WE certainly had rather a revolutionary look about us, more especially my two companions. It was Gillanders’ first journey on horseback in Brazil, and he had a very rugged, sunburnt frontispiece. Antao, our wise and faithful trooper, colporteur, cook, and a host of things besides, nevertheless had a very Sancho Panza appearance, with his round, but very black, unshaven face and a rather freshly-split nose―a result of his last wood-chopping―while I created some suspicion on account of my peculiar-looking straw hat, and still more so because of my carrying some compromising maps of the very region most involved in the plans of the revolutionaries now troubling this part of the country. Everybody exclaimed, “Here come the revoltosos!” It was most embarrassing. At a sudden turn in a forest I met one man who, on seeing me, at once unslung his gun, and deliberately dropped his ramrod down the barrel―to let me know it was loaded.
At one place we were virtually prisoners for some time, and barely escaped being shut in behind the bars. The authorities were astonished when I insisted that we were not at all afraid of the times; that our books were just what the country itself, and especially the revolutionaries, needed, and that if they would help us to circulate them it would soon stop the revolution.
They shook their heads gravely, and the crowd which stood gazing on us evidently considered we should be walked off and shot at once, for I was said to be a colonel of the opposing force.
At last we were reluctantly released, and hastened to depart; but barely had we swum our animals across the local river, and paddled ourselves and our baggage across the same, when we were again pursued and arrested. We were still suspected persons, and were ordered to be searched.
They examined all our baggage most carefully for bombs―but only found Bibles. This so impressed one of the police authorities that he at once purchased our very best book, and furthermore, invited us to put up at his farm on the way. After presenting a New Testament to the city judge, and distributing Gospels among the soldier guards, we were again released, and, pushing on to the aforesaid farm, we held a most impressive Gospel meeting among the farm hands, some twenty folk or more, who listened to all that we sang and said with deep and earnest attention; it was all so new and strange―yes, we were revolutionaries all right!
Night after night we put up at some rough farmhouse or other, and though they were a little suspicious at first, we were always well received by the farmers, especially after we had given them a taste of our hymnbook, and so prepared the way for the little Gospel meeting which always followed. One soon forgot the weariness of the day’s ride.
Our good colporteurs had twice visited those regions some years before, and now I could see the result of their work.
In one very remote farmhouse I found an old man, well over eighty, who was manifestly converted through the reading of one of these Bibles. His sons were all old gray-beards, and his grandsons had big families—quite a community, and all professing to follow the religion of their patriarch, a man of fine physique, with a happy Gospel shine on his face, but now very deaf, and an invalid in his last days. But, alas, only the old man could read, and he had never heard the Gospel properly explained, and did not know how to make things clear to his children, or how to lead them to the Lord. After a long and interesting meeting among all these men and women, I sought to deal personally with one of the younger married men, and eventually we went out together into the dense neighboring forest, and there in mutual prayer we settled the matter. When he rose to his feet, he exclaimed, “I’m so satisfied.”
I hope and believe that he will now be able to show his other relatives, old and young, this simple but royal road to Christ and eternal life. This made the fourth conversion on our journey.
On reaching Piranhos, on the banks of the great Sao Francisco River, we were again arrested, and the police said they had bad information about us. We seemed hemmed in on every side; with no escape from the revolutionaries on the one hand, or from the still more-to-be-dreaded Government forces on the other.
Just when we were in real perplexity, Gillanders rooted out some old documents he found among his baggage, and laid them before the suspicious magistrates. They were of rather an imposing character, with many strange stamps and seals, albeit of little real value, and all in English. The authorities could not understand a word of them, and probably were ashamed to confess their ignorance, but they were evidently dazzled by those seals―one, I think, was a Bible Institute Diploma―so without further ado they decided to let us depart. We did not do so without first selling a few Scriptures in the place.
Our departure was no easy matter either; nevertheless, it was imperative to get a move on, as there was neither pasturage nor corn for the troop, and we might be rearrested at any moment. At this crisis I persuaded the owner of a huge, old dug-out canoe, at a big price, to embark our animals, though we had a tremendous, tail-twisting job to get them all aboard. Just when we were ready to push off, a policeman appeared at the river side. I was “wanted” once more. This time it was the State fiscal who hinted at taxes and fines for selling books without a license, and my heart sank, for funds were low. Happily, I succeeded in convincing the man that our work was not a mere business concern, but that we were conferring a great boon and blessing on the country in circulating such books at such a trifling cost that all could purchase; and thus I escaped again. A few minutes later we were facing the difficult navigation of the great river Sao Francisco, at the mercy of its swift, swirling, muddy waters, in our precarious and primitive barque.
The journey took us the best part of the day, and was not without its exciting moments, especially when the mules started a little revolution of their own and threatened to kick the canoe to smithereens.
It was a great relief to us when, late that night, we sighted the little town of Pao de Assucar (Sugar Loaf), though some of the inhabitants seemed to be surprised at this aquatic invasion.
We had a profitable time at Sugar Loaf, though not as sweet as might have been expected. There still remained the ruins of a Protestant mission, now in deep spiritual decay.
