“O my God, my soul is cast down within me. . . Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me? Hope thou in God, for I shall yet praise Him, Who is the health of my countenance, and my God.” (Ps. 42: 6, 11).
OUR arrival at Sin-yang Cheo introduced a phase of experience materially different in several important particulars from that which we had hitherto known. The whole period of our second flight falls naturally at this point into two distinct parts; for not only did the date of our arrival divide it all but exactly (Thursday, July 26, completing the third week), but the character of the almost three weeks of captivity that remained to us was largely changed. So altered were the circumstances that the two periods can hardly be compared. Each contained its own full measure of suffering; and each witnessed, in its own degree, the marvelous workings of God.
As we jolted through the streets and were trundled into the great yamen enclosure thronged with the usual multitude of unknown quantity, the same fear and trembling was upon us as heretofore—the same anxious inward questioning, Is it for death?—the same cry to God, “Carry us out of this yamen and city again in peace for the glory of Thy Name.” We were set down just within the gate, and left as at other times face to face with the swarming mob.
The condition to which we were by this time reduced can be imagined rather than described. I remember how the ladies and the little ones looked, as we stood there by the guard room, with the deafening roar around us of soldiers keeping off the pressing crowds; and I knew how they felt—just as I did, strengthless, spiritless, all but hopeless, in the growing consciousness that it was impossible to hold out much longer.
Presently two yamen gentlemen in faultless silks made their way through the crowd with the help of runners, and stood before us. Addressing me politely the younger of the two said; “What is your country? Are you English?”
I could scarcely believe my ears; the question was asked in my own tongue! No one can imagine the joy that filled us at the sound, and the hope that welled up in the heart strong and free again at its inspiration. I almost forgot that I was a Chinaman and a prisoner withal, and under the impulse of a strange emotion, was eager to seize his hand; but prudence prevailed, and with the orthodox native bow I said: “Oh, sir, do you speak English? We are indeed from England, and we trust you to help us in our misery.”
“Please come this way,” he replied “follow me;” and through the midst of the wondering multitude we passed within the gates of the second enclosure, and beyond this again to an inner and smaller courtyard. Here were gathered a goodly group of the lesser officials connected with the yamen, who gave us a reception that fairly broke me down. The liveliest sympathy was evinced, which took the practical form of ministering to our needs forthwith. The food that was set before us included foreign biscuits, sweetmeats and loaf sugar. A barber was called, and for the first time for three weeks a razor passed over my face and head, and a comb through my queue. The luxury of it shall I ever forget! When I came back, my wife scarcely knew me, as her greeting testified, “How delightfully clean you look, but oh how thin and altered!”
The usual preliminaries over (of much questioning and so forth) we were taken to our appointed quarters. Not the prison nor the guard room, thank God; but a small temple in the second enclosure. It stood in a courtyard of its own, just within the gate, and occupied the north side of the tiny square. The room on the east was assigned to the guard; a couple of disused rooms ran along the south side; while the west was formed by a high wall and entrance gate. One grateful feature of the little quadrangle was the fair-sized leafy tree in the center, which proved to be in truth a shadow from the heat in the burning days we spent there; but we were not long in making a discovery far otherwise than grateful in the existence of a more than usually foul cesspool or Chinese latrine, close under the open framework of our abode.
The temple itself was a room measuring (as nearly as I can judge) about twenty-two feet by ten. Facing the entrance was the shrine—a recess containing a large figure of Buddha seated in contemplation, with many doll disciples about him adoringly on either side. Dingy drapery, hung with cobwebbed dirt, helped to create the dim religious light that made it mystery to the worshipper. Before it stood the grimy incense table with two or three bronze bowls filled full with gray ashes and half-smouldered sticks, that represented countless prayers and vows, as cold and dead as the figure to whom they were made. Beside the table at either end, and facing each other, stood two colossal satellites armed with half-moon prongs, guarding their god. They were of devil design, one painted red and the other black, with horns and bolting eyes—quite horrible and fearful in their realism. Even the fact that we were well accustomed to such sights did not altogether prevent a certain eerie feeling coming over one at times, in presence of these hideous evidences of satanic power, especially at nightfall; and but for the overshadowing of God’s presence, it would often have been terrifying. Symbols stand for facts; and only too consciously awful to the soul were the unseen realities to which the grim monstrosities before us bore perpetual witness. Beyond the incense table, the room was absolutely destitute of furniture. The floor, of course, was of earth, uneven and unwept. The long lattice work of the window frames on either side of the door was innocent of paper, save for sundry dirty shreds and strips. For this we were not sorry, as it was our only source of light and ventilation.
