Chapter 13: Off the Beaten Track

ON the 22nd February, 1915, I set out from the remote interior city of Goyaz on a 250 mile journey of evangelization in a still more remote district of inland Brazil.
I took with me a lately restored backslider, who was anxious to prove the reality of his change of heart; and certainly Joaquim Portilho proved an admirable traveler and fellow-worker — humble, willing and courageous.
During the first few days our route lay along the main road to Rio, a thousand miles away. Every night we held a meeting in one farm house or another, with an average congregation of eight or ten persons; and in every case we were very well received and hospitably treated. Besides the night meetings, we were able to hold little informal gatherings at different houses on or near the track on our journey.
Arriving at the small town of Anicuns, where the Gospel had already been preached many times, I resolved to hold our meeting in the open air, as so far we had no converts in the place. It was already dark when Joaquim and I, each with a bundle of tracts, set out to make a house-to-house visitation, in the course of which I chanced to meet the newly-appointed Spanish priest, a young man of the average type of his class in intelligence and tolerance. Not caring to ignore him, I courteously asked him to be present, and he thanked me kindly. Ere we finished our canvass it was quite dark, but there was a fine moonlight; and making my way to the spot selected, in the very center of the town, where a few logs scattered round provided convenient seats, I found Joaquim awaiting me, and with him a crowd of about twenty boys.
Evidently the priest had prepared trouble for us. Nothing daunted, we started in with a hymn, which at once provoked a tremendous uproar from the boys; and before we had finished singing the local band started playing about twenty yards away!
I continued as though nothing unusual were happening, though very few could hear my voice. Then the band stopped for a blow, and the boys instinctively ceased their noise.
Raising my voice so that it could be heard by, everybody, I exclaimed, “Of old your priests burnt hose who declared the Gospel truth, but now they only dare to smother it with music.” Then the band struck up a lively air, and I tried to continue my address. Several men came and sat at my side, and a few women squatted on the ground within earshot, as I proceeded for a while under these harassing conditions; and then the band stopped for another blow.
Jumping on the top of a pile of logs behind me I exclaimed, “Please don’t stop; yours is the best sermon ever preached in this town, for it shows how much reason, truth, and courage your priest possess. Please continue!” — and they did.
This occurred several times more, and on each occasion I was able to make some pertinent remarks, by the whole of the inhabitants, who, drawn by the unexpected sound of the band, now gathered round in silent groups; then with a hymn, only the first verse of which was audible, and a prayer, I concluded the meeting. The band made a triumphant march through the place, and a rocket was sent up; and having thus vented their feelings, the folk disbanded; and very soon the whole town was quiet.
Within a stone’s throw of the site of our meeting there was a nice big stone facing a long row of houses; and within twenty minutes of the wind-up of the musical protest I took my seat there and started singing a hymn; then a second, and a third, at the conclusion of which a little group of some thirty adults were gathered round; and amid absolute silence I was able to hold an impressive meeting for the best part of an hour, concluding without a single interruption.
For the next three days we traveled through a fever-scourged district, and in every one of the many farmhouses we visited there were sick and dying folk — sometimes as many as six or seven in one house. As mosquitoes abounded, we ran a great risk of infection; but definitely committing ourselves to the Lord we were blessedly preserved; and further, we had the privilege of preaching Christ in seven of the infected houses, with the hopeful conversion of two persons. Then we rode into the city of Allemao, which we found suffering from the threefold evil of famine, drought, and disease. In this place there were some eight converts, and we had a hearty welcome. On the night of our arrival we held a good meeting in the house of one of the chief men of the town, a great friend of the Gospel, whose wife and son had been recently converted.
The next day I decided on an open-air meeting at the top of the big square facing the Church. Again we visited the whole town, as at Anicuns; but when Joaquim and I started our service it was with a congregation of two It was too dark to read properly, but happily I knew the passage by heart; and all the while the congregation grew; so that when I concluded my address it was to some thirty people all seated round on the convenient logs which had determined the site of the meeting.
I had not spoken for more than five minutes when the priest suddenly appeared from behind me, where he had been listening, and advancing in front between me and the people he I began to speak in a loud voice. “Senor Vigario,” exclaimed, “this is my meeting, and I cannot permit you to interrupt me now, but at the close I will grant you a word,” and I continued my address. A little later, and again heard the querulous voice of the priest, and breaking my discourse I sternly rebuked him and claimed my right of free speech according to the Brazilian constitution.
