Molokai was a lonely, half-barren isle surrounded by rough, beaten shores of crag and fortress reef that for ever withstood the charges of the seas as eternally they clashed, broke and moaned through the caves of the death-stricken isle, echoing and mingling with the moan of memories and deathly cries that faded on the dying lips of the plague-stricken men, women and children who rotted till they became lipless skeletons, still alive in their tomb—the grey, gloomy lazaretto of the Leper Isle. Terrible was the grief of the natives as those employed to separate the lepers sought out all those who were spotted with the livid leper patch. Father Damien’s heart was sick within him as he heard the lamentations of forced farewells, as, standing by their captors, helpless men and women, gazing over their shoulders, looked into the eyes of those they loved and went away for ever!
Father Damien, who had devotedly administered comfort to the stricken ones who were scattered over the isle, saw and felt deeply the grief of those around him; but he was powerless to help the unhappy people; he knew the enforced separation was decreed by the authorities, and was for the best.
It was well known that many of the unfortunate victims were hidden away in the forest-lands, or in caves by the shores: maidens secreting their lovers, and lovers hiding the pleading maids, husbands their wives, and wives their children. Often in the night, as the dread inquisition discovered some trembling, hidden victim, a scream would break the silence of the jungle as the victim was muffled, gagged and taken away; for the leper-hunters were not the tenderest and most poetical of men. Money was their reward for all the lepers they captured, and the men hired for the job were chosen for their evil reputations and the expression of brutality on their dark faces. Father Damien’s heart was indeed wretched over the fate of his children.
As Kooma the Hawaiian sat telling me all this, and the shadows fell and the island nightingale sang up in the pandanus-trees, I watched his earnest face and listened attentively, for I knew that I was hearing the truth of much that was hidden from the world. I learnt that the sad priest would sit at night for hours under the coco-palms, deep in thought, and have no sleep, so troubled was he over the fate of the flock that he loved; and many times did he help the afflicted ones, and long and deeply did he hesitate ere he told the authorities that which he had to tell, and which his tender heart stayed him from telling. As Kooma told me this I saw that his memories of the priest were sincere and loving enough. Then he called out “Pooline! Pooline!” and a native girl came and poked her head in at the doorway; it was his granddaughter, whom Father Damien had christened. They had called her after Damien’s sister Pauline (which they pronounced Pooline); for the priest often spoke of his sister in Flanders, and told Kooma that some day she would come out to him to share his work and help him in it, and several times he wrote home and asked her to think the matter over.
Few were surprised when at length Father Damien volunteered to go to Molokai and administer faith and comfort to his lost children in exile. He taught them to be patient as he walked amongst them and crept by the lazaretto huts of death, knitting their shrouds and gazing with kind eyes on their faces till they ceased to see and feel, and he buried them. Lonely indeed those nights must have been as, alone with grief and silence, his bent form hammered and hammered, beating out the muffled notes that drove in coffin nails: for he made the last beds of his dead children, digging their graves and burying with his own hands many scores of the stricken dead, until he at last succumbed to the scourge himself. He lies buried with those he died for, and has, let us hope, found a reward for his self-sacrifice in heaven.
From Kooma I heard much of Damien’s true character, his love of justice and his impulsiveness in hastening to help the weak, regardless of all consequences. Once, while Father Damien was eating his supper, a Hawaiian appeared at the door and said, “Master, trouble has befallen me and my home”; and then told the priest of a tragedy that had occurred. A native girl through jealousy had stabbed another who had sought her lover, and was either hiding in the forest or shore caves or had killed herself. All night the native and Father Damien searched, and at length the girl was found almost lifeless, covered in blood, on the shore reefs seaward from Kilanea, her body lying half on the sands and half in the waves. She had slashed herself and had nearly bled to death. Damien carried the girl for miles in his arms, bandaged her and saved her life; also the life of the girl she had stabbed so viciously in her jealousy. When they were both well again he brought them together, made them embrace each other and swear to forget all, with the result that they became greater friends through being erstwhile enemies. Each secured a lover to her liking, and ever blessed the great Father who had befriended them instead of handing them over to the authorities at Honolulu—authorities whom Damien hated, for they moved on material lines and looked upon cruel force as the best means of discouraging crime, and on kindness as insanity more dangerous than the crime it forgave.
In a corner of Father Damien’s lonely little homestead he kept the cherished letters that arrived from his homeland across the sea. Night after night he would take those letters out and read them through again, and then tenderly place them in a small pot and hide them beneath his trestle bed. They were letters from his sister Pauline and other relatives in Flanders.
One night he sought them and they were missing. Great was Father Damien’s grief, and even rage flushed his face as he demanded of Kooma if he knew of their whereabouts. For hours he searched, “and never was the Master in so great a temper; he look much fierce and his eyes fire and then cry,” said Kooma, as I listened. “What did he do then?” I asked. “Did he find the letters?” “Yes,” said Kooma, “he did find letters: a dog that Father Damien had been kind to had smelt and pawed them up and run off with the pot, which we found in the scrub. The great Father was then good to us and did ask me to forgive him for that which he said; which I did do; and the dog too he forgave; and Father Damien once more smiled, stroked the shaggy thief, and it sat up, looked at the Father’s eyes, wagged its tail and was happy.”
I often heard a lot of discussion about Father Damien’s life and work, sometimes between rough island traders, and sometimes between men of the conventional middle class. A few of the former had met Father Damien, or knew those who were acquainted with him, but most of them expressed opinions from hearsay and the low or high order of their own instincts. Robert Louis Stevenson’s celebrated open letter to Dr Hyde had much to do with the popular nature of the controversy and the growing enthusiasm for the self-sacrifice of the dead priest.
For those who may not know the exact facts I relate them here.