Michener, James

by Hawaii

  Then he swept into his peroration, his voice hammering like thunder and tears splashing down like rain, so that the terror of his youthful days became clearly visible throughout his body. "Young men of God!" he pleaded. "In my father's islands immortal souls go every night to everlasting hell because of you! You are to blame! You have not taken the word of Jesus Christ to my islands. We hunger for the word. We are thirsty for the word. We die for the word. Are ou, in your indifference, going to keep the word from us forever? s there no man here tonight who will rise up and say to me, 'Keoki Kanakoa, I will go with you to Owhyhee and save three hundred thousand souls for Jesus Christ'?"

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  The gigantic man paused. In deep and honest grief his voice broke. President Day poured him a glass of water, but he brushed it aside and called, through choking sobs, "Will no one go with me to save the souls of my people?" He sat down, quaking in his chair, a man shattered by the revelation of God's word, and after a while President Day led him away.

  The impact of Keoki Kanakoa's missionary sermon struck the roommates Hale of divinity and Whipple of medicine with stunning force. They left the lecture hall in shocked silence, brooding upon the misery depicted by the Owhyheean. In their room they did not bother to relight the lamp, but went to bed in darkness, weighed down by the indifference with which Keoki had charged them. When the awfulness of this indifference finally penetrated his conscience, Abner began to weep�for he had grown up in an age of weeping� and after a while John asked, "What is it, Abner?" and the farm boy replied, "I cannot think of sleep, seeing in my mind those human souls destined for all eternity to everlasting hell." From the manner in which he spoke, it was evident that he had been watching each separate soul plunge into eternal fire, and the misery was more than he could bear.

  Whipple said, "His final call keeps ringing in my ears. 'Who will go to Owhyhee with me?'" To this Abner Hale made no reply.

  Long after midnight, when the young doctor could still hear his roommate sobbing, he rose, lit the lamp, and began dressing. At first Hale pretended not to know what was happening, but finally he whipped out of bed and caught Whipple by the arm. "What are you going to do, John?"

  "I am going to Owhyhee," the handsome doctor replied. "I cannot waste my life here, indifferent to the plea of those islands."

  "But where are you going now?" Hale asked.

  "To President Day's. To offer myself to Christ."

  There was a moment's hesitation while the doctor, fully dressed, and the minister, in nightgown, studied each other. It was broken when Abner asked, "Will you pray with me?"

  "Yes," the doctor said, and he kneeled beside his bed.

  Abner, at his, prayed: "Father Almighty, tonight we have heard Thy call. From the starry wastes of the sky Thy voice has come to us, from across the boundless deep where souls rot in evil. Unworthy as we are to serve Thee, wilt Thou nevertheless accept us as Thy servants?" He continued for several minutes, issuing a prayer to a distant, living, full-bodied, vengeful yet forgiving God. If at that moment he had been asked to describe the Being to Whom he prayed he would have said, "He is tall, rather thin, with black hair and penetrating eyes. He is very serious, marks every transgression, and demands all humans to follow His precepts. He is a stem but forgiving Father, a harsh but just disciplinarian." And he would have described Gideon Hale in exactly the same terms. If anyone, at the end of his summary, should have asked, "Does this Father

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  ever smile?" the question would have astonished young Abner as one he had not yet considered, but upon careful reflection he would have answered, "He is compassionate, but He never smiles."

  When the prayer was ended John Whipple asked, "Are you coming with me?"

  "Yes, but shouldn't we wait till morning to speak with President Day?"

  " 'Go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature,' " the young doctor quoted, and Hale, acknowledging the aptness of this admonition, dressed.

  It was four-thirty when they knocked at President Day's door, and with no visible surprise he admitted them to his study, where he sat in coat and muffler hiding his nightgown. "I surmise that the Lord has spoken to you," he began gently.

  "We are offering ourselves for Owhyhee," John Whipple explained.

  "Have you considered this grave step?" Day asked.

  "We have often discussed how we should spend our lives in God," Abner began, but he was taken by a fit of weeping, and his pale young features became red and his nose runny. President Day passed him a handkerchief.

  "Some time ago we decided to dedicate our lives to God," Whipple said forcefully. "I stopped smoking. Abner wanted to go to Africa to rescue souls, but I thought I would work among the poor in New York. Tonight we realized where it was that we really wanted to go."

  "This is not then the decision of the moment?" President Day pressed.

  "Oh, no!" Abner assured him, sniffing. "My decision goes back to Reverend Thorn's sermon on Africa three years ago."

  "And you, Mr. Whipple? I thought you wanted to be a doctor, not a missionary."

  "I vacillated for a long time between medicine and seminary, President Day. I chose the former because I thought I could serve God in two capacities."

  The president studied his two able students and asked, "Have you prayed on this grave problem?"

  "We have," Abner replied.

  "And what message did you receive?"

  "That we should go to Owhyhee."

  "Good," Day said with finality. "Tonight I was inspired to go myself. But my work remains here."

  "What shall we do now?" Whipple asked, as spring dawn came over the campus.

  "Return to your rooms, say nothing to anyone, and on Friday meet with the committee of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions."

