest ready to take over when he could no longer discharge his duties.
Both knew that day was not far off. So Father Damien's hopes were at last being fulfilled. The nuns for whom he had been begging so many years would be at the settlement to help with the nursing, to teach and guide the orphan girls. He had the two brothers and father Conrady to assist him at Kalawao, and father Wendelin in the church at Kalapapa. On the day of the nun's arrival, father Damien, although he had been in bed for six weeks, got up and went to the shore to meet them. He conducted them about the settlement, showing with pardonable pride all the improvements he had been able to introduce, describing with eagerness all that he felt was yet to be done. He pointed out the great pandanus tree under which he had lived when he first came to the island, and under which he hoped to be buried.
Finally, he brought the nuns to the orphanage, and introduced them to the girls who would be their charges. He explained to the children that they were soon to leave the makeshift building which had sheltered them. It was the original girls' home he had built years ago. Now they would live in the fine new home at Kalapapa, built through the generosity of a Honolulu resident, Mr. Bishop. God will call me to spend Easter with him, said Damien to the children, but you will not be left alone. These good sisters will care for you. Sick and disabled though he was, Father Damien had not finished working. There is so much to be done, was still his cry. He moved about the island when he could, as best he could, always planning for his beloved lepers, always praying to God to help them.
It delighted him that the sisters were on the island, that the girls were sheltered and cared for in the bishop home. He did not always understand the sisters' way of doing things, but he never interfered. Fierce as a tiger when fighting for the unfortunates, he loved so dearly. Impetuous, finding obedience hard when he received orders he felt not best for his flock. He was all so gentle and deeply humble. One day he managed the painful journey to Callapapa. Although the bishop home had been constructed without a chapel, the nuns had turned one of the ground-floor rooms into a small oratory, in which the blessed sacrament was kept. On this morning, Sister Leopoldina hurried to the little garden outside the building to dispose of flowers taken from the altar and to get fresh ones.
The compost heap of garden refuse was at one side. As she ran at the corner of the building, the nun gave a startled cry. Kneeling on top of the compost was Father Damien. His eyes on the chapel window, adoring Christ in the blessed sacrament. He mistook her cry of surprise for one of disgust at his appearance.
Sister, he cried, I expected no one to come out here. Please forgive me for putting myself, a leper, in your way.
Sister Leopoldina was so moved that she could hardly answer, but sometimes, though he was in constant pain as his disease spread to deeper nerve-centres, Father Damien forgot he was a leper. "'Here is a treat for you,' he would say to Father Conradi, handing him a piece of fruit or a cake. "'You may eat it because no leper has touched it.'" Advent came again, the last time that Damien would see that holy season. The Gospels of Death and Judgment, which belonged to Advent, held special meaning for him. He never forgot that he was soon to be judged. His hands were now so badly decomposed that he could not celebrate mass. He still read his bravery, however, though light was a real torture to his eyes, which the effort of reading greatly increased.
The lepers still gathered around him in the evenings, eager to talk and to listen to him. If he had received a letter from home during the day, they expected him to read it aloud to them. The Kanakas felt that his family was their family, his friends their friends. Their first contact with the world outside their own part of the islands had been through the stories of Paris and Louvain and Tremelieu. They knew that small town, its cobbled ways, its houses and its people, and even though they now saw many more distant places through the projected pictures of the magic lantern, they still loved Damien's tales. The evening sessions grew shorter as the season moved on. Each day was precious, an occasion.
January 3rd, 1889, was Damien's fourth and ninth birthday. By calendar, he was still a comparatively young man. In reality, he was old, feeble, much of his body already dead. Yet he was still driving on for the betterment of his children, planning, and sometimes executing the plans himself. He had never had much in the way of worldly goods, but now he began to dispose of everything. His old horse went to his companions. He also made a will turning over to the bishop whatever possessions might still remain, with the understanding that they be used according to Damien's wishes. How happy I am, he said to Father Wendelin, to give up everything to die poor. He was forced by his illness to go to bed, but bed, as the other priests discovered, when they went to look after him, was a pallet on the floor of his room.
The man who had received gifts from all over the world had given everything to his needy. He had no sheets, no change of linen, but lay with a single blanket wrapped around him, as he shook with fever. The two priests and the brothers at once went out to get a bed for him. They brought it into the room and set it up. "'Come, Father Damien,' said Father Conrady. "'Here is your bed. Let Brother Joseph and Brother James lift you into it.' "'But I do not need a bed.' Damien protested. "'I do very well where I am.'" "'Oh, father, we want you to have it,' urged Father Wendelin, "'and Mother Mary Ann has sent clean sheets and a blanket to make you comfortable.'" "'Comfort,' said Damien. "'Give the sheets and blankets to some of those who really need them.'" When he saw that his friends were distressed, he agreed to use the bed in bedding, but it cannot be said that he rested much.
