Father, Forgive Them
Selection from “Tell Us Another!”: Stories That Never Grow Old (1925) by Winfrid Herbst, S.D.S.
Read on Internet Archive (pp. 45-51)
Listen on LibriVox (Chapter 15)
“Father, Forgive Them”
“Blackrobe, what is your desire?” It was down in Texas half a score of decades ago, when that country, not even now quite “tame,” was a wilderness and wild, inhabited by numerous and bloodthirsty bands of reciprocally inimical savages—North American Indians, we are wont to call them. Immigration to the Lone Star State was just beginning then, that deceptive immigration which lured thousands and thousands of foreigners to the weary wastes and boundless prairies of the Great Southwest, there sadly to disillusion them and to add to unimproved temporal affairs a frequent loss of faith and spiritual goods, owing to an almost entire absence of the maternal ministrations of Holy Church.
But zealous missionaries are to be found always and everywhere; for God has ever raised up hardy and self-sacrificing men to do that pioneer work which enables the Church to boast of universality in the most common acceptation of the word. Such a hero was Bishop Audin, Texan missionary, of wide repute, indeed, but better known to God than to men, like all of his kind, and reigning now, we may confidently hope, with the Lord of all tribes and peoples. Astounding would be the recital of the hardships which he endured, of the sacrifices which he made, in order to convert some at least of the Indians of Texas to the God they knew not. Only the faith of Christ can inspire mortal men to bear what our Catholic missionaries have ever borne. Before the mind’s eye of such heroes there must needs float continually the image of Christ Crucified, that first Great Missionary, Who endured hardships and suffered deprivations awfully, unutterably immense, and Who died upon an infamous gibbet in unspeakable agony for the salvation of immortal souls. Yes, indeed; the heart of the apostolic missionary must beat in unison with the Sacred Heart of Jesus dying upon the cross. He must follow in the footsteps of the Master Who died that men might live—might live forever in heaven. For the servant is not above the master. Of such a spirit was Bishop Audin. Twenty years had he already toiled among the savage tribes of the southern prairies. It was then that the incident took place that is here related.
One day during a missionary tour among the scattered Indian tribes a small detachment of warlike savages called upon him, earnestly requesting him to visit their chief, who had been severely wounded by an arrow in battle. Bishop Audin had some knowledge of medicine and surgery, especially as regards the concoction and application of herbs and such like rude but effective remedies of the wilderness. This the Indians knew; and this it accordingly was that not infrequently obtained entrance for him into tribes and villages and wigwams to which he would not otherwise have had access. Such was the case in this particular instance. Full of sympathy and urged by charity, the bishop unhesitatingly consented to accompany the rude delegation, and immediately made the few preparations necessary for the journey. For two whole days they marched onward, making a bee line for the village in truly Indian fashion, traversing trackless forests and boundless prairies and with the heavens above as their only tent. But ere the third day was half spent they arrived at the wigwams of the afflicted tribe. Some refreshments having been offered to the missionary by the natives, he was led into the wigwam of the chief. A powerfully built red-skin in the prime of life lay upon a rude couch of leaves, grass, and moss. He was still adorned with all the trappings of his dignity. Weapons of various kinds lay scattered about in the wigwam; and on the posts hung bunches of hair, the scalps of the conquered, the grewsome emblems of Indian victory. Near the couch lay a shell full of some refreshing drink for the suffering warrior. An enemy’s deadly arrow had inflicted a mortal wound in his side. But with stoical indifference he gazed into space, scarcely noticing his visitor, and enduring his agony with the heroic resignation of the manly chieftain. Yet his breath came and went in short, quick gasps, breathing forth, as it were, his well-nigh irrepressible pain. But now he turned a warrior’s fearless eye towards the missionary and spoke the above words in the deep guttural of the savage:
“Blackrobe, what is your desire?”
‘‘I would ask whether I can be of any assistance to you, or whether I may procure your admission into the beautiful wigwam of the Great Spirit,” answered the missionary.
“Blackrobe, I am past all cure! The arrow struck my life.” And he showed the priest the ugly, gaping wound. It was indeed beyond all cure. “But,” he continued, “do you speak to me about the Great Spirit.”
“If you would enter into the beautiful wigwam of the Great Spirit, you must believe everything that He tells you through me, and you must let me wash your head.”
“What says the Great Spirit?” Calm and serious was the gaze which the savage chieftain fixed upon the missionary.
The latter then began to speak of God, Who created heaven and earth and all things else, the one only God, Who is the Ruler and Preserver of the universe, Who has revealed Himself to man in three Divine Persons, in order to show him the way to His beautiful wigwam. The chieftain nodded his assent and approbation.
“These things are not new to me,” he said slowly; “also I know of the Great Spirit and that He has spoken to men.”
But the missionary continued. He spoke of the happiness of man in God’s garden of Paradise; he told of how our first parents fell into sin, thus bringing upon themselves and upon their descendants the curse of God, untold misery, suffering, sickness, and death.
The chief did not seem at all to marvel. “All these things have my fathers also taught me,” he said.
But now the priest began to speak of God’s great mercy, of His pity for poor, fallen mankind. He told of how the Son of God had become man and had come to earth to save the human race, to make men happy again, to lead them back to the beautiful wigwams of the Great Spirit. At these words the wounded savage raised himself slightly. His features, distorted by pain, assumed an expression of complete astonishment.
“Blackrobe,” he exclaimed, “that is beautiful and good to hear! What you now say is very good to hear and makes the heart laugh.” Then his glance fell, and he became silent.
“This Son of God,” continued the missionary after a pause, “has sent me to you to tell you what you must do.”