One other feature calls for notice. In the wall, on this side the table and on that, were two tiny cellar holes, for which we had reason to be thankful later on.
Such was the abode to which we were committed. A princely place compared with many we had been in; but the chief charm about it lay for us in its seclusion.
Not only was it in the second and more private enclosure, but it was shut off from this again within a courtyard of its own; and by the Mandarin’s orders the gate was to be kept shut, and no one outside the yamen admitted without special permission.
I cannot convey to the reader the untold sense of relief with which we took in the new conditions of our captivity. It was rest we yearned for—quietness and rest. And now God was giving it to us in a way we had scarcely dared to dream of. Alone and undisturbed, we were free to use to the full the sweet liberty of rest.
Even in these exceptional circumstances, however, one can only use the term in a comparative sense. No
accommodation was made for our comfort, not even to the extent of a stool to sit on. Our chair was the ground, and our bed, mother earth. The hard unevennesses chafed our aching limbs, and gave but restless sleep to pillowless heads.
The second day we were informed that the Lao-ie had decided to detain us on account of the passing through of troops ordered to Peking to oppose the advance of the allies. Anxious as we were to press on to the end of so distressful a journey, we yet realized the mercy of God in the order, more especially in regard to my wife, whose condition was now precariously weak; and in the knowledge that we were at least in kindly hands and free from molestation, we settled to our new circumstances with something of thankful acquiescence.
Of the eight days of our detention here, five were days of almost unrelieved monotony. The guard would have none of us, so far as any attempt at intercourse was concerned; and, but for an occasional visit from our English-speaking friend or his deputy, we were left to ourselves. But indeed, we were not loth to have it thus. Our whole being craved for aloneness, and to leave us to ourselves was the truest consideration.
Each day had certain occupations in ordered regularity. We were too weary for much exertion; but in the absence of books or writing materials wherewith to beguile the hours, we found it expedient to devise ways of our own, for the children’s sake especially. The day was begun and ended with the usual exercises of prayer and praise. After breakfast, we set about “spring cleaning” our temple-house (not before it wanted it)—a lengthy process that stood us in good stead. A broken birch brush, found in the cellar hole, did transforming work in the busy hands of the delighted little ones, and proved a veritable Godsend. Much time was given conscientiously to lying down; for days of travel were yet before us, and this was our God-given opportunity of recuperation. The toilet was always a lengthy process, with but a single hand bowl and a single comb between us all; as was also the uncomfortable, but necessary, daily operation of cleansing the garments from vermin. The remainder of the time was mostly given to singing with the children, telling them stories, or making them toy “chiao-wo-rï” (litters) from fragments of wood and withie strips found in the yard.
From day to day, some little token or other of kindly remembrance was sent from the Mandarin. One time it was a small bottle of ginger wine for the ladies; another, a bottle of lemonade; another, about a teacupful of ground coffee. These were to us, I need hardly say, luxuries of the first order—so rare, in fact, that we were loth to partake! The coffee was eked out a finger pinch at a time, dropped into our breakfast cup of “k’ai-shui” (boiling water); while the opening of the lemonade bottle was quite an event, a sort of festal occasion reserved for a specially hot day. The Mandarin’s kindness found its climax, however, in what was to us perhaps the most appreciable form it could take. The third day, a large parcel was sent round, the contents of which were found to be five sets of brand-new blue “pu” (or calico) garments, a set apiece. No words can tell what such a gift meant to us, or our thankfulness upon its receipt. The squalor of prison life, the rough usage of the mob, and the wear and tear of such knockabout travel as we had been subjected to, had left their own mark behind, and their own impression upon the compassionate heart of our benefactor. So now at last—the first time for just upon a month—we elders had a change of raiment. The Lord give mercy to the house of that good Lao-ie; for he oft refreshed us.
Two other incidents of those days are written on my memory. The one was the Sunday morning service we held in our temple prison—the first and only occasion during our flight on which we were able to worship without distraction. The sweet sense of Sabbath rest and of all the goodness and mercy that had followed us until now, made it a memorable hour. Hymnbooks, prayer books, Bibles, we had none; but a happier hour of heart fellowship with God we never enjoyed. I believe each of us could say that. The word specially given me to speak upon was Heb. 10:19-2319Having therefore, brethren, boldness to enter into the holiest by the blood of Jesus, 20By a new and living way, which he hath consecrated for us, through the veil, that is to say, his flesh; 21And having an high priest over the house of God; 22Let us draw near with a true heart in full assurance of faith, having our hearts sprinkled from an evil conscience, and our bodies washed with pure water. 23Let us hold fast the profession of our faith without wavering; (for he is faithful that promised;) (Hebrews 10:19‑23)—the believer’s “boldness” in the blood of Jesus; and with great joy did we draw water from that well of salvation—the greater, possibly, that we were privileged literally “before the gods to sing praise unto Him,” under the very shadow of Buddha and his demon guard.
