“The men made a teak-wood coffin and Mr. Wilson lined it with fresh white muslin; then the body of our beloved old elder, the first Laos convert, was put in it and carried to the worship-room, where his voice had often been heard in prayer. The whole land was so flooded that it was impossible to dig a grave, so the coffin was placed on the surface of the ground and a brick wall built around it. This could not be done in the public burying-ground, and we laid our dear old Loong Nan in our own garden under the mango trees. Every one said, ‘How different from a heathen burial!’
“Do I believe that Jesus is? Yes, as I believe that I live now. Nan Intah, a poor ignorant Laos, in this remotest corner of the globe, believed the precious story of our Lord and received the promise, ‘I will not fail thee nor forsake thee.’ ‘I have called thee by thy name; thou art mine.’ That bright look of surprised joy,—I thank our Lord for permitting me to see it, and it has strengthened my faith in him.”
With this story of the peaceful death and Christian burial of a man but a little time ago a believer in witchcraft, a worshiper of spirits and of Buddha, knowing nothing of God or Christ or his own soul, we leave the general subject to look more particularly at the Laos country and people.
CHAPTER XXIII.
FROM BANGKOK TO CHEUNG MAI.
As the newly-arrived missionary for Laos stands in Bangkok and looks “up the river,” the five hundred miles that lie between him and Cheung Mai mean more to him perhaps than any of the same number he has traversed since leaving his native land. It means from sixty to ninety days’ travel in a rocking boat, and when accomplished puts him in one of the most isolated outposts of the Church.
The boats for the journey, with a Laos crew are sent down from Cheung Mai, as they are constructed to meet the peculiarities of the upper Menam, its changing channels, its shallows and its rapids. The hull is of light draught, and in the larger boats is about thirty feet long and widens to the breadth of six or seven feet across the deck. At either end it rises from the water in a sharp, narrow curve, that of the stern being broadened and finished with an ornamentation which resembles a fish’s tail. This is the design, and poetical it may be, but in appearance it is clumsy and unsymmetrical in the general contour of the boat. The cabin at the stern, in dimensions about five by seven feet, is used as a sitting- and sleeping-room. The middle deck is appropriated to the storing away of goods, boxes, trunks, etc., and the bow is occupied by the boatmen, where they sit when rowing or walk when poling, and where they eat and sleep. The middle deck is covered over with bamboo wickerwork. It forms an arch, and is so low that one cannot stand up in it. The roof of the cabin is of the same material, but of finer braid, is separate from that of the middle deck, and about two feet higher, so that one can stand comfortably in the centre of it. The bow has an adjustable cover, which the boatmen slide on to the cover of the middle deck during the day and replace over the bow at night. The three sides of the cabin toward the river have the upper parts entirely open. Screens of bamboo matwork are fastened on the outside by strings of ratan, which answer the purpose of hinges. These “shutters” can be raised to any angle, and are propped outward by slender bamboo sticks. Being tied to the screen, they are always at hand.
The crew consists of a captain and from six to eight boatmen. It is quite an imposing sight when the Laos king starts out with a fleet of forty or fifty of these boats, each taking place in line according to the rank of the passengers, the king’s boat at the head with the Siamese flag aloft, and gongs sounding the departure.
Our missionary fleet seldom exceeds three boats, and is minus the flags and gongs, but instead has the waving of hats and handkerchiefs by the outward bound, which is answered by the watchers on the banks. “Bon voyage!” and “God speed you!” mingle with the farewells of the company on the receding boats until each is lost to the other’s sight.
Let us suppose that you and I are of a company awaiting in Bangkok the coming of the Laos boats. For many days we have been making provision for our journey as well as enjoying the society of dear friends, when at last one evening the announcement is made, “The boats are here!” With one accord we rush to the river-bank in time to see them filing into place for mooring in front of the missionary compound. How topheavy they look, reminding us of old-fashioned stage-coaches! The dusky boatmen look at us with smiling faces as we greet them with “Subirú?” (“Are you well?”), and respond with a hearty “Subi? subi?” (“Well? well?”), returning the question to us. We next ask, “How many days since you left Cheung Mai?” Ten days, or fifteen, or twenty may be the reply, for you must understand it is easier to get from Cheung Mai to Bangkok than from here to Cheung Mai. How is that? Well, their quick trip indicates a good stage of water, and they have been able to shoot the rapids and to row most of the way in the smoother waters. In going up the poling in the upper river is slow work, and the boats have to be dragged by ropes over the rapids, which consumes both time and strength, for the boatmen have to rest after passing the most difficult (i. e. high and swift). We must also take into consideration the difference of going with the current and against it.