“And what is that, Blackrobe?” asked the dying Indian, without raising his eyes.
“He wants you firmly to believe in Him and to love Him with your whole heart.”
“Blackrobe, all that I have done. Even from the moment you mentioned His name have I done it. Why should I not believe the Great Spirit?” With that he extended his hand to grasp the priest’s and press it to his forehead.
“Not only must you love Him,” said the missionary, “not only must you love Him Who became man for you, but also all men, even your enemies.”
Scarcely had he uttered these words, when the Indian cast upon him a quick glance of utter amazement. “Even my enemies?” he asked in a voice of surprised incredulity, as his eyes glowed and flashed fire. “You desire, Blackrobe, that I forgive my enemies?” He placed his hand upon the gaping wound in his side. “No; the Indian warrior cannot do that; for when I am gone my brothers must revenge my death. Blackrobe, seven men shall fall to blot out the chieftain’s death—such is the law among the redmen! An enemy is not to be forgiven.”
Then he paused, too much weakened to continue. The thirst for revenge had exhausted the little remaining strength of the wounded warrior. For a moment the missionary was silent. Then in calm, persuasive tones he assured the chief that not he, but the Great Spirit, commanded this, even the Great Spirit Who created all things and Who became man out of pity for the fallen race. But the Indian shook his head and sought to expostulate, saying that it could not be so and that the Great Spirit could not issue such a command. Blood must be revenged by blood: such was the teaching his fathers had handed down. Thereupon two other savages who were in the wigwam likewise sought to convince the priest of the entire lawfulness of bloody vengeance. He bade them be silent.
“But you surely wish to dwell in the beautiful wigwam of the Great Spirit,” urged the missionary; “and so do your enemies.”
At this the missionary began to despair of the chieftain’s conversion. But he seized the crucifix suspended from his neck, held it up to the Indian’s gaze, and exclaimed, “Behold, O Indian chief, the Son of God, Who in His great goodness came to earth to save fallen mankind, was also wounded unto death by His enemies. And this Redeemer, in order to procure your entrance into the beautiful wigwam of the Great Spirit—this Redeemer, while hanging upon the cross, asked the Great Spirit, His Father, to forgive His enemies. That is what the Son of God did, Indian chief, and you are not willing likewise to forgive your enemies?”
The dying warrior was dazed with astonishment. He gazed upon the crucifix. A look of utter amazement spread over his features.
“Blackrobe, do you speak truth when you say this?”
“Yes, I speak nothing but the truth.”
The missionary ceased speaking. The chief fell back upon his rude couch and remained quiet for a long time. Exteriorly he was calm and seemingly indifferent, but interiorly a mighty struggle must have been taking place. No one dared to break the tense silence.
Finally the Indian spoke in deep, earnest tones. ‘‘Swear to me, Blackrobe, swear by the Great Spirit, that what you say is truth.”
And the missionary answered with a voice in which there was a ring of persuasive solemnity, “I swear it by my God, Who is also your God, and Who has sent me to seek the redman and to do him good!
“For the Great Spirit also made your enemies, and He wishes likewise to show mercy to them. But now, enemies cannot live together in the beautiful wigwam of the Great Spirit, because eternal peace dwells there. Hence, forgiveness must take place on earth.”
All this the dying warrior could not comprehend; for where human passions are concerned, there the intellect is doubly darkened and the will thrice weak. He shook his head and instinctively clutched a murderous tomahawk which lay near. And grim revenge distorted his features, in which could already be seen signs of approaching dissolution.
“Blackrobe, if it be truth that the Son of the Great Spirit, dying upon the cross, besought pardon for His enemies and forgave them, then also I must do even as He did.” The chief turned to the two Indians. “Summon the men of the tribe,” he said.
The savages instantly obeyed, leaving the missionary alone with the suffering warrior. Both were silent. But in his heart the priest was sending up fervent prayers to the God of pardoning love for the soul of this poor mortal. Meanwhile he did what little he could for the chief’s comfort. The latter showed himself grateful for the least service.
Gradually the wigwam filled with braves, all armed to the teeth. They formed a semicircle round the couch of their chief and waited expectantly. The most renowned men of the tribe were there.
“I must die,” the wounded Indian began after the last man had entered. “The Great Spirit has sent this Blackrobe to me, and I must let him wash my head in order that I may enter into the Great Spirit’s beautiful wigwam. But first I must do what the Great Spirit did, and that is but just. He forgave His enemies; also I wish to forgive my enemies.”
The assembled braves stared at him in astonishment. Not one dared to speak. “Warriors, braves, swear to me by the Great Spirit for my sake to take no revenge on my enemies! I, your chief, desire it. Cast aside your weapons and swear!”
And the warriors cast their weapons to the ground and swore as the chief desired.
The missionary now called for water in order to baptize the dying Indian. When the latter beheld these preparations he said, “Lift me up!” The priest tried to dissuade him, seeing that every movement caused him excruciating pain. “Indian braves, lift me up and lay me on my face,” he repeated. “I feel that the Great Spirit Himself would speak to me.” The men did as he commanded.
Thereupon the veteran warrior received the Sacrament of Baptism with the resignation and simplicity of a child. His soul was washed whiter than snow. His fellow-warriors were moved to the heart. At a sign from the priest they then left the wigwam, only to be converted a few days later to the faith of their departed chief.
The missionary remained with the dying Indian yet another day, teaching him to pray and rejoicing in the contemplation of a faith that was as simple as it was sincere. Then that hardy chieftain died—died repeating His Master’s prayer, that prayer which divine love forced from the livid lips of a suffering and dying God, “Father, Forgive Them.”
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