Part 1. The First Steps of Roman Catholicism on the Continent of North America (Cont.) (3)

Gradually new Jesuits joined the first three, settled in neighboring villages, and with united effort fought against the stronghold of the devil.[1] Neither the discomfort of smoky and cold dwellings, nor the hunger which they often had to endure, nor the rudeness and savagery of the surrounding society troubled the Jesuits or weakened their zeal. They did not shrink from anything to snatch even one soul from the power of the devil, and sometimes snatched one amid the most terrible bacchanalian frenzy of the devil’s slaves. Parties of Hurons constantly went forth against their enemies the Iroquois, attacked their villages, burned them, and led away captives. Once a captive was brought to the village where the Jesuits were. He was suffering terribly; his hands were broken and maimed. Upon arrival in the village, he was treated with apparent kindness; he was offered the best food and was given, according to Huron custom, to a warrior who had lost his nephew, to take his place. But the captive’s actual fate was beyond doubt. The Huron received him with apparent affection and addressed him kindly: “My nephew, when I heard that you were coming to me, I was very glad, thinking that you would remain with me and take the place of one I lost. But now I see that your hands are broken and maimed so that you can never use them again, and I change my mind. Therefore, be brave and prepare yourself for death this night, as a courageous man.” The captive coldly asked what kind of death it would be. “By fire,” replied the other. “That is well,” said the captive. The Jesuits watched with horror the fate awaiting the captive, but were unable to save him. Then they tried to save him from eternal fire. With sincere compassion and tenderness they spoke to him, and when he showed himself attentive to their teachings, they baptized him. Having secured his eternal salvation, they waited with relative calm for the execution of his sentence. Meanwhile, night fell and enormous crowds of Indians gathered from all sides. A row of fires blazed, surrounded by ranks of warriors with burning sticks in their hands. Through these fires the captive had to pass, driven on by burning sticks. Smoke, heat, the fierce cries of the torturers and the wild screams of the tortured captive—all this presented a vivid picture of hell, which the Jesuits watched with horror. But when day broke and the last spark of life had gone out in the martyr, they breathed more freely and comforted themselves with the thought that the martyr had at last found rest in the bliss of paradise. The disfigured remains of the captive were afterward eaten by his torturers.[2]

The Jesuits had been witnesses to such and similar scenes many times in this dark realm of wild barbarism. All their labors and efforts to shed light on this dark environment seemed in vain. They still had no converts, and so far had only managed to baptize those who were passing from their deathbed into eternity. But then an unexpected event occurred. An adult Huron, influential and respected in his tribe, yielded to the persuasion of the Jesuits and agreed to be baptized. This was an event of extraordinary importance, and the Jesuits hastened to use it with the greatest possible advantage for their mission, deciding to perform the baptism with the pomp and solemnity that their resources permitted. And indeed, the wild wilderness had to be witness to an unprecedented spectacle. Indians gathered in crowds around the shelter of the Jesuits: young and old warriors with unkempt hair on their heads and painted faces; adorned young women and wrinkled old women wrapped in dirty deerskins—all watched with superstitious curiosity the ceremony of the sacrament of baptism and the black robes themselves, who were now dressed in gleaming church vestments. Their kneeling, the mysterious tinkling of a bell, the movement of a censer spreading pleasant smoke, unlike the smoke from fires in Indian shelters, the excited state of the one being baptized—all this made a compelling impression on the savages.[3] The missionaries exulted and foresaw a great harvest. At last a breach had been made in the fortress of the devil; the darkness of paganism was beginning to yield to the light of Christianity. The baptism described was followed by several others, and the triumph of faith seemed assured. But the prince of darkness did not wish to surrender his domain without a struggle, and to retain it, he brought into play all the tricks of his satanic wisdom, to do nothing but take revenge on the black robes who had made an invasion into his kingdom.[4]