After that I continued in peace, though the dark-cassocked form of the Spanish priest standing by loomed out between me and my congregation and compelled me to refer at times to this person. In my exposition of the Prodigal Son I had to speak of too Confessional, and also to point out the difference between the cassocked ecclesiastic who usurped the name of father and Him who alone does rightly claim that name, contrasting His intimate compassion and grace with the mercenary methods of Rome. However, on these and similar points I only touched lightly, and based my appeal on the love of God.
The priest listened for quite half an hour. Concluding; with prayer, I stepped down from the high log on which I was perched and invited the priest to speak. He was evidently ill at ease, and commenced, in a declamatory style, saying that he had heard many beautiful and good things, and that he only to take objection to my remarks on the word padre (an ecclesiastic of Rome), and the word padre as falsely applied by them to the Eternal Father, as though they were one and the same thing.
His logic was very mediaeval, and seeing that it was only a question of words and terms I left it at that in order not to prejudice the effect of the meeting by a useless discussion. Unhappily one of my supporters — my host himself, whose zeal was not according to knowledge — entered into a wordy debate with the priest on doctrinal matters, in which the latter got so badly mixed up and excited that roars of laughter went up at his expense; and I had to intervene on his behalf to end what was fast becoming a dangerous and unseemly brawl. It was like separating two game cocks, and I had to threaten to leave the house of my good friend and host if he did not desist, ere peace could be restored. Then, thanking the perspiring and trembling priest for his kind words of commendation, I induced him to withdraw.
Half an hour later I led a young man to Christ. At a quiet spot in the scrub fringing the city he knelt down and joyfully received Christ as his Savior. I have rarely seen such strong desire as that young man manifested. He is intelligent and active, and is connected with one of the best families of the district.
The next day, Sunday, I held three more meetings, one being in the open air in another part of the city; and ere the day closed three other souls were won for Christ, and many others influenced in a way that promised more fruit in the near future; indeed, I have heard of two others who were converted the day after our departure.
By five o’clock on Monday morning Joaquim and I were well on our way to the big village of Fumaça, fifty miles distant in the little known country east of Allemao.
Six miles out we pulled up for about half an hour at the large farmhouse of Senhor Cherubino, one of the staunchest Catholics in the district, and an educated man.
We were received coldly and with distrust. I sat wondering how I was to get an entry, and ten minutes passed in vain; but noticing on the wall opposite a blasphemous figure of an old decrepit man, supposed to represent the Eternal Father, my indignation was aroused, and the Spirit of God gave me such strong utterance for about fifteen minutes that conviction went home, and they were dumbfounded. Then, leaving a Gospel of John behind us, we arose and departed.
Another three miles and we came to a crossroad and to a standstill. Which was the right road? My compass pointed the direction exactly between the two diverging paths. A mistake here might cost us many hours to rectify later on, and so we hesitated in a very uncomfortable way. Suddenly Joaquim espied a man on foot about a quarter of a mile away coming in our direction, so we resolved to wait for him. On his reaching us Joaquim, who was the nearest, began to question him about the road; while I noted that he was a fine tall man, with good features, a short black beard, and an attractive manner, dressed in the simple style of the primitive farmers of the interior, and carrying a gun on his shoulder.
In spite of the judgment of superficial travelers who have crossed this way, I maintain that in these remote and neglected regions may be found as fine and as attractive specimens of humanity as anywhere in the vide world. Some people only have eyes for the ugly and abnormal.
Now well informed about the road, we were about to proceed when Joaquim remembered to pull out a tract from his pocket and offer it to our kind informer.
The man could not read, but was visibly startled; and said Afterward that at the moment he felt his flesh creep. Some time ago, casually, through an open window, he had heard the Gospel preached at Allemao, and had been somewhat impressed; and now, after a few words from Joaquim, he knew what the tract was and what our occupation.
“You must excuse me,” he said with some emotion, “but I cannot allow you to pass this way without visiting my house, which is less than a mile out of your course. I must insist on your doing me this favor, for God Himself must have sent you this way.”
Very much attracted by the man’s words and manner, we at once agreed, provided he invited some of his immediate neighbors to the meeting in his house.
Setting off in this fresh direction Joaquim called my attention to our new friend, who was running off like a hare through the thin jungle, with his gun swinging at the trail, and was soon lost to sight. He had gone to invite a distant neighbor.
We proceeded slowly for some time; but before we reached his little house, hidden away among the buriti palms, chancing to look behind, I found the man at a run not a hundred yards away, and his neighbor with him.
There were five or six other men at his house and four women; and within five minutes of our arrival a Gospel service was under way — and what a service it was! What close attention, what earnest, solemn appreciation, and what ready acceptance of the Word of Life! All but one man were deeply concerned, and most of all our new friend Antonio, whose full name is Antonio Domingos de Cabral.
