In the course of these events our second year of work in Chiengmai had come to its end. We were now beyond the middle of the year 1869. As some indefinable sense of oppression in the air gives warning of the approaching storm, so there were ominous hints, and even some dark forebodings. Our Christian people—who understood far better than we did both the character of their rulers and the significance of furtive looks and innuendoes—were anxious. But they stood firm, and their faith strengthened ours.

In the light of subsequent events we now know that the most dangerous element in the gathering storm was the angry surprise of the Prince himself at the discovery that the old order seemed actually passing away under his very eyes; that his will was no longer supreme in men’s minds, nor always consulted in their actions—this and the deep treachery and ruthless cruelty of his nature which it brought into play. But there were other sinister influences at work also, and among them we must not overlook that of a certain Portuguese adventurer, Fonseca by name. He was a thoroughly unprincipled man, who, having played his game in Bangkok and lost, had worked himself into the favour of the Prince during his recent visit to the capital, and had accompanied him on his return to Chiengmai. The Prince was persuaded that this man could be of great service to him in the two matters which were then causing him most disquietude; namely, the defence of certain lawsuits involving large sums of money, brought against him in the British Consular Court by Burmese timber merchants; and the getting rid of the missionaries. These last were more in Fonseca’s way than they were in the Prince’s. He could accomplish his ends more readily if they were not there.

The most plausible excuse that could be offered for desiring to be rid of the missionaries was the failure of the rice crop that year. In the early part of the season there was no rain at all. When at last the fields had been planted, one of the worst floods ever known in that region destroyed all the lowland rice. Then, finally, the rains ceased prematurely, and the upland crop was cut off by drought. The presence of the missionaries in the country had offended the spirits, and they had withheld the rain. Such was the pretext urged in a petition sent to Bangkok to have the missionaries removed. The specific address of the petition to the Minister for Foreign Affairs and the United States Consul leads one to suspect that the matter was directed by some one who understood the order of official business much better than did the Lao Prince.

The Minister forwarded the document to Mr. McDonald, the acting Vice-Consul at the time. Mr. McDonald replied to the Minister that there must be some mistake about it. It appeared that the scarcity of rice complained of had begun the year before the arrival of the missionaries; it was not confined to Chiengmai, but extended over all the northern provinces. He added roguishly, however, that he would strictly enjoin the American missionaries to be very careful in future not to cause any famine. Of all this secret plotting we were entirely ignorant at the time, and learned of it only long afterwards. While these plots were developing, I was frequently visiting the Prince, and all our relations with him were apparently satisfactory. But we knew that he was under the influence of a wily and unprincipled adversary.

The other matter in which Fonseca was supposed to be able to help his patron out of difficulties even more pressing, was the Burmese lawsuits pending before the British Consul. But the British government was the last party to permit officious meddling with its public business from such a quarter. It is presumed that there was evidence of his interference with official correspondence. This much is certain—a peremptory demand was made on the Siamese government for his recall. The official order sent up was too emphatic to be neglected. The man was sent out of the country in quite different style from that in which he entered it. This man is known to have been present at the consultation relative to the mission. If the jealousy and suspicion on the part of the Prince did not originate with him, there is no doubt that he at least worked on the Prince’s suspicious nature, increasing his jealousy of the growing popularity of the mission, and leading him to think that it would be wise to stop it in its incipiency.

Yet even when the blow was about to fall, we could not believe that the Prince was so treacherous as to plan to drive us out of the country, at the same time that he continued to treat us so kindly, and would even come to dine with us. We could not believe that the younger Princess, who had a predominating influence over her father, could encourage one of the Christians to put himself under her protection, only that he might the more surely be sent to his death a day or two later. We could not believe that an excursion down the river had been planned by the Prince, only that he might be out of reach when the executions should take place. We were still incredulous, even after we received reliable information from the agent of the Borneo Company that he had heard the Prince and a certain high officer consulting together to stop our work. The plan which he reported was to expel the converts from the country, giving their wives and children the option to follow them or to remain. After all, that would not have been so great a disaster. These men had no great possessions to lose. Their banishment would only plant the Gospel in other provinces or other lands.

When, in September, 1869, just before the fatal stroke, the Prince started on what purported to be a three weeks’ fishing trip, we thought that his absence would give us a respite from our present fears, and would afford him leisure for better thoughts. As his boats pushed off, we waved him a parting good-bye from the shore. His first business was at Lampun, to secure the co-operation of the governor of that province in ridding the country of the new religion. Inasmuch as SÊn Ya Wichai, the third convert mentioned above, was a Lampun officer, it was thought prudent in his case to secure the action of his own immediate superior. He was at once sent for, and was condemned to death, but was saved by his young master, the governor’s son, on the plea that he was a backwoodsman, and knew no better.

Of the deep designs against us and our work we were thus either ignorant or incredulous till, on the evening of September 13th, just before dark, our night watchman came to us with the common excuse for leaving us, that some relative was dead or dying, and insisting that he must go immediately. In vain we urged that he must not leave us thus in the lurch. As a final argument, we threatened to dock him of a month’s wages. But wages were nothing to him then. “All that a man hath will he give for his life.” While we talked to him, he had reached the gate and was gone. So, also, fled the cook and the coolie, leaving only one blind Ngio who had taken refuge with us.

