BROTHER ALBURTUS
When death immortal stays the mortal pulse.
—Lucretius.
When I write here that I slept until after the seventh hour—which was midday with us—I fear it may be thought I missed not much our sister and my Sonnlein, but I like not to be misjudged, for though I slept so long and even soundly, it was because of a healthy body and for the still better reason that it was the rule and habit of Brother and Sister, so far as we could school our weak, rebellious flesh, never to fret or worry or complain about anything, whether, as blind mortals regard things, it were good or ill.
But when I did get up stiff and sore, my first thought was of Sonnlein, hoping he had returned by now, but as I opened the door into his Kammer my hope sank within me as I missed not only his presence but everything else that would indicate he had returned during my sleep.
Inquiry among the Brethren confirmed my fears. He had not returned. No one had seen him since the night before nor had they learned anything of Genoveva among the neighbors. I reported first to our superintendent what Sonnlein and I had found and how he had gone on against my will, but I said nothing about my dread of the witch, for while I was sure she had something to do with our sister's disappearance, yet the footprints had shown some other than the witch among the captors.
Our leader at once called a meeting of the Brothers and the nearest house-fathers and set before them the substance of my report. It was soon agreed, as I had expected, that the red men had stolen our sister. But what was to be done was not so easy to decide. Even if the rain had not washed away the footprints none of us were sufficiently skilled to trace the savages. To make matters worse, this war with the French again aroused all the distrust our monastic mode of life so often inflicted on us. The old accusation was revived that we were Jesuits, through whom the French and Indians were continually receiving secret information that enabled them to perpetrate massacre after massacre with impunity. Indeed, so important in this respect did our enemies make us and so bitter was the feeling against our little community that finally the governor of the province was actually prevailed upon to appoint a commission to inquire into these charges that rankled in our breasts in spite of all our humility and fortitude.
We could endure much in the way of false accusation, but we loved in our quiet, peaceful way our chosen home in this new world, and while, with our view of war, we refused to bear arms against the French and Indians, we were always zealous to do all we could for our province, and this we proved fully when in after years the colonies fought for independence we gave up freely of our property, never asking to be repaid therefor, to the cause of our beloved Washington—ever our friend—and not only our property and our services, but many a Brother and Sister cheerfully and lovingly gave up his or her life in nursing the hundreds of soldiers that lay dying of fevers in the halls and cells of our Kloster. It is for the sake of these dear martyr Brothers and Sisters I write this, which to others may seem idle boasting, but which is the glorious truth, as the records will show to him that careth to read.
The governor's commission came in due time and with great pomp and ceremony to our humble little camp, but as we hid nothing from them and answered freely and fearlessly the questions as to our mode of life, these gentlemen soon left, satisfied that we were not Jesuits nor spies—traitors, but were what we claimed to be, quiet, peaceful monks and nuns, serving faithfully according to our peculiar ideas the same God and the same country as those who were so unnecessarily alarmed about us.
But all the distrust and suspicion and hatred in the minds of those who would not have it other than that we were spies did not keep us from writing out hundreds of notices of the capture of our sister. These we spread as far and wide as the state of affairs would let us, and, as day after day passed without bringing to me my Sonnlein or any word of him, I also sent out notices of his departure.
In our great trouble it came to me that our justice, Brother Weiser, might help us, for not only was he ranger, taking care of all stray horses and cattle, but as Indian interpreter for the government in this cruel war he saw much of what was going on and of necessity met a great many people. Acting upon this thought, I sent him a letter setting forth in full about our sister and my boy, knowing our stern but great-hearted brother would make our loss his and leave nothing undone to restore to us our own.
But over a month went by without a word or sign of our lost ones and to most of us they were now as dead; but though my mind and heart were oft assailed with a great dread that I should never again see my boy in this world, yet through all the dark clouds that hung over me there would now and then fall on me the bright sunshine of hope.
Another month went by. It was midwinter, and though I knew Sonnlein, like me, never made any great worry about the weather, no matter how severe, I could not help wondering where, if he were still alive, he had place to lay his head in all this broad earth.
