ANTÃO, Gillanders, and I had set off from Garanhuns in different directions to the N. W., S. W., and S., and after jointly covering over 5000 miles by rail, canoe, and muleback, we met at a given rendezvous on the banks of the great Sao Francisco River, down which we paddled in the direction of the great cataracts. Thanks to the usual generosity of the British and Foreign Bible Society, we found relays of Scriptures waiting for us at different points of the long journey.
We parted with our canoe at Coraça, and continued overland with a good troop of mules into one of the darkest regions of the land. This place is the scene of the greatest national tragedy in the history of Brazil, a direct fruit of Romanism, and the latent dissatisfaction, fear, and unrest which this doleful creed always produces, and this chapter relates a few of our experiences in traversing this difficult and dangerous region. Every night informal meetings were held, for the first time, in some farmhouse. The little groups of rustic-looking folk in rough working attire, squatting around on crude bench or on the mud floor, their pale faces lighted up by the unusual acetylene lamp we carried, as they sat motionless with their eyes fastened on the speaker, made both a moving and an inspiring picture. Sometimes they would break in on the preacher with varied ejaculations, such as “E’ a verdade! Porque nao? Muito bem, Sim Senhor!” (“That’s the truth! Why not? Very good! Yes, sir!”), as they followed the argument of the discourse.
One of the main objectives of our journey was Canudos, in the S. W. corner of the State of Bahia, situated in a waterless region very difficult of approach, where rocks and thorns predominated. It is now only a small village of a few hundred inhabitants, but is the site of what, thirty years ago, was a big city or stronghold of mud huts, with some 50,000 souls, then despotically ruled by an aged, irregular priest of singular appearance and attire, and of a doubtful mentality, but who was worshipped as a holy, miraculous prophet of God, very much as the priest of Joazeiro is today. He drew the whole illiterate countryside to his standard, and soon defied the armies of the newly formed Republic, which he declared was anti-Christ. Time and again the flower of the Brazilian Army were defeated by these ignorant, ill-armed, untrained peasants, who fought with a fierce, fanatical persistence worthy of a better cause. The whole country was shaken, and soon the wildest stories were abroad, while a wave of superstitious fear swept across the land, and seemed to paralyze all efforts to end this long-drawn-out civil war, which lasted for about two years. When the final massacre of its miserable inhabitants was followed up by a complete destruction of their city and stronghold, the whole country around was left in an almost depopulated state, under a ban that remains to this day.
All this was but the fruit of ignorance and Romanism at its worst, the result of an utter lack of the Word of God, which Rome had banned and barred from the people. From that day to this nothing had ever been done, materially or spiritually, to introduce a new breath of life and good-will into these dark places. We brought the first message of peace and love to Canudos.
The chief man of the place received us indifferently, his wife being very strongly opposed to us, and this spirit determined the attitude of most of the inhabitants. Nevertheless an empty house was put at our disposal on the outskirts of the place, and thither we made our way. We soon found that next door lived two Catholic ladies, who seemed strangely excited at our arrival, and welcomed us as friends. It seems that only the previous night they had prayed God to send somebody with the Word of God. They could not read, but years before, in another town, they had become wonderfully interested through frequently hearing the Bible read aloud by a lodger in their house, an Army officer, and they were longing to hear it again.
We canvassed the place thoroughly with Bibles, leaving a free copy of John’s Gospel in every house; but it was uphill work.
A small detachment of soldiery had lately arrived to head off the bandits and revolutionaries then infesting the land, and one of these men welcomed us like a brother. His story was that several years ago he had fled from his evil father’s house, intent on becoming a brigand, for which calling it seems he had special qualifications. Times were bad, however, so he enlisted in the state police, and was sent up to a far interior town with a force on special duty. Finding the time hang heavily on his hands, and with nothing to occupy his mind, he inquired of a small boy in the home where he was billeted if there were any novels or such-like books in the house. The boy replied that he had seen a biggish book lying about, and went off in search of this promising novel. He returned a little later with a New Testament. A strange name for a novel, it seemed. Whatever could it be? For lack of anything more attractive, the soldier settled down to read the book from the beginning. Hour after hour He read that book; and it stirred him strangely. He had read it through in a few days, and then started to read it again. A change came over his life as he read, evil habits and companionships were dropped instinctively, and a new life and hope opened up before him. He knew nothing of the history of the book, nothing of Protestantism, and had never heard the remotest mention of the Gospel; yet when he was recalled to the capital a few months later he was a changed man. He soon discovered the connection between his little book and the Gospel Missions, and was baptized shortly afterward. He produced his Bible from his very limited kit-sack, for it is now his inseparable companion. What a cheer to us to find such a witness in such a place!