With a last endeavor to make the way of salvation as clear as possible, and after Joaquim had given a few words of testimony, I concluded the meeting in the usual manner, and we prepared to leave. As I shook hands with Senhor Antonio he quietly drew me aside, and, with some embarrassment of manner, he said, “I want you to tell me more clearly what I ought to do.”
“Thank God,” I replied; “come along with me to a quiet place and I’ll show you.” And there, in an old empty barn close by, we knelt together in prayer, while quietly and sincerely this man, away in the far by-ways of inland Brazil, trusted and received Christ as his Savior. When he rejoined the others, it was with a glad smile on his face.
Several others were almost persuaded, but I did not feel led to press them to an immediate and probably premature decision, beyond what had been said already; so with an affectionate farewell we departed.
We spent the night at a farmhouse just off the track; but though the occupants seemed to receive God’s message, I did not feel much confidence in the remit. The house, being very dirty and overcrowded, Joaquim and I slept in an empty ox-car outside. Our rest was considerably disturbed by the rasping sound of the run calves licking the sides of the car, which had evidently been used for the transport of salt. By three o’clock next morning we were preparing to time our journey to Fumaça.
About our miles short of Fumaça we pulled up at a large farmhouse to make sure of the way. It was yet early. We were not tired, and expected to reach the village that night, but something about this place seemed to hold us.
I had no idea at first of spending the night there; and yet half an hour later we were still sitting in the same, place. The farmer gave us no encouragement to stop, but rather supplied us with the best of information about Fumaça to induce us to proceed. He informed us that his own pasture was insecure, but that there were fine pastures in Fumaça. It was early, said he, and we should easily reach the village before dusk; and yet we hesitated. “My accommodation is poor,” he added, “and I have no corn.” In the face of all this it seemed as if we must proceed, though now strongly against our inclination. But before bidding the man farewell, I sang a hymn and gave a short Gospel message.
This at once altered things. Mysterious voices were heard in the kitchen, and the man was called out. What was said I do not know, but he returned at once to tell us that his pasture was not so bad after all; that perhaps he could arrange some corn, adding that there was a big storm brewing in the direction of the village. Then the cloth was laid for dinner, and we stopped.
An inspiring meeting was held that night. Our host’s family and all his laborers made a good congregation of some fifteen to twenty people; and ere nightfall we were all as friendly as though we had known each other for years. When we bade farewell next morning our host would not hear of our paying a cent for all we had received.
We only had six miles to ride that day, the last mile or two being through some of the most beautiful and romantic country I have ever seen. Huge irregular rocks, a hundred-feet high or more, peeping from the surrounding forests, appeared full of suggestions of robber’s caves, hidden treasures, and thrilling explorations; and had I been thirty years younger —! In the midst of these reflections I pulled up my mule with a jerk, for not six yards beyond me, right across the path, was a monstrous snake, his head and tail hidden on either side of the track.
It was the work of a moment for Joaquim to tear off a stout branch, and ere the snake disappeared to give it a death blow. It is a blessing that snakes are so easily killed. We found it to be one of the python class, just over seven feet long and over a foot in circumference. In less than five minutes Joaquim had skinned it; and, carrying with us this symbolic trophy, we soon Afterward rode into Fumaça.
This place was visited by Mr. Macintyre in 1913, and when Joaquim and I arrived there we made our way to the scene of the meeting held on that occasion.
Senhor Vincente placed his house and all its Contents at our disposal, which is the orthodox Brazilian form of greeting; but a certain gloom was over the household, as only forty-eight hours before a young man residing with him had been brutally murdered.
In the cool of the afternoon we canvassed the forty-eight houses of the village with tracts, and announced an open-air meeting near the bridge.
At one extremity of the place I found a young negro dying from a gunshot wound, received in an attempt to murder another man for the sum of twenty milreis. He seemed to receive gratefully the message of God’s love, and begged for another visit before we left. At exactly the opposite end of the village Joaquim was busy visiting. Calling at a small palm-thatched hut, he was invited by a thin, weak voice to step inside. On entering he found a young woman alone in bed suffering from a terrible and incurable disease. Not being able to read, Joaquim told her the Gospel news, and of God’s willingness to forgive through the precious blood; adding that though she could not attend the meeting she could seek and find salvation just where she lay. She listened attentively but without remark, and Joaquim left the house. He had not proceeded half a dozen paces, however, before he heard the woman’s voice behind him; and thinking she was calling him he returned a few steps, but almost immediately stopped short, for he knew it to be the voice of prayer.