The other incident I have counted worthy of record seems naturally to follow on. In the course of that day, the Lao-ie sent his tiny boy (about four years old) with a couple of maids to worship the temple god. When, however, he was told to make the k’eh-t’eo, he absolutely refused. Every means was tried to induce him to do it; but threat and cajole were alike unavailing. Even force was attempted; but the strenuous resistance offered by the sturdy youngster carried the day, and his attendants took him off with the wondering exclamation that they “could not tell what had come to the child; he had never been known to behave so before.” They knew not that the Lord was there.
The following day, July 30, was to be a memorable one for us. In the course of the morning news was brought in that a large party of foreigners was expected, and that they were to share our quarters. No information was forthcoming that could serve as a clue to their identity. Our flight had been taken in complete ignorance of the movements of others who were in similar peril; and we could only assume that the fears anticipated by Mr. E. J. Cooper in his last letter to me had been realized, and that the party in question was none other than the Lu-ch’eng refugees.
The thought of seeing these dear friends completely lifted us out of ourselves, and created a keen expectation. How eagerly we watched and made ready for them! The room was carefully swept again and put in order, and we arrayed ourselves, one and all, in our new garments to do them honor. These scant preparations were scarcely completed when the rumble of carts was heard, the little courtyard gate was flung open by runners, and the arrival of foreigners announced. All eagerness to welcome them, we hurried out.
Shall I ever forget the sight? Slowly and painfully they were descending from the carts, a company of twelve—three men, four women and five children. As one by one they emerged from under the p’eng, they appeared in their rags, emaciation, and utter woe-begoneness, more like apparitions than beings of flesh and blood. We had not been mistaken in our surmise. It was the Lu-ch’eng-P’ing-iao party, recognizable still, though so pitiably changed. Mrs. Cooper was the first to come forward. My dear wife ran to her, and with a tender embrace led her gently in. She just lifted her eyes and smiled wearily as she greeted me in these only words, “Oh, how nice to see somebody clean!” Next came her husband, his arms around a litter of loose dirty straw, as much as they could contain; then the Rev. A. R. Saunders and Mr. Jennings in like manner. These were followed by the ladies—Mrs. Saunders, Miss Huston and Miss Guthrie, leading or carrying the children, though scarcely able to support their own weight.
Truly it was “a time to weep.” They passed within the enclosure to their temple quarters; and stretching themselves on the ground, as we had done five days before, gave thanks to God for the reviving of His grace in the rest provided after weeks of torture. But oh, the sadness of that sight! The earth-floor of our room was covered, every yard of it, with sick and wounded. In the corner, to the left as one entered and beneath the latticework, lay dear Mrs. Cooper on a shakedown of straw, her torn “san-tai” revealing gangrened sun wounds about the breasts, and with ulcerous sores where the cruel “kiartsi” had galled her limbs. Added to this were the pains of dysentery. Opposite her, by the incense table, was stretched Miss Huston, with broken jaw, a gaping scalp wound that laid bare the brain, flesh wounds in either forearm deep to the bone, and her whole body a mass of contusions—the work of the Boxers. Next her was Mrs. Saunders, terribly reduced by dysentery; and near the door Miss Guthrie, apparently in the last stage of the same disease. The intervening space was taken up by the children, who in their painful distress looked the personification of the misery to which their moans and sobs bore continual witness. Poor little dears!—they were one and all in the throes of dysentery; and not only so, but in the agony of undressed sun wounds. In this respect, Jessie Saunders and Edith Cooper perhaps suffered the most. Their arms, from the shoulder to the elbow, were gangrened sores, alive with maggots.
Two of that fugitive party “were not.” Baby Isabel Saunders had succumbed to the hardships of the flight and Miss Rice had been murdered outright by the Boxers of Tseh-cheo.
Little by little we gleaned, with fresh wonder and amazement, the details of their escape details that came out only to emphasize the conviction that they, not less than we, had been brought forth by a definite act of Almighty purpose and power. The narration of fact after fact was once more the revelation of miracle after miracle; and as we compared notes, we agreed in ascribing the glory of our common deliverance to Him Who alone doeth wondrous things. A concise and deeply instructive record of their journeyings and awful perils has been already issued. I will only, therefore, refer to the single incident of their flight which bears more particularly upon my own story, viz., the sufferings of Miss Huston and the martyrdom of Miss Rice.
