THE FIRST JOURNEY TO THE WEST INDIES.
As the two pioneers of Moravian missions set out on their journey to the unknown West, they must have looked to all who met them more like pedlers than missionaries; for they traveled afoot, wore quaint, three-cornered hats, carried bundles on their backs, and had only about thirty shillings in their pockets. Nevertheless, the pace was rapid—about thirty miles a day. As they trudged along on their way to Hamburg, they paid passing calls at the house of Christian friends, who promptly advised them to return. What was the good, they argued, of rushing blindfold to certain death for the sake of a wild dream that would never come true? From one friend only, the Countess of Stolberg, on whom they called at Wernigerode, did they receive any encouragement. She brought them a Halle box of texts, and asked Dober to draw one out. He drew the verse from the forty-fifth psalm: “Hearken, O daughter, and consider, and incline thy ear; forget also thine own people and thy father’s house!” To the Countess these words seemed of good omen. “Go, then,” she exclaimed, “and even if they kill you for the Saviour’s sake, is He not worth it all?” The message was just what Dober needed. Years afterward he still remembered it fondly. “It was like balm on my head,” he wrote. In about three weeks the two friends arrived at Copenhagen, and presented themselves at court. Their arrival created quite a sensation. Never before, in the opinion of friend and foe alike, had such a pair of foolish enthusiasts been seen. Instead of indifference and friendly remonstrance they had now to face ridicule and opposition. Still worse, the way seemed absolutely barred. The directors of the Danish West Indian Company, to whom Zinzendorf had given them letters of introduction, actually refused them a passage out, on the ground that they would not be able to make a living when they landed. The information on which they had built was now declared to be worthless. Antony Ulrich himself turned traitor. He had completely lost his old fervor and anxiety. He denied all that he had previously said about his brother Abram and his sister Anna. He declared that neither they nor any other slaves had the slightest desire to hear the Gospel; and joined in the chorus of protest against the brethren’s folly. Von Plesz, the king’s chamberlain, asked them point-blank what they intended to do. “We shall work,” replied Nitschmann, “as slaves among the slaves.” “But,” protested Von Plesz, with perfect truth, “that is impossible; it will not be allowed. No white man ever works as a slave.” “Very well,” replied Nitschmann, “I am a carpenter, and will ply my trade.” “But what will the potter do?” “I,” persisted Nitschmann, “shall do work enough to keep both.” “If you go on like that,” exclaimed the chamberlain, “you will stand your ground the wide world over.” If the brethren had undertaken their task in a mere spirit of self-will, they would surely have given way; but the call of God still rang in their ears. The more they found themselves forsaken by men, the more unreservedly they threw themselves upon the Lord. Again they consulted their text-books, and again the Word of God proved refreshing manna to their souls. “Hath He said, and shall He not do it? or hath He spoken, and shall He not make it good?” As the days of patient waiting rolled on, the brethren’s resolution overcame all obstacles. The tide of opposition had reached high-water mark, and now turned in their favor. The indifference around them changed to interest, and the mockery to admiration. Before long they had nearly the whole court on their side. The Queen of Denmark expressed her good wishes. The princess Amalie invited them to the court, and gave them a Dutch Bible and a sum of money. The chamberlain offered Nitschmann some more, and, when he refused, slipped it by kindly force into his pocket. The physician gave them a spring-lancet, and instructed them in the art of blood-letting. The court chaplains spoke openly in their favor. The royal cup-bearer found them a Dutch ship on the point of sailing for St. Thomas. The negro Antony turned with the tide, and gave them a letter to his brother and sister; some friends provided them with carpenters’ tools; and finally a statesman, whose name is unknown, urged them onward with the words: “Go, in the name of the Lord. Our Saviour chose fishermen to preach the Gospel; and He Himself was a carpenter and a carpenter’s son.” And so, with many friends to wish them God-speed, the two pioneers set sail. As the ship put off, the brethren in Herrnhut were celebrating the holy communion. The voyage lasted over two months. The weather was stormy, the crew were godless, and the captain called himself an atheist. As they crossed the line the brethren received the usual facetious novice’s ducking, amid roars of drunk laughter. Yet all the while they kept a brave heart. They studied their Dutch Bibles, preached to the crew, and helped in the working of the ship; and, when the ship’s carpenter spoiled a cabinet, David Nitschmann made a better, and so won the captain’s good-will. In vain the sailors told them gruesome stories of the horrible diseases that attacked white men in the West Indies; in vain the captain expressed his belief that preachers preached for money. Instead of arguing, the brethren began their missionary labors there and then. They talked to the cook about his soul’s salvation, and watched by the bunk of a sailor who was sick. “On the whole,” wrote Nitschmann, “the people were very kind, but we sorrowed for their blindness. Not one on the ship knows the Lord, and we long for Christian fellowship.” And now, as they drew near to their journey’s end, a curious incident took place. For some reason of his own the captain wished to put in at St. Eustace, but, as this would have caused still further delay, Leonard Dober prayed the Lord to prevent it. Nor was his faith put to shame. Again and again the captain tried to land; and again and again the wind blew him off. He was forced to steer for St. Thomas; a week later the ship cast anchor in the harbor; and the first Moravian missionary journey was over. The day was Saturday, December 13, 1732; the hour was mid-day; the sun blazed brightly overhead. The harbor was one of the finest in the world. For the first time since they left Herrnhut they felt really downcast. The text for the day seemed almost a mockery—“The Lord of hosts mustereth the host of the battle.” As yet the host consisted of two poor men, and the prospect was far from promising. Next day, however, the good work began. They sought and found Abram and Anna, and read them Antony’s letter. It contained the words: “And this is life eternal, that they might know Thee the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom Thou hast sent.” With this as their first text the brethren preached their first sermon to the slaves. In spite of the fact that they spoke in a halting mixture of Dutch and German, they succeeded in making their message plain. The poor slaves clapped their hands for joy. The first seed was sown; the work was begun; and for the first time in history the slaves of the West Indies heard of the Christ who loved them from the lips of men who loved them, too.—Selected.