His room quickly took on some of the aspects of a railroad terminal. The lepers were constantly in and out, calling on their camiano. The mirrochium pipe which the bishop had sent him for Christmas lay unused on the table in Damian's room. The one gift which meant much to him these last days was the painting of St. Francis of Assisi with the wounds of Christ in his hands and feet inside. Both Francis and Damian were consumed by love of God and love of their fellow-men. Both had been marked by God, one with the stigmata, one with leprosy. The first had left wealth and renounced the desire for knighthood to become a friar. The second had left the world to become a knight among the lepers. Though Damien could not say mass, he was never separated from God.
Each night at 11, Brother James would come to his room, and together they would recite prayers in preparation for communion. At a quarter of twelve, Brother James would wake Father Conrady. Together they would go to the church for the blessed sacrament. Through the soft night, the stars looked down on the two men. One carrying the host, the other preceding him with a lantern. Past the trees under which Damien had started his life on Molokai to the house in which his life was ending. Father Damien was peaceful these days. All the worries and anxieties had left him. I move gently towards my grave, he said in a letter to his brother, Pamphil. It is God's will, and I am very grateful to him that I am dying of the same disease and in the same way as my flock.
I am very happy. I have my heart's desire. To Father Wendelin, he repeated what he had told the children. Our Lord is calling me to keep Easter with him. Will you leave me your cloak, as the prophet Elias did to his successor, Elysius, so that I may inherit your great heart? asked Father Wendelin. I am no Elias, said Damien. Anyway, what would you do with it? You couldn't wear it. It's full of leprosy. It was Saturday, April Thirteenth, that Damien received communion for the last time. He spoke of his devotion to the congregation, and after he and the others had said the community prayers, Damien exclaimed, "'How sweet it is to die a child of the Sacred Hearts!' On April Fifteenth, the Monday of Holy Week, Father Conrardi sent word to Kalapapa that Father Damien was near his end.
Father Windland left as quickly as possible and hurried toward Kalawao. On the way he met another messenger who gave the final word. Father Damien had died, and the arms of brother James died like a tired child falling asleep.
The brothers dressed him in his cassock, the uniform of service to the sacred hearts which he so loved. Quite soon all signs of leprosy had disappeared. His face was clear, and the sores on his hands were gone, as if heaven were showing its approval of a beloved son. His body was carried to the church, where it lay that day and night, surrounded by lepers who prayed and wept. The next day his funeral followed the pattern he had established years before, the band, the societies in uniform. Their loving, beloved Kami Anno was dead. They laid him to rest under the great Pandanus tree.
Father Damien was gone, but his impact on the world was far from ended. Indeed, it was never to be fully measured. A farm-boy from Flanders, he had from early youth been fired by a love of God, whom he delighted to adore in the blessed sacrament. A powerful, vigorous young man, it seemed obvious to him that loving the Creator must be followed by loving his Creator. To Damien, to love was to give, so he gave his life. He would have been upset, or perhaps somewhat amused, at the adulation heaped on his memory. To him, life had been simply a matter of doing the job at hand, doing it to the best of his ability, and with the materials available. He was grateful that Heaven had chosen him to work with the lovers.
With entire courage, with tender love, and with unswerving fidelity to duty, he had fulfilled his destiny. Because of his courage and love and fidelity, uncounted people were inspired and encouraged to face their daily problems. Hundreds of boys found their minds turned to God, and became priests in His service. Girls became nuns doing His work. On a larger, less personal scale, the governments of various countries bestowed themselves to give better care, better food and housing, and medical treatment to the lepers under their jurisdiction. Organizations already formed for the aid of lepers took on new vigor. New ones sprang up. Years passed, but the love which Damien had inspired remained living and warm.
The people of Belgium wanted his body returned to them. In 1936, at the request of Leopold, the third, king of the Belgians, and with the cooperation of President Roosevelt, Damien's body was disinterred. The lepers watched while the coffin was reverently placed aboard a White Army Air Force plane. It seemed quite fitting to the islanders, who were so accustomed to symbolism, that if they must part with the body of the man who had done so much for them, it be carried out over the sea into the sky. At Honolulu, the United States Transport Republic received the coffin for the journey eastward across the Pacific. A Belgian ship was waiting at Panama to take Damien's remains to his homeland. They were received there with military honors.
Dignitaries of religious and civil life were present at the solemn pontifical mass sung in the cathedral. Then, in the evening, the casket was placed in a hearse for the slow, last journey. Across the Termaloo countryside he had loved, and left as a boy, it moved, and to the chapel at Louvain. Joseph de Wuster was home again.
The conviction that this man had been a true hero of holiness has not died down. On the contrary, it is steadily increased. In Rome, there has begun a long, slow, scrupulously careful process, This is the study of Damien's life and virtues, the study always made by the Church in the case of those who may one day be called saints. End of night of Molokai by Eva K. Betts.