Mr. Wilson then lived across the river on the new premises, and it was not until the next day that we learned that all his people, too, had fled in like manner and at the same hour. We went to Praya Tepasing, the Prince’s executive officer, to enquire the cause. He feigned surprise, and professed entire ignorance of any designs against the Christians. He said, however, that the Prince had given an order that the inhabitants of certain villages should bring in each a hewn slab of timber to repair the stockade. Possibly the scare might have somehow arisen from that. We were aware of the order, and had told the Christians that if pressed for time to procure the timber, they might each take a slab of ours. We now told the Praya that we would ourselves be responsible for the timbers required of them. To assure us with regard to our servants, the Praya sent for our cook, gave him a letter assuring his safety, and threatened, besides, to have him flogged if he deserted us. The cook remained with us all through these troubles, until we could find another to take his place. For some reason Mr. Wilson did not avail himself of this offer. He and Mrs. Wilson got on as they could without servants for several months.

We now know that the order for the execution of the Christians had been given long before by that same Praya Tepasing—in such fear of the Prince was the highest officer in the realm! Not only had our servants vanished—there was a sudden cessation of our visitors as well. Few even dared to come for medicine for fear of being suspected of becoming Christians. There were, however, a few notable exceptions, the abbot of the Umong monastery being the most conspicuous.

During the following week Mr. Wilson waded out across the flooded country to the home of Nan Chai, his teacher. But his family did not dare to give any information concerning him. To tell what they knew would cost their lives also—so they had been told. He then went on another mile to Noi Sunya’s home, with the same result. The wives of both these men pretended to believe that their husbands had gone to the city to visit us. Mr. Wilson noticed that one of the women had tears in her eyes as she spoke. Puzzled rather than satisfied by the result of the visit, Mr. Wilson returned with the hope that, after all, the men were still alive, and that we yet should see them in the land of the living.

It was two weeks before our suspense was broken by the certainty of their death. On Sunday morning, September 26th, a Ngio friend and neighbour of the martyrs called at my house. After looking all about him, he asked where the Christians were. I told him there seemed to be a mystery about them that we could not unravel, but we hoped they were secreting themselves in safety somewhere. Seeing that I was really ignorant of their fate, he came close up to me, and looking around again to assure himself that no one was near, he asked, “If I tell you, will you promise never to betray me?” Having demanded and received an emphatic promise equivalent to an oath, he drew his hand significantly across his neck, and whispered, “That is the way.” His gesture was too well understood in that reign to leave any doubt as to what was meant. The man had really come on a sad and dangerous errand of kindness. As soon as it was accomplished, he hurried away, evidently fearing that the birds of the air might hear it, or that some breeze might waft it to the palace.

On Monday morning Mr. Wilson and I went again to the Praya. He could now no longer lie for his master as to the fact of the execution of the men, but he offered the flimsy excuse that it was because they had not brought in their slabs on time. We were then obliged to charge him with patent falsehood. He knew that they were executed for no crime whatever, but only for being Christians. Poor man! He seemed somewhat ashamed; but what could he do? He was not at heart a bad man, as his letter of protection for the cook showed. The lives of two peasants were no great matter in those days. He had been so trained to execute every behest of his master, that it scarcely occurred to him that he ought to hesitate at this.

But it was some relief to know the worst, and to know that it was known that we knew it. Before this we had been obliged to feign hopes that we hardly believed ourselves. Now we could speak openly. The Prince had not yet returned from his fishing trip; so we went to his elder daughter and her husband, afterward Prince Intanon. In their position they could not say much; but they did say that what the Prince had done was not right, and that they did not approve of the act.

One outcome of the situation was a flood of the wildest rumours—some of them, no doubt, started on purpose to frighten us away. One of these touched us in a most tender point. One of our most faithful servants, who had been with us from the very first, was desirous of visiting Bangkok. So we arranged to have him go down in charge of a boat that was to bring up our supplies for the year. By him we sent a large package of letters written before we had reason to suspect so serious an outcome of the troubles that were brewing. While we could not conceal some gloomy forebodings, our reports were, on the whole, full of hope for the speedy progress of the Gospel. The boat left for Bangkok a few days after the Prince started on his fishing trip. Presently it was reported that the boat had been intercepted, and that this man, with his wife, his son, and his son’s family, even down to a little grandchild of two years old, had been killed, and the boat broken to pieces and burned.

Although such atrocity seemed beyond belief, yet a number of circumstances combined to give the report credibility. Why, for instance, was the long, unusual trip down the river taken just before our boat was to start? What did it mean that, after the murder of the Christians was known, no sum of money could induce a Lao man to take a letter to Bangkok? If the story of the fate of our messenger were true, the act was the act of a madman—and there is no telling what a madman may not do. He was in a position to keep us from escaping; and if he had really gone so far as that, he evidently did not intend that we should be heard from alive.

For a time we virtually resigned ourselves to what seemed inevitable fate. When we could get no letters sent, we actually began writing the history of those days on the margins of books in our library, so that, if we were never heard from again, some of the precedent circumstances of our end might thus, perhaps, come to light. It was a great relief, therefore, when an influential Burmese, knowing our situation, offered to carry a letter through to our friends in Bangkok.

On September 29th, when the letters carried by the Burmese were written, we were still under the impression that our boatman had been murdered, and that neither he nor the letters and reports carried by him had been heard from. It was the knowledge that these rumours were false, and that he had passed RahÊng in safety, that first relieved our minds. So, too, his arrival in Bangkok gave our friends there the first assurance of our safety. With this explanation the letters themselves will give the best idea of our situation in those dark days. The following is from a letter of Dr. S. R. House to our Mission Board in New York, printed in the Presbyterian Record of February, 1870. It is dated November 11th, 1869.

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

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

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

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

Dr. House then continues:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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