We held open-air meetings in the center of the little town, and our soldier friend was present. The attendance was meager, and the folk seemed scared, the local teacher running off into the forest in order not to hear a word of the preaching or singing.
However, several good little meetings were held in our hired house, and some few heard the Word gladly, but, best of all, before we left Canudos four days later, the two Catholic ladies and a friend of theirs knelt with us in prayer, and received Jesus Christ as their Saviour.
Travel through this ill-omened region was comfortless, and the going was very heavy, water for men or animals being scarce and of bad quality, muddy and evil smelling, and there was no pasturage of any kind. It was a gruesome country, full of dreadful memories, and of a repellent nature, as though cursed by God and man; and yet, right across this sad country, we sold a New Testament in almost every house we canvassed by the wayside, leaving a stream of the pure light of God’s Word right across a region where Satan had had his way so long and left his most dreadful scars.
In one town, after Antão had preached in the open air to a great concourse of people, one man openly exclaimed: “Ah, if we had only been taught this, who would be for Rome?” Who indeed?
In a town called Geremoabo, we had met with little encouragement, and had only sold one Bible, when I came to the prison house. With the jailer’s consent I traversed a long corridor, and entered the cell of the condemned prisoners. I found three men there. We had a friendly and interesting talk together, and they grew communicative. I was especially impressed by the sad face of one of the men, and after hearing suggestive bits of his tragic history, I broke in, saying, “Yes, but God may well have permitted all you tell me, to bring you to this prison and to this hour, that here you might find the Word of God, and with it a new life and hope.”
Deeply impressed by my words, he at once bought a Bible, and the other two men followed his example, for all could read―this sale of three Bibles being more than we had sold in the whole city.
In another place Antão met a farmer who had had a little John’s Gospel for over twenty years, never dreaming that it was a dreadful “livro Protestante.” It appears that some twenty years ago, while visiting his town on market day, this farmer had seen a peddler selling rosaries, chaplets, images, and other Romish rubbish, and among this pile of superstition and idolatry he had spied a little book. He could not read, but his curiosity was aroused. “That,” said the ignorant peddler, “is the true story of Saint John the Baptist.” It was his favorite saint, so he bought the little book for sixpence, and had his daughter to read it. Very soon he knew the book almost by heart, and became so attached to it that he never made a journey without having it in his pocket, and if by chance he forgot to take his beloved book, he would sometimes return many miles before riding on his way. Wherever he went his book was read, and the fame of that John’s Gospel went far and wide. The men of his town hearing of it began to borrow the wonderful book, and thus it went all round the town. It was bound and rebound, and then one day, to his great dismay, a page was missing, and by the time our colporteur knocked at his door, several others had disappeared.
Imagine his astonishment and delight when he found that his little book was but part of a much bigger volume of the very same nature! He eagerly bought up the best books in Antão bag. What an earnest listener and learner he was that wonderful night! The town itself was quite stirred up when the books were offered, but everybody wanted a John’s Gospel, and only John’s Gospel, so that in an hour or so two or three hundred little books were sold in that Catholic city. Small wonder that Beelzebub and his friends, the Modernists, have a strange dislike to the Gospel according to John. It works!
Outside Canudos I encountered large forces of the army in operations against the terrible bandit Lampião, the scourge of this part of Brazil, from whom the Lord had hitherto protected us. I called on the colonel commanding officer. There were other officers present, and he was embarrassed. Finally he blurted out rather abruptly: “In any case, this is a book that every man ought to possess,” and after buying a copy he hurriedly disappeared. I then sold four more Bibles among his officers.
One day, while resting by the wayside, we were suddenly aroused by the noisy arrival of three horsemen of a rather alarming appearance. “We are in for it now,” I thought. They were all armed to the teeth, carrying rifles and bandoleers. What they were I really don’t know—but ten minutes later they were riding off at a gallop with a couple of Bibles and a New Testament in their saddlebags, all bought at full price.
We crossed the S. Francisco River for the last time, but a short distance above the Paulo Affonso Falls, which are much higher and far more impressive than Niagara. This crossing is quite an interesting one, and is called “Valha-me-Deus” (“God help us”), referring, I suppose, to the fact that if anything happened to the crude canoe, with its load of men and animals, in those swirling waters, the probabilities are that the whole contents would go over the great falls. And as the canoe man was very tipsy at the time, and the embarkation rolled considerably, we were glad when we reached the farther shore.
We arrived home none the worse for our wanderings, and deeply grateful to God for such a privilege, and for such Divine guidance and blessing on our sowing of the seed in some of the dark places of the earth.