The details of the tragedy were supplied to Miss Gates without reserve by Miss Huston herself, and may be briefly summarized as follows. Arrived at a large village called San-chia-tien (where only three months before, Dr. Hewett and I had preached the Word to crowding, but not too friendly, audiences, and where we were all but refused a lodging for the night), the two ladies, in their excessive weariness, became separated from the rest of their party, who were being driven before a Boxer mob. Finding themselves isolated and realizing the hopelessness of getting through, they sat down by the roadside to await the end. They were immediately surrounded and exposed (as we ourselves had so often been) to the excited execrations of the mob, whose fury soon passed from words to deeds. Insults of the grossest kind were heaped upon them, the worst indignities being offered to Miss Rice. They were then set upon with the terrible cry, “Ta! Shah!” — “Beat and kill them!” and under the rain of blows Miss Huston lost consciousness—not, however, before a heavy springless cart had been deliberately driven over her body to break the spine. When she recovered, it was to find that her face had been plastered over with clay, in the belief that she was dead, and so in lieu of burial.
Her first thought was for her sister, and creeping to her side as best she could, she removed the plastered mud from her face also, and watched for signs of life until satisfied that God had taken her. All through that night she kept watch by the body, keeping off the dogs and waiting for her own expected end, when with morning light a yamen troop arrived to bury the dead and take on the living to the next city. The story of the circumstances under which Miss Huston eventually re-joined her party, as related by Mr. Saunders, is amongst the most remarkable of that remarkable period, and is its own confirmation of the miraculous nature of their (not less than of our own) escape. Her survival of such an experience, not only physically, but mentally, was—to us who could appreciate to the full what it involved—an amazing act of Divine keeping. Even as it was, her expression, especially in repose, wore a haunted, hunted look, revealing all too painfully the nature of the scenes that were photographed upon the mind within. She spoke but little to any, save her intimate, Miss Gates, with whom she had been closely associated in the work of past happy days. Indeed, we none of us talked much together. Sickness, sorrow, and utter weariness bound our spirits and laid a hush upon them.
With our numbers swollen thus from five to seventeen, and under such insanitary conditions, our small room soon became more like a pest house than a hospital. Medical resources we had none. Without, under the fierce heat of the dog days, the latrine just beneath the window became a fetid mass of reeking corruption; while within, wounds and bruises and putrefying sores fouled the atmosphere and sickened the senses. Add to this that the aforesaid latrine was the only accommodation available for such an abnormal state of things as nine out of the seventeen afflicted with dysentery; and the reader can imagine the straits to which we were quickly reduced.
The next day Miss Gates succeeded in securing an antiseptic of some Chinese sort, and set to work forthwith to cleanse the wounds with a cold solution. The process, in the case of the dear children, was distressing, who shrieked under the agony of “being scalded with boiling water” —so they expressed the sensation. Jessie Saunders suffered most. When the hour came round for her arm to be dressed, in spite of the utmost tenderness in the treatment, she was convulsed with terror at the bare thought, and the shrinking endurance with which she submitted to the ordeal was touching to witness.
All this wrought severely upon nerves already sorely tried. There was no exemption by day or night. Each with his own had a full sufficiency of work. The nature of the children’s malady alone called for incessant attention, now with one and now with another; while their moans and cries of pain put sleep out of the question. And yet—dear wee souls!—behind it all was the suffering patience and self-forgetfulness of maturer years. I remember particularly little Jessie’s concern for her mother, as at night she would beg her to change places with her on the hard earth floor, because she was “sure her own bed was the more comfortable!”
Performing the toilet (euphemism for a smudge with a wet “sheo-kin”), dressing the wounds, washing the infants’ clothes, and cooking for the sick, were now among the chief items of the daily round; and we gave ourselves to our various employments with such cheerfulness as the grace of God supplied. Privacy was impossible, save such as was afforded by the two small cellar holes already referred to; and these were thankfully utilized, pitch dark though they were, as dressing-rooms by the ladies. The sense of utter strengthlessness was very great; and under the intense heat and oppression of the offensive atmosphere, it became increasingly so. I see Mr. Cooper still, the ghost of his former self, wearily washing out the soiled garments of his two children, and thereafter stretching himself at his wife’s side, all but exhausted, to fan the flies from her open wounds.