While in this mood I received a long letter from Brother Weiser. He had as interpreter taken part in many negotiations with the Indian chiefs in various parts of the province. At every opportunity and wherever he had been he had sought information about Genoveva and Sonnlein. It grieved our brother much that he had been able to learn nothing anywhere. There had come to him strange tales from some of the Indians he had met about a tall, strong white man who was wandering from village to village and tribe to tribe seeking for his white squaw. The Indians had a name for him which meant one who wandered about searching without ceasing. There had also come equally strange stories to our brother of a young white hunter who was fighting among the hills and valleys of the Blue Mountains to the north and west beyond the block-house forts with untiring and savage ferocity against the French Indians, by whom the young hunter was known as "The Firebrand," some of the Indians regarding him as mad for that he rested not night or day, as it seemed to them; that the savages believed he bare a charmed life and that all the red men feared him exceedingly. More than this our good brother could not tell us, but somehow it left no doubt in my mind that this young wanderer, this fiery hunter, must be none other than Sonnlein, roaming the wilds so far away in the undying hope that somewhere he would find our beloved Genoveva.
In this uncertain, harassing state stood the welfare of my Sonnlein and our sister, when one day thinking even more than usual about him, I found myself wandering along the banks of the now icebound Cocalico. Ere I knew how far I had wandered thus aimlessly I had arrived at the place where Sonnlein and I had crossed the creek on that awful night. I could see through all the ice and snow where the pool narrowed at the stony beach and on the opposite side some distance down the creek stood the old, dead tree from whose gaunt and gnarled limbs the owl had hooted to me to be of good cheer.
I crossed the snow-covered ice and slid and walked along the bank until I came to the old tree, where I paused for a moment to consider the direction Sonnlein had taken when he left me that night. And now, like him, I plunged into the undergrowth that overran the lowlands in this little valley of the Cocalico. Often I slipped and stumbled over some log or stone or brake through the snow into a hole or gulley, so that I marvel now I did not break my legs. The branches and the vines caught me about the arms and feet and more than once stung me across the face, but it seemed I had only a great overpowering desire to press forward in the direction I knew Sonnlein had gone.
In this wise I stumbled on in the snow for some distance without seeing any sign of any human being. As I stopped for a moment, nearly exhausted with my wild enterprise, to catch my breath, I gave a great start as I saw but a few paces ahead of me tracks in the snow, and which, as I hurried on, I saw to be the footprints of some grown person. The tracks were running directly across my path, and whereas I had been pursuing my mad course to the southwest, the footprints of this unknown person were pointing toward the southeast.
I had not the slightest idea that they were Sonnlein's and yet I know not why I suddenly determined to follow them. It may be that all unconsciously something told me they were the footprints of our Brother Alburtus who but a few days before had disappeared again from the community so that at the time in my own trouble I had paid little heed to his absence.
As I went on, the tracks, showing clearly in the deep snow, left the lowlands for the hills, winding in and out among rocks and trees and bushes all the time going higher and higher into the mountains; and now and then I would see a little trampled space as if the unknown one had paused for a moment to rest, or, perhaps, to look down over the beautiful, snow-covered valley.
In this wise I went on and on until finally I was way up in the mountains that range themselves to the south of our Kloster grounds and, indeed, occasionally through the openings in the trees I could see Mount Sinai and the towers and roofs of our little monastery.
I believe I had gone but a short distance beyond my last view over the valley when suddenly I turned about sharply to my right whence I thought I heard a low moan. My next thought was that my fancy had played some trick on me, but as I stood in complete silence looking about in every direction I heard again this same sound as of one in pain, and as I pushed forward I noticed that the footprints turned toward the direction of the sound and I saw a large rock in front of me, the snow on it displaced and disturbed here and there as if some one had mounted it. I was about to scale the slippery height when again I heard the moaning sound so near I thought it must almost be at my feet and yet I could see nothing; but a moment later as I broke through a thicket I started back horrified to see at one side of this great rock the cloaked form of our Brother Alburtus prostrate in the snow.
"Again I spake to him. 'Dost not
know me, Brother Alburtus?'"
Page 243.
Then as I rushed to him and lifted his head on my arm I saw the blood rushing freely from a long cut directly across his brow so that I might have thought the scar he so long carried had been opened by the force of some fall. I could see too, he had not been hurt long, for the blood flowed too freely for that. With the pity and horror in my heart was also a strong feeling of guilt that we had so carelessly let our brother leave us without following and protecting him in his aimless wanderings.
When first I lifted up his head I saw that he was unconscious, but I wiped away the blood as best I could and bound the ugly wound with pieces from my cloak, and then rubbed his face with snow. After a long while he opened his eyes and looked at me wonderingly.
"'Tis thy Brother Jabez," I said gently; but he only looked at me with meaningless gaze, his hands lying so still and helpless it would have rejoiced me to see him rub them together as of old.