The old leader, although he had done a good work in the past, was now a spiritual and physical wreck, on the verge of dissolution. He seemed possessed with an evil spirit, as a result maybe of dabbling in spiritism, or accepting their Satanic waters in his illness. After waiting on God, we were led to rebuke the evil spirit. From that moment until we left a day or two later, there was a marked change in the poor old man: a change for good, and there were no more blasphemies, or paroxysms of temper as before. To God be all the glory! We canvassed this place thoroughly with the Scriptures, but it was uphill work on account of the circumstances referred to, and also because the whole countryside was in a state of panic, and all trade was paralyzed. Here we met a rustic friend, who gave us news of a community of folk who were also of this “Nova Seita” (New Sect). They lived about thirty miles away, and, as he offered to guide us there by some little-known by-paths, quite unfamiliar to the warring parties, we accepted his offer, set out, and reached the place that same night, we riding our mules, and our guide running ahead through the tangled by-paths.
Here we found three or four families with one Bible between them, for only one of the number could read. They had never heard a Gospel sermon, or a Gospel hymn or prayer, or even seen a Gospel preacher. I held a little two days’ convention there, among some sixty people. Naturally, it was largely of a doctrinal and instructional character. They showed great sincerity and simplicity. Our principal gathering was under a large spreading tree, and some of the listeners were smoking, but as soon as I pointed out the evil of that vice they at once dropped their cigarettes. Many were really converted people and happy in their faith, in spite of persecuting neighbors. We arranged for six of these people to be taught to read the Book that had wrought such wonders, and a little later a school was established in their midst.
In nearly every place we found the people willing and hungry for the Word of Life. I was glad to have a good supply of little Gospels of St. John, so cheap that anybody could buy, or which we could afford to give away wherever the humble cent was not available. The country folk are so kind and hospitable that it was good to be able to repay their goodness with some such precious Word of Life as a single Gospel can convey.
On our return journey, one evening we rode into the little township called Poco das Trincheiras. The very atmosphere seemed thick with fanaticism, superstition, and crime; a kind of outlawed place it was, of one family tree. I have rarely seen such evil-looking men, and how they scowled at us when we entered the place and they had learned our business. They had no priest, in spite of an imposing church building, but there seemed to be many clerical relationships among them, and all seemed Catholics of the Borgia type. The head man of the place was tall and dark, with a very intelligent, but rather grave and forbidding face. However, he possessed one excellent characteristic. It appears that he has ever made it his special practice and pride to be hospitable to all travelers, without making any distinction, and he evidently could not break his rule on our account; so to our vast amazement we were, shortly after our arrival, invited into his very large house, the best in the place, and were soon seated at one of the finest spread tables I have seen in Brazil, while his wife and family waited on us assiduously―it was a surprise!
Just before sitting down I had given the youngest of the family, a boy of about twelve years of age, a little Gospel of John, which he at once began to read with extraordinary interest. When the feast was over, the boy was still reading. Then I asked if they liked music. Of course they did, and we sang them some of our most beautiful Gospel hymns―and how beautiful they are! Soon the fine sala was filled, and the people even crowded a kind of gallery on the floor above us. Never had such sounds and such sweet words charmed the hearts of these sad-faced folk, but throughout it all the little son of the family never took his eyes from that John’s Gospel.
After this I essayed, in a casual manner, to read a passage of Scripture―the story of the dying thief― to which I added a little commentary of my own, the Lord helping me. The most attentive and earnest listener was the wife of our host, though at this point most of the men arose and left―it was too pointed for their Catholic faith to tolerate―but the little lad kept on reading, reading!
That night we slept in high state in most luxurious spring beds, with fine bed linen and curtains, and other furniture to match, and we almost lost the revolutionary feeling.
Early next morning, after a refreshing swim, we began to canvass the town with our books. At once our kind but sinister looking host looked graver still, and said, “You had better not; we are all Catholics. You will sell none of these books here.” I smilingly assured him that probably he was right, but that at least we could do our duty and try. We did try, but it was not easy work; for though the men of the place might tolerate us as travelers and guests, it was dangerous work selling Scriptures. We canvassed house by house, and succeeded in selling fifty Scriptures, the most successful worker being Mr. Gillanders, who had landed from New Zealand only six weeks previously. Then we quietly collected our animals, saddled up, and were off while matters were yet in an easy state, and the way was open—but not without leaving a New Testament and a “Traveler’s Guide” in the hands of the hospitable wife of our gloomy host, who received them gratefully.
And so the seed was sown in many kinds of soil. It may be that the most unlikely may prove to be the most fertile, and that little boy, with his John’s Gospel, may become the harbinger of a new spirit and a new hope in a place where Satan has ruled so long.
We rode home to Garanhuns after our 400-mile journey with glad and thankful hearts, and none the worse for our experiences as revolutionaries of the Lord. During this journey our sales were: 107 Bibles; 203 New Testaments; 1630 Gospels, and 130 “Traveler’s Guides.”