  "Will they be here so soon?" Abner gasped in obvious delight.

  "Yes. They have found that they are often needed after Keoki Kanakoa speaks." But noticing the joy in the young men's faces he warned, "Reverend Thorn, the leader of the group, is most adroit in

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  uncovering young men who are guided by emotion and not by true dedication to Christ. If yours is not a profound commitment strong enough to sustain you for a lifetime, don't waste the time of Eliphalet Thorn."

  "We are committed," Abner said firmly, and the two young men bade their president good night.

  On Friday, John and Abner peered from behind curtains as the committee from the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions gravely marched into Yale to hold sessions with various young men whose imaginations had been captured by Keoki Kanakoa. "That's Reverend Thorn," Abner whispered as the leader appeared. He was a tall, thin man, in a frock coat that reached his ankles and a black beaver hat that stretched far in the opposite direction. He had bushy black eyebrows, a hooked nose and a forbidding chin. He looked like a judge, and the two young scholars were afraid.

  But John Whipple's fear was misguided, for he had an easy time when he faced Eliphalet Thorn. The intense, gaunt face leaned forward, while the four lesser ministers listened, and Whipple heard the first kindly question: "Are you the son of Reverend Joshua Whip-pie, of western Connecticut?"

  "I am," John replied.

  "Has your father instructed you in the ways of piety?"

  "He has." It was apparent that the committee recognized Whipple for what he was: a forthright, appealing, quick-witted young doctor from a God-fearing rural family.

  "Have you experienced conversion?" Reverend Thorn asked quietly.

  "When I was fifteen," John said, "I became much concerned about my future, and I vacillated between medicine and the clergy, and I chose the former because I was not certain in my heart that I understood God. I did not feel myself a pious youth, even though my father so reported me to the church. And then one day as I was trudging home from school I watched a whirling-broom of dust as it became larger and larger, and I am certain th
at I heard a voice say to me, 'Are you prepared to serve Me with your life?' and I said, 'Yes.' And I shook as I have never shaken before and the cloud of dust hovered about me for some time, but did not get into my nostrils. From that time on I have known God."

  The five austere clergymen nodded approval, for this kind of sudden discovery of God had grown commonplace in New England, following the Great Awakening of 1740, and no man could guess how another would experience conversion, but Reverend Thorn bent his icy face forward and asked, "If you were originally confused, Mr. Whipple, between medicine and clergy, and if your confusion rose from the fact that you were not certain that you knew God, why, after God spoke directly to you, did you not change your decision and study for the ministry?"

  "I was perplexed by this problem for a long time," Whipple con-

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  fessed. "But I liked medicine and I concluded that as a doctor I could serve God in two capacities."

  "That's an honest answer, Mr. Whipple. Return to your studies, and you will receive a letter from us within the week."

  When John Whipple left the interview he was in a state of such exaltation that he neither looked at his roommate nor spoke to him. In fact, it was the most completely sublime moment in his life up to then and the one in which he felt closest to God. He had committed himself totally to God's work and he was certain that no power on earth could ever divert him from that commitment. Without speaking, he told his roommate that he had been accepted.

  Abner Hale had an entirely different experience with the committee, for when he appeared with his ill-fitting suit, his stringy .blond hair pasted down, his sallow face flushed and his pinched shoulders bending forward too eagerly, one of the more worldly of the ministers asked himself, "Oh Lord, why dost Thou choose for Thy work such mangy men?"

  "Are you converted?" Reverend Thorn asked impatiently.

  "Yes," Abner said, but his explanation grew long-winded and turgid. He spent a good deal of time explaining just where the meadow was and how it lay in relation to the milking shed. But there was no doubt that he personally knew God.

  "Why do you wish to serve as a missionary?" Reverend Thorn asked.

  "Because ever since my conversion I have been determined to serve the Lord," Abner affirmed hastily, too eager to convince, and it was apparent to the other members of the committee that the young man was making a bad impression on Thorn, who was chairman because he had done work in Africa and knew the problems faced by missionaries. After a previous meeting with would-be missionaries from Williams College he had told his committeemen, "The type of man we must avoid is the unbalanced young gentleman who is so certain of his personal relationship with God that he refuses to accept his subordinate role in the mission community at large. If we can weed such excitable men out now, we will save the mission much expense in money and confusion later." It was apparent that he was about to do some weeding, for he interrupted Abner's flow of piety and pointed out: "I asked you why you wanted particularly to be a missionary. You haven't explained."

  "I always wanted to serve God," Abner repeated, "but I did not know that I was called to the mission field until the night of August 14, 1818."

  "What happened then?" Reverend Thorn asked impatiently.

  "You spoke on Africa, at the Congregational Church of Marlboro, Massachusetts. I date my true awakening from that night." Eliphalet Thorn dropped his head and pinched his long nose, wondering what to ask next.

  "What particularly did Reverend Thorn say that impressed you?" the worldly minister inquired waspishly.

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  "It is easy to answer that, sir, because ever since, his words have lived in my heart as an ideal. He spoke of the mission in Africa and said, 'We were as one family in Christ, each contributing his gifts each dedicating himself to the common cause of saving souls.' From that night I started to train myself to become a member of such a family in Christ. I have learned to saw straight and to build, against the day when I was sent where there were no houses. I've taught myself to sew and to cook, and to keep accounts. From the time Reverend Thorn spoke I have never thought of myself only as a college student or as a seminary scholar. I have been in solemn train-ing to become one humble member of a family sent to some far place to serve Christ."

  The young man's statement was so unexpectedly contrite and so choked with the spirit of Christ's discipleship that even the worldly minister who had earlier classified Abner as mangy, which he decidedly was, awoke to his possibilities. "One of the members of the faculty," this minister said, gracefully concealing President Day's name, "has reported to us, Mr. Hale, that you are vain of your sanctity."

  "I am," Abner confessed bluntly, "and I know I must fight against it, but none of my brothers or sisters are pious. Most of the young men here at Yale are not. From these comparisons I did acquire a sense of vanity. I said, 'The Lord has chosen me, but not those others.' I am ashamed that even my teachers saw this failing in me, But, sir, if you ask them again, I think you will find that they were speaking of me as I used to be. I have repeated over and over again the text, 'Every one that is proud in heart is an abomination to the Lord,' and I have taken it to heart."

  Reverend Thorn was deeply impressed by the changes that seemed to have taken place in this young minister's character, for Abner's reference to August 14, 1818, awakened in the older man vivid reflections. He well remembered that meeting, for he had reported on it to his companions in Boston: "I spent the evening addressing a group in Marlboro, and I was distressed by the smug indifference of these well-stuffed farmers from their well-stuffed farms. I might as well have been preaching to their cattle, for all they understood of missionary zeal." Yet in that indifferent audience there had been one sallow-faced youth acquiring the dedication which now brought him before this committee. The coincidence was too great, Reverend Thorn thought, and on the sudden he saw Abner not merely as a stringy-haired, pasty-faced young man with obvious tendencies toward identifying himself with God, but as a heaven-sent answer to a most pressing problem within the Thorn family. So the leader of the committee of inquiry leaned far forward and asked, "Mr. Hale, are you married?"

  "Oh, no, sir!" the young man replied with what could have been interpreted as distaste. "I have never sought the companionship . . ."

  "Were you aware that the Board will send no minister abroad who is not married?"

  , "No, sir. I told you that I had learned to sew and cook . . ."

  Reverend Thorn pressed his inquiry. "Do you perchance know 'Some dedicated young female, someone who has experienced conversion, who has thought of going . . ."

  "No, sir. I know no females."

  Reverend Thorn appeared to sigh with relief and indicated that ,he had no further questions, but after the committee had advised Abner to wait at Yale for a week, pending their decision on his case, their leader made a slight correction: "It may take us longer than a week to discover our minds in your case, Mr. Hale. Don t become impatient." And after the young man had returned to his room, somewhat dazed by the complexity of the questions he had been asked, he found worse confusion, for his roommate reported how relatively simple his examination had been.

  "They asked me a few questions about my faith," John Whipple recounted, "and then told me to get married as soon as the letter arrived next week."

  "Whom will you marry?" Abner asked.

  "My cousin, of course."

  "But/you've never spoken to her!"

  "I will. Whom will you many?"

  "The committee treated me much differently," Abner confessed. "I really don't know what was in their minds.

  A knock came at the door, and when Whipple answered it, towering Reverend Thorn, his Adam's apple dancing, said, "Will you please excuse us, Mr. Whipple?"

  "Please sit down, sir," Abner stammered.

  "I shall only be a moment," the gaunt reverend replie
d, and then with the directness for which he was noted, asked, "I wish to verify my report. I understand that if the Board nominates you for Hawaii, you know of no young female whom you could invite . . ."

  Abner was appalled at the idea that his careful life's plan should be frustrated in the bud because he knew no girls, so he said quickly, "Reverend Thorn, if that's all that's going to keep me ... Reverend, I know I could ask my father . . . He's a very strong judge of character, sir, and if he picked a girl . . ."

  "Mr. Hale, please. I didn't say that you would be forbidden to go. I didn't even say that you could go in the first place. I merely asked you, Tf we select you, do you know some appropriate female whom you could marry . . . well, rather promptly?' And you said no. All right."

  "But, Reverend Thorn, if you would give me only two weeks," Abner pleaded, near tears, "I know my father . . ."

  "I am much impressed with your piety, Mr. Hale," the older man began, on an entirely new tack.

  "Then there's a chance?"

  "What I wanted to speak to you about, Abner," said the tall, Stern man in as kindly a manner as he could command, "is the fact that my sister in Walpole happens to have a daughter . . ." He

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  paused in some embarrassment, hoping that Abner would anticipate his message and make its full delivery unnecessary. But honest Abner, with his hair pasted flat over his temples, could not imagine why the forbidding missionary was speaking of his sister, or his sister's daughter, and he looked with disarming innocence at Reverend Thorn, waiting for him to proceed.

  The tall missionary swallowed his Adam's apple several times and wiped his forehead. "So if you know of no young female . . ." he began.

  "I'm sure my father could find one," Abner interrupted.