Again I spake to him, "Dost not know me, Brother Alburtus?" But still he seemed not to regard my words, and leaving him for a brief space, fearing his lying in the snow would be his death even if the wound would not, I brake from the trees and bushes about me armful after armful of twigs and branches making a bed of them on the southern side of the rock where he would be sheltered from the cold winds and we could catch the warmth of the sun shining down through the trees. Then I dragged him tenderly upon his rough bed making him as comfortable as I could, rubbing his hands to warm them and then putting them within his cloak so they might not freeze, during all of which he seemed not to pay the slightest attention to me.
After a long wait he tried to lift his head, and I said to him, "Art feeling better, Brother Alburtus?" whereat he looked at me in great wonderment and said weakly, "Dost not know me, Thomas? Where am I? What is wrong with my head?"
"He mistaketh me for our Brother Thomas," thought I, and so I said smiling to him, "Nay, 'tis Brother Jabez; thou hast wandered from our Kloster and hast fallen from this high rock, Brother Alburtus."
But he only glared at me as he replied in such weak anger that my heart smote me, "Why dost thou torment me so, Thomas? Thou knowest I am David Seymour, thy own brother!"
"What meaneth he?" thought I to myself; "surely his hurt hath taken his mind from him so he knoweth not he is Brother Alburtus." Thinking it best to humor him I spake gently, "Yes, 'tis thy brother; what aileth thee?" To which he answered feebly, "The tree hath fallen on my head; take me to the cabin to 'Lisbeth and the baby."
"Surely," thought I, "we know not what we say when the mind is wrong," but still thinking it better to humor him I merely said, "Yea, as soon as help cometh we shall carry thee to them," whereat he smiled gratefully and lay back more contentedly.
But though I sat and shivered by the side of our brother for hour after hour, sheltering him from the cold with my cloak, I could see as the afternoon wore on, and his sighing and groaning grew fainter and weaker, that his days were numbered, and so with the sun's setting behind the hills to the other side of the valley, there was opened for our brother's coming, not the door of his humble cabin but instead the ever-shining gates of those mansions beyond the skies He hath prepared for his well-beloved children.
But now that the spirit of our brother had left its earthly prison house, I stood for a few moments and prayed earnestly that his soul might see clearly that which on earth had been shown darkly as through a glass, to our bewildered brother.
Then it came to me like a great shock, what was to be done with his body? At first, it seemed to me I could not let it lie in these cold, dreary mountains. And yet I could not unaided bear him to the Kloster. Neither was I certain I could find my way back on the morrow with the Brethren, for these hills were utterly strange to me. And yet, for such was my faith, though it may seem harsh to some, why could he not rest here as well as anywhere else? The imperishable, immortal soul had gone to its Maker; that which remained was merely the earthly shell that would mix with the elements, no matter where buried.
Much against my will I finally persuaded myself I must leave him in this wild, lonely spot. But I could not leave him exposed to the winds and the rain and the beasts of the woods, and yet I had nothing to dig up the hard frozen ground to make him a grave. And then just as I was about to give up in despair thinking I could do no better than cover him with brush, I saw a short distance farther up the mountain two long rocks, meeting at one end, but spread out at the other like a sharp angle, the opening toward me. Like a flash it came to me I could enrich these rough rocks by using them as a resting-place for Brother Alburtus.
I hastened up the hill and swept and scraped the snow out from between the rocks, making a bed of twigs on the hard earth. But it was no light task getting the great form of our brother up that steep slope, and more than once it seemed I must give up. But at last I did get him lying snugly between the two huge stones. Then I made a roof over him by laying heavy branches across the rocks, on top of the branches placing such heavy stones as I could loosen from the hard ground. In this manner I also closed up the end of my brother's death Kammer, and to help me find the spot, should I have call to revisit it, I rolled a large stone at the upper end of the little vault, and after a last prayer for the soul of our sainted brother, I left, sad at heart, but rejoicing I had been able to do these last honors for our dead.
It was dark when I started down the mountains and so rough and slippery was the way I had many a fall ere I reached the foot; but the longest and most toilsome way hath nevertheless an end, and though the night was well on when I reached my cell, I arrived none the less, safe and sound, only that our brethren were greatly alarmed at my absence, fearing I too had been captured by the Indians.
At the midnight meeting I recounted to my brethren the doings of the day, the death of Brother Alburtus, but not saying anything of his last words, requesting rather consideration as to what should be done with his body. As the greater part of us thought nothing could be done while the way was so rough and slippery with rocks and snow, we decided to let our brother rest for the time at least in his strange grave; but we held special services in his memory and in his cell we hung, as was our custom, a tablet, on which were inscribed in beautiful letters by the Sisterhood the words:
"Blessed in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints."