“THE NOBLE ARMY OF MARTYRS”
MARCH 11th, 1570. It must be nearly a year since I wrote even a page in my MS. book. The months we spent at the farm seemed often marked by the change of seasons, or the rotation of crops, rather than by great and stirring events; and we heard so little of what was going on in the great world outside the dykes, that sometimes it seemed hard to believe that we had ever lived in the constant stir and bustle of a busy sea-port town.
It was very seldom that father was able to write to us, or, I should have said, to get an opportunity of sending his letters; and when they were delayed longer than usual, mother, though she was just as kind and ready to help others as she had always been, would move about the house and farm with such a sad look on her face, and such a tone of wistful patience in her voice, that it made me feel almost ready to cry every time I looked at her, or heard her speak. If father could only have paid us a visit now and then, our days at the farm would have been very happy ones. We had only intended to stay a few weeks, but weeks grew into months, and still we were the guests of Uncle Jacob and his wife.
Truyken, with her willing hands and strong common sense, proved a great help to Freda in all kinds of house and farm work, while mother and aunt Ursel were always willing to undertake any light duties; and I, well, I fed the chickens, dusted the rooms, and, later on, taught the little ones; for, by twos and threes, six orphan children were received into our small household. Two of these, Max, a curly-headed, blue-eyed boy of seven, and Whilma, a quiet, gentle little girl of six, were the children of parents who had chosen death at the stake rather than a denial of their Lord and Savior. The four others were all of one family, whose father had been killed by a band of the Duke of Alva's soldiers while vainly attempting to defend his home and family, the mother dying shortly afterward of grief and privation.
We were a very happy household; "Uncle Jacob," as we all loved to call the dear old man, said it made him feel quite young again to have so many children round him. On summer evenings, when the work of the day was done (for there were no drones in our hive, and even the youngest were taught in some way to be of use to others), we used to gather in the large, old-fashioned porch, while Jacob read from his well-worn Bible-a costly possession, valued first for its own sake, and also as the parting gift of a noble exile, a brother in the faith, who for many weeks had found rest and a safe asylum in Jacob's humble dwelling; when he closed the book our voices would mingle in a hymn of praise, or we knelt in prayer, while Uncle Jacob committed his household and himself to the care of the One who neither slumbers nor sleeps.
I noticed that at first Truyken used either to busy herself about some household task, or, with her knitting in her hand, seat herself at some distance from the group; but little by little she drew nearer, so that at last she could not help hearing all; and then a change came over her, her knitting dropped unheeded by her side, as, with a look of fixed attention, she would seem to drink in the sweet Bible stories, just as the thirsty ground drinks in the rain.
In the winter our gatherings were in the farmhouse kitchen; and after the children were in bed Uncle Jacob would read to us, very often the letters of the martyrs. Some of these touched me so deeply that I begged him to let me copy one or two. There was one from Jeronymus Sergersin to his wife that we never seemed to tire of hearing. They were imprisoned together at Antwerp, though not in the same cell, in 1551; but they did not die together. Many of their letters were preserved and treasured as very precious things among the little groups of believers scattered here and there in the Low Countries; and many tears have, I believe, fallen over those true and tender words, traced by fingers made stiff and trembling by the torture of the rack. I will copy a few lines mother and I liked so much.
“Great peace, gladness, joy and comfort," he wrote, "a firm faith and good confidence with an ardent love to God, I wish to my most beloved wife, Lysken ... I pray the Lord very earnestly for you, that He will comfort you, and remove what is too heavy for you. I know well, my beloved, that you are greatly distressed on my account; but put away all sorrow and look to Jesus. Think only what a faithful God we serve. Know that I received your letter by my mother, which I read with tears. I thank you that you so truly comfort me, and rejoice in hearing that you are so well contented.
“I cannot sufficiently thank the Lord for all the strength He gives me in this trial. He is such a faithful Leader, He gives His servants such courage, and so strengthens them that they do not fear. Let us guard this treasure, for we have it in earthen vessels; but it is much too precious to be hidden. One (in this prison) calls to the other, and pours out his treasure, so that it may be seen. We are so happy, everlasting praise to the Lord! We call upon Him, we sing together, and find great joy in comforting and strengthening each other. I also have seen from afar the Promised Land, and hope soon to enter the beautiful city; there is no night there.
“May the almighty God so strengthen you with His blessed word that you may abide faithful to the end! Then shall our despised bodies be glorified, and fashioned after the likeness of His glory. Then shall our weeping be turned into laughter, and our sorrow into joy. Yes, my Lysken, God shall yet wipe away all tears from our eyes. Then there must first be weeping. Let us be content, nay, even joyful in sufferings here, for we shall, soon be clothed in white robes. Oh, what a glorious company we shall form when united with the great company of the redeemed of all ages!”
Jeronymus was burnt at the stake on the 2nd September, 1551. To the last he witnessed a good confession, and died rejoicing that he was counted worthy to suffer for the sake of Christ. Lysken was kept in prison for some months longer. Her faith was firm and bright to the end. The last time she was seen she was standing at the window of her cell singing a hymn. When at last the day of her martyrdom was fixed, some of her friends, hearing of it, arranged to meet in good time outside the prison, in the hope of being able to speak cheering words to her on her way to the stake. But they were too late; between three and four o'clock in the morning she had been taken to the river and drowned.
But a few who were astir, even at that early hour, saw the deed of darkness, and said Lysken walked firmly to the river's brink, and her last words were, "Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit." We will not sorrow for our friends, for they are beyond the reach of sorrow, sin or death, "with Christ, which is far better.”
One beautiful story we often begged Uncle Jacob to tell was that of a martyr who died not only for his faith, but for his kindness in saving the life of the officer who had been sent to arrest him. It happened only two winters ago. As Dick Williamzon was fleeing for his life across one of the frozen dykes, closely followed by his pursuers, the ice cracked under his feet, and a black, yawning gulf behind him lay between him and those who were in full chase. For a moment he was safe, and he knew it; but looking back he saw the foremost of his pursuers struggling and in danger of drowning in deep water; Dick stooped over the edge of the ice, and at the risk of falling in himself, saved the drowning man, who, grateful to his deliverer, begged that he might be allowed to go free; but the officer in command would not consent; he said they had come out to arrest Williamzon, and arrest him they must; and so he was bound, taken to prison, and a few weeks later burnt alive.
We got to know quite a number of the Christian friends of Uncle Jacob and Aunt Freda. At first we, or perhaps it was only myself, were half afraid of them, they were so grave in their manners and conversation; but as I got to know them better, I found much to admire, and even to love. They were so godly in their lives, so simple in their habits, though sometimes I could not help thinking they were somewhat narrow and one-sided in their judgments; but mother said that that may be partly owing to the hardness with which they have been treated. Many have suffered fines and imprisonments, and some, like Uncle Jacob, even the terrible torture of the rack, just because they would not deny their faith, or betray their friends. There has been so little sunshine in their lives, that they could hardly help living in a kind of twilight. Yet they were most kind and self-denying, and when they heard of any cases of special need among their brethren, they would forget their own poverty and send help to any in prison, or to the widows and orphans of the martyrs.
I hardly know who watched with the greatest interest during the weeks of early spring for the return of the storks, I, or the children. For several years a pair of very large birds had, on their yearly return from their winter home in Africa, built their nest in an old cart wheel that had been fixed upon the roof of the farm on purpose to encourage their visits. Though their nest was somewhat clumsy, and not so neatly built as those of smaller birds, it was so pretty to watch them feeding their young and teaching them to fly. Aunt Ursel told me of a pair of storks who had built their nest upon the roof of a wooden house that caught fire. They could easily have saved themselves by flight, but they had a pair of young ones, more than half grown, but unable to fly. Each parent bird gently lifted a young one from the nest, and tried to fly off with it; but the young birds were too heavy. Then they stood still for a little while, as if considering what was best to be done; then they tried to carry one between them, but were only able to fly a few yards; the roof was by that time in flames, but returning to the nest, they laid the baby birds down again, and themselves perished in the flames rather than desert their offspring. Numbers of people in the street below saw and admired, but were unable to help the brave birds.