“O God! O God!” he heard her exclaim, “thanks I give Thee for this news. I am a sinner. Forgive me now all my sins, for love of Jesus Christ. Amen.” And then the voice ceased, and quietly and solemnly Joaquim slipped away.
In point of numbers the open-air meeting was a great success, some eighty to a hundred adults being present, seated all around me. But the spot was not well chosen acoustically, many hardly hearing my voice, while the sound of the rushing waters of a neighboring rivulet did not help matters.
Nor was the spirit of the place as open to the Gospel as one could desire. It is strange how differently the same message is received in different localities! It is the old, true story of the sower and the varied ground.
Thirty-two miles through a lovely and well-watered country abounding with the attractive buriti palms, and we reached the little town of Cachoeira. It was already very late, but we managed to awaken the occupants of one of the houses, where we spent the night.
I found we could not stay there over next day without materially altering the plan of the journey, or being compelled to spend Sunday in the middle of a tiger-haunted forest: so I resolved on an early morning meeting. By six o’clock neat morning we had visited every house of the place, taking its inhabitants by surprise with an invitation to a service to take place an hour later at the fool of the cross facing the Catholic Church.
Punctually at seven o’clock, Joaquim having Constructed a rude kind of pulpit with some timbers which were being used in the rebuilding of the church, we opened our meeting.
A large number of logs and other pieces of wood made ample and excellent seating accommodation; and ere I had finished the first hymn practically the whole adult population gathered round, most of them seated, and all bare-headed. The women had changed their clothes in the short interval, and were in their best; and a more attractive, well-behaved and serious audience one could never wish for. The church building formed a fine background for my voice, so that most of the few who were unable to leave their houses heard the message also. Just before the concluding prayer Joaquim gave a very practical and effective testimony.
It was a blessed and inspiring meeting beyond of I have ever addressed; and the behavior of the people as they crowded round us at its close, just an hour later, showed that an impression had been made that can never be entirely eliminated by monk or friar.
The meeting closed at the stroke of eight o’clock; and by nine that same morning we were riding out of the town and were soon immersed in the very dense forest of St. Domingos, through which we traveled an unbroken stretch of over thirty miles.
Finding we could not get through that day with daylight, and learning that the tigers had been particularly aggressive of late after dark, we put up for the night at a very unwholesome hut on the banks of the St. Domingos River.
Hot and tired, I resolved to have a plunge, and, sounding a deep pool near the bridge, I took a header. Joaquim sat on the bridge watching the performance, and saw after my long dive streaks of blood-stained water flowing from the pool. The devoted fellow had some moments of anguish, thinking that some alligator had me in its jaws; and he sent up a prayer at once on my behalf. I had struck my head on a sharp-pointed pole embedded in the sand, and was momentarily stunned, but on rising to the surface I found that the wound, if extensive, was not dangerous, though had it been a few inches lower it would probably have cost me my life.
On emerging from the forest next day I resolved, for good reasons, to spend the night and the next day, Sunday, at the hut of a swineherd, Helidoro by name. Some years ago he had heard the Gospel while an inmate of Goyaz prison, and he was really glad to see us.
The quarters were rough and filthy, with pigs everywhere, but we had a good time spiritually with the man and his family of four, all able to understand the Gospel. He frankly owned that he wanted to get right with God, but as he lived with another man’s wife he could not rightly take the step until they had separated, as they intended to do, for the Gospel’s sake. In spite of the pigs, we parted with these people with real regret.
We held two more farmhouse meetings, the largest being in the big open ranch of a negro who earns his living rounding up wild cattle, which here abound. It was a good meeting, though I shall never forget the interruptions. I think the devil was in the pigs, horses and fowls — such a racket they kept up! Then four women arrived on horseback in the middle of the sermon, having heard somehow of the meeting to be held. They had to shake hands all round ere I could continue.
A little later two men rode up out of the dense darkness. They had completely lost their way, and had been wandering about for hours, suddenly to light upon the strange bewildering scene that our Gospel service must have presented to their blinking eyes. They remained to the close ere riding on their way.
The next two days were a time of trial, for my much vaunted rainproof proved an utter delusion, and I journeyed two days in wet clothing. We crossed the Dourada Mountains in a terrific storm that blanked out all the marvelous surrounding landscape; but I was glad to know it was there all the same. And so, too, though we were not granted to see much fruit from the seed sown by the way, and though it is improbable that I shall ever pass that way again, I know the seed is there, and that it will not all prove fruitless; and that someday, when the mist of time have rolled away, Joaquim and I shall find some precious sheaves of corn, the fruits of our sowing off the beaten track in Brazil.