Chapter 11: Escaped!

SEVERAL years after the release of Pedro Feliz I found myself one Sunday locked up, as usual, in the largest common ward of the prison for a service among the convicts.
These meetings varied with the mood and circumstances of the inmates. Sometimes there would be as many as twelve to eighteen men sitting round me on every conceivable kind of seat, extemporized out of old boards and boxes, my own being perhaps a rickety kerosene case. At other times the convicts held aloof — often from fear of the priest or dread of the authorities; and only some half dozen faithful men would be left.
This was just such an occasion. Old Miguel awaiting his trial was there — he never missed a meeting — and several other hopeful cases; but my attention was especially attracted to a new face, a young man just sentenced to twenty years for murder. An attractive, resourceful-looking fellow, Jose became deeply interested in the Gospel from that first meeting, and after a week or two he joined the band of the “hopefuls.” But, alas!
Clang, clang! clang, clang! rang out the prison bell one day at a very unusual hour.
Everybody in the neighborhood made for the street, and gazed up in the direction of the State prison. A convict had escaped!
Comments came thick and fast: “How?” “Where?” “Who was the lucky rascal?”
It was Jose! He had gone to the big, deep Carioca pool that morning with the usual armed guard, to carry back drinking water for the prisoners. The guard granted his request to be allowed to take a bath, and in he dived. He seemed a vastly long time coming to the surface; but the soldiers had scarcely time to get alarmed when he reappeared on the far side of the pool, clambered up the bank, and vanished into the forest. There were a few wild, random shots from the guards, but never again will be seen in that part of Brazil!
I shortly afterwards received the following news of his final disappearance: Escaping naked through the forest, he managed eventually to obtain some clothing, and two weeks later he suddenly appeared at the door of the wealthy and unscrupulous farmer who had hired or snared into committing the murder for which he had been sentenced. His sudden reappearance was alarming — and compromising too; especially when he demanded the wherewithal to escape into neighboring State.
The farmer finally agreed to help him, provided he committed another crime on his behalf before fleeing into the State of Bahia. The man demurred strongly; but when the farm increased his bribe to a good, well-saddled mule and a hundred pounds, José appeared to agree. “Bring me his ear,” said the farmer “and here is my best mule and your money to get clear away today.”
The scene of the proposed crime was almost within sight, and armed with the farmer’s pistols, rite proposed victim by his unexpected appearance and by saying, “Farmer B — sent me here to murder you for a hundred pounds!”
“Mercy! For love of God and the Virgin!” screamed the frightened man, who thought his last hour had come.
“Don’t be afraid of me,” said Jose, reassuringly. “I have done with that kind of business now, and only want to get my own back from old B —. Just kill a hen or two and smear me with blood. After that, fire a couple of shots, and yell for all you are worth.”
Very soon Afterward Farmer B — heard the distant gunshots and screams, and a little later in rushed Jose with clothes torn and covered with blood.
“Give me the horse and money quick! I’ve done the business!”
“But where is the ear?” asked the trembling villain.
“Oh! there was no time for that,” cried Jose. “The relatives were all on top of me at once, and are now close on my track! Give me the horse and money I say, and let me go before it is too late.”
The next minute Jose was galloping off west, riding the farmer’s best mule, and with a hundred pounds in his pocket; and I had one less “hopeful” case on my list.
Yet there was something to be thankful for; — and I still had Miguel. There seemed no fear of his escaping.
Already an old man, tall, and with a big gray, almost white beard, and of a rather venerable aspect, Miguel enjoyed the ill-fame of being Considered a celebrated criminal, even in this region of Brazil, where crime abounds, where assassinations are common occurrences — often under the cloak of official protection — and where at any time murderers may be hired for the foulest of deeds for the smallest sum of money.
Miguel had been in the Goyaz prison for eighteen months awaiting his trial for his latest crime — an attempted murder under aggravated circumstances; and there I first came into contact with him. He became a regular and most attentive listener at the Sunday morning Gospel meetings in the prison. He began to read the New Testament, and declared himself convinced of the truth; but I never could induce him to take any definite step.
As the day of his final trial drew on I redoubled my efforts to bring him to Christ, but to no purpose; and I often told him I would far sooner he never left the prison than leave it without salvation. I began to lose hope for him, though the local friars and priests had already written him down as a Protestant.
One Sunday I said to him, “Miguel, if I were empowered to offer you freedom from this prison, or freedom from sin and condemnation, which would you choose?”
“Ah!” the poor fellow replied, “freedom from prison certainly.”
When one considers what prison life is here, with its unspeakable wretchedness, filth, and torments, the reply is not surprising, But meanwhile much prayer went up for him from our Brazilian brethren The day of the great trial came; and though ordinary trials for murder attract little attention, is occasion the court was crowded — if only to get a glimpse of the terrible man.
I followed the proceedings with great interest. The evidence in itself was damning, apart from the of past unpunished crimes which would the jury’s decision; and when they returned his fate seemed sealed I must admit quite deservedly so. In England he would have been hanged for a twentieth part of the accusations against him.
Judge of my astonishment then when the jury, by a large majority, absolved him; and he left the court a free man.
I am afraid I did not feel much satisfaction, for now I could no longer reach him with Gin Gospel, his home being many miles away; nor probably would he have any more use for it now — such is human nature!
A few hours later, happening to glance out of one of the front windows, I saw, to my surprise, the tall, gaunt figure of Miguel crossing the Square in the direction of the Mission House. Was he coming here? and, if so, with what motive? I lifted up my heart to God in prayer for guidance and wisdom.
Giving him a hearty welcome, I took him to the back premises, to avoid the many curious eyes questioning what the dreaded Miguel could be doing in the house of the Protestant.
He had come, he said, with the definite desire to get right with God, and to receive the justification and peace of Heaven.
I took him along the old, well-beaten road of God’s Word, and told him of God’s love for lost sinners, even though his sins were “red like crimson;” and of one sure means of escape He has provided through faith in Jesus Christ and His blood, all “without money and without price;” and then kneeling together, he passed from death to life, and arose a saved man in Christ Jesus.
The reality of his conversion was soon evident in the happy face and changed demeanor. It seemed impossible to believe I was in the presence of the celebrated Miguel, the author of a score of murders.
“Thank God!” he exclaimed. “When I get back to my home I shall tell all my neighbors the old Miguel is dead. I have been born again.” He blessed the day and hour of his double salvation, and pressed me to visit him in his far-away home for the sake of his wife and children.
It was a case of killing the fatted calf; and at once I had a good dinner prepared for the poor half-starved man — the first decent food he had had for eighteen months. I rigged up a comfortable bed for him on some of the hall benches, and next day the horses arrived to take him home.
When the prison bell rang out that night at nine o’clock, as it does night after night and year after year, its hard tones brought no fear to Miguel’s heart, for he was on the right side of the iron bars; and oh, so much better still, on the right side with God: And to Him be all the glory!
“Is anything too hard for the Lord?”
Some may well ask, How could such a man escape the divine penalty for such transgressions? Or, How could a Christian carry such a load of remorse and unatoned crime?
“He that sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood he shed.”
Less than six months later old Miguel was murdered by a near relative.
“Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right?”