The day following their arrival (July 31) was my little son’s birthday. Five years old that most sad day, surrounded truly with love, but also with how much of sorrow and pain! Instead of a children’s party, with toys and games and birthday cake, the dear little ones sat each in their places on the floor, looking across at one another, as if they were utter strangers, speechless, listless and wistfully sad. Sighs took the place of laughter, and groans of song. We tried our best to put a birthday complexion on the hours; but it fell very flat, and the expression in the dear boy’s sorrowful eyes seemed only to say, “Don’t mock me.”
Several visits of inquiry were made by the Lao-ie’s representatives, and various tokens of goodwill sent in, in the shape of clothing for, the newly arrived party, and gifts of food and money. Occasional groups of city gentlemen, too, were allowed admittance, when they would stand at the threshold holding their noses or inhaling perfumes. while they interrogated us. A not uncommon idea prevails among the Chinese that foreigners are offensively unclean in their persons, and only to be approached on sufferance in the above way. Certainly the condition in which these gentlemen found us now was not calculated to disabuse them of the popular notion, or weaken their prejudice. The only wonder to me was that they could endure it as they did.
From day to day we eagerly inquired as to the prospects of getting on. It was evident that to remain much longer in the place under such pestilential conditions would involve a crisis not less serious, certainly, than anything we were likely to incur on the road; and we entreated to be sent forward at the earliest opportunity. Hopes for “tomorrow” were held out only to be dashed, until the heart grew sick with waiting. The road (it was said) was not yet clear of troops; and the Lao-ie refused to take any risk with us; but “we will see tomorrow.” And so it went on; and so also went on the poisonous germs fructifying in our vitals. With the expected result. My two children presently developed large boils and dysentery; with which latter complaint I also was attacked, bringing the number of victims up to twelve, out of a total of seventeen.
Miserable as our condition actually was, and desperate as it was becoming, we were yet sustained by the unfailing consciousness that God was for us. He Who had brought us from the gates of death and had kept us hitherto was able to save to the uttermost, and to hold our soul in life, if it were for His glory. A helpful evidence of this was given in the case of Miss Guthrie. Her prostration under the dysentery was such that it was clear she had not long to live. In this conviction, she called upon me to “pray over” her “the prayer of faith,” under the persuasion, borne in upon her by the Spirit of God, that upon her complying with this condition, the Lord would raise her up (James 5). Most thankfully did I respond to my dying sister’s request, and from that time she received strength to recover. The sickness was not immediately arrested; but His strength was so perfected in her weakness that its hold upon her relaxed, until it pleased Him to bring her in due course under careful medical nursing.
Many of the most precious lessons of my life were learned in this “Christ’s Hospital” at Sin-yang Chao. Under suffering of the most distressing kind, where bodily anguish was reinforced by haunting memories of a harrowing flight, where even ordinary comforts were wholly wanting, and where no assuagement of any sort or kind was forthcoming, not one single syllable of murmur or complaint fell at any time from the lips of any. Even the children, amid the tears and cries forced from them by unaccustomed pain, never said one word that could be construed into distrust of the love of God, or a questioning of His way with them.
The all-enduring, uncomplaining patience of the ladies was wonderful to witness—a tangible and irrefutable evidence of the transforming power of Divine grace. Through the long hours of the long weary days, in the sultry heat, Mrs. Cooper lay on the vermin-ridden floor, the prey of myriad flies that fed upon her wounds, as, with nothing easier to rest upon than a scant litter of straw, ulcers and dysentery drained her life. Yet never a groan or even a sigh escaped her; and when one spoke to her, only the lighting up of a gentle smile, and a word of thanksgiving to God for His love to her was introduced with the answer she returned. So was it with each one of them, until one saw a new meaning in the words, “The noble army of martyrs praise Thee.”
I thank God, too, for the lessons He taught me through the spirit of brotherly love that prevailed in our midst. The ministry of mutual cleansing in the lowly “washing of one another’s feet” was most graciously exemplified and beautiful to see. No man sought his own, but each his neighbor’s good. The self-denial of the dear brethren Saunders, Cooper and Jennings, as they gave themselves wholly to the work of ministering to all, was in the very spirit of Christ’s sacrifice. To Miss Gates, who alone of the ladies was free from actual sickness, fell the major share of the nursing; and how faithfully, zealously and self-forgetfully she discharged, in all her own utter weariness, the onerous duties love imposed upon her, I can never tell. A tenderheartedness, the outcome of meek submission to the known will of God, which was recognized at all times to be “good, perfect and acceptable,” breathed through all our relations with one another, infusing into them withal a certain cheerfulness that killed irritability in the germ. Even there, amid so much that tended to wretchedness, we were given “beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness;” for His right hand had holden us up, and His gentleness had made us great. To Him be glory forever. Amen.