III

A life consisting of continuous wars with neighboring tribes and filled with real and imaginary dangers had developed among the Indians strict suspicion toward everything that went beyond the bounds of their ordinary understanding. For a time it could be suppressed by actions in which the Indians saw direct benefit for themselves, but at any other occasion it could manifest itself with even greater force. The Jesuits, in any case, seemed to them fearful people. Where they came from and what they wanted, the Indians asked themselves involuntarily. This was a mystery to them. From their actions, the Indians could only guess that the black robes were great medicine men and could cause people harm or benefit. They were convinced that each people had their own medicine men, and the medicine men of enemy tribes brought upon them all manner of calamities. Were not the black robes too perhaps sent to cause them harm? This unclear suspicion quickly found support in their own medicine men, who especially hated the Jesuits for exposing the absurdity of their incantations. Circumstances soon gave them the opportunity to actually prove their suspicion concerning the black robes. Due to a terrible drought, the corn planted by the Indians completely perished. The medicine men constantly climbed onto roofs and howled incantations, enticing the thunder birds; but the sky remained cloudless. Seeing all their efforts vain, the medicine men then accused the Jesuits of this. A red cross stood before their shelter, and the medicine men announced that it was this that frightened the thunder birds. The Indians became troubled, and decided to cut down the cross. All the entreaties of the Jesuits, frightened at the threatened desecration of the cross, were in vain; the wild crowd stood firm. Then the Jesuits’ usual ingenuity saved them. “You say,” said one of them, “that the red color of the cross frightens the thunder birds. Then paint it white and see if thunder will come?” The Indians obeyed and the cross was painted white; but the thunder birds still did not appear. The Jesuits took advantage of this opportunity. “Your spirits cannot help you,” they said; “and your medicine men deceive you with their lies. Now ask for help from Him who created the world, and perhaps He will hear you.” To this the Jesuits added that if the Indians renounced their sins and would listen to the true Great Spirit, they themselves would ask Him on their behalf. The Indians promised to do everything the black robes desired. Then the Jesuits arranged several processions, said nine masses to their principal intercessor, St. Joseph, and, to their great joy, soon a heavy rain fell, which convinced the Indians of the efficacy of the magic of the black robes.[5] But fate was already preparing still greater misfortunes for them in the future.

Epidemics often ravaged among the Indians. The uncleanliness of their life, irregularity in their diet, the alternation of gluttony with terrifying famines—gave all the conditions for the development of disease, and sometimes they devastated entire villages and even tribes. One such epidemic broke out among the Indians in late 1637. Death passed from one village to another and everywhere wrought devastation. The shelters of the Indians became places of lamentation and death cries. Everything was seized with horror; only the black robes were unafraid of death. They fearlessly visited the shelters and everywhere comforted and calmed the despairing savages, giving them Christian last rites and baptizing the dying. By dull fires in the shelters sat gloomy figures of Indians wrapped in dirty hides. Some wailed over the dead, others uttered death cries. The Jesuits had some medicines and, as far as possible, they alleviated the sufferings of the sick, but they cared most for saving their souls. “This life is short and miserable,” they said to the hopeless sick. “It matters little whether we live or die.” And then they explained the future life, showing pictures of paradise and hell. The Indians readily understood the torments of hell, but did not value the bliss of paradise highly. When asked by the Jesuits where they wished to go, the Indians answered in a way that often disturbed the missionaries. “I wish to go where all my ancestors and relatives have gone,” they ordinarily answered. “This paradise is good for the French,” said one; “but I wish to be among Indians, because the French will give me nothing to eat when I come there.” “Where do you wish to go rather—to paradise or to hell?” a Jesuit asked a dying Indian woman. “To hell, if, as you say, my children are there,” answered the unfortunate mother. “And do they hunt there in heaven, go to war, and have feasts?” asked a dying warrior. “Oh no.” “Then I do not wish to go there; it is not good to be lazy,” answered the savage.[6] Those who answered satisfactorily to such questions the Jesuits would immediately baptize, by touching a wet cloth or sprinkling drops of water with the pronouncement of sacred words.

Meanwhile the epidemic continued its devastating work. The Indians in despair resorted to all manner of means to appease the spirit of plague, making offerings of tobacco and roasted dogs to it. One medicine man, having fasted seven days, received a revelation that the plague would be driven away if scarecrows were set on all the shelters, and indeed all the shelters were quickly adorned with effigies. The Indians suggested to the Jesuits that they too set a scarecrow on their shelters, but they announced that their cross protected them better than any scarecrows. The medicine men performed incantations, climbed onto the shelters, and cried out to the invisible spirit of plague: “If you want meat, go to our enemies; go to the Iroquois!” But all was in vain. Seeing the futility of all their means against the plague, the Indians then turned to the Jesuits. “What must we do so that your God will have pity on us?” they said to the Jesuits. This occasion was favorable for missionary work and one of the missionaries, Father Brébeuf, immediately answered: “Believe in Him: keep His commandments; renounce your faith in dreams; take only one wife and be faithful to her; abandon your superstitious festivals; cease your wild assemblies; do not eat human flesh; never make sacrifices to demons, and make a vow that if God delivers you from this plague, you will build a chapel to render to Him thanksgiving and praise.”[7] The savages listened attentively to these conditions, but they seemed hard to them. Conferring among themselves, they decided to ask the Jesuits whether they could not confine themselves to merely building a chapel. But Brébeuf decisively rejected this proposal and the matter came to nothing. In one village, however, the Indians accepted all the conditions. Seized with terror, they were ready to make all kinds of promises just to be delivered from the plague. Even the chief medicine man was inclined toward the Jesuits: walking through the streets, he loudly proclaimed that the God of the black robes was their leader and that therefore they should live according to His will.[8]