by Stan Mason
The journey to Assisi took nearly two days. It was an agonising experience for Beaucaire who groaned and twisted in agony at the back of the wagon as it lurched and shuddered along the muddy road through deep and shallow ruts. He was in pain for most of the time but he thanked God in his mind that he was still alive. Starvation was not an unknown condition to him. He had suffered many winters before but never as badly as this one. There was a time when he had passed out in a small village south of the Camargue and had awoken to find himself in bed in a small cottage being attended to by a plump middle-aged woman. She fed him regularly and took great care of him, nursing him back to health. It soon became abundantly clear that she was a single romantic lady with specific designs on keeping him with her. It was enough for Beaucaire to take fright. In his weak physical state at the time, there was little he could do to rebuff her attentions. However, as soon as he felt fit enough to leave his bed, he crept out through the window of the cottage very early one morning to make his escape. He was a loner and the only two things which filled his mind were entertainment and survival, in that order. He didn’t care for the companionship of any female with romantic ideas who would shackle him to one place for the rest of his life. He was a free spirit... as free as a bird on the wing!
When they came quite close to Assisi, the driver yanked the reins hard to stop the horses pulling the wagon. He put on the handbrake, walked to the rear and pulled the unfortunate street entertainer off the tailboard. Holding him tightly under the armpits, he dragged him across the muddy road before thrusting him violently into the heart of a miserable ditch. There was nothing in his conscience that disturbed him about his actions. He had been ordered by the policeman in Florence to dispose of the little Frenchman in such a way to rid the city of the man and he had done his duty well. He climbed back into his wagon, released the handbrake, and drove off into Assisi without mentioning a word to anyone about his dastardly actions.
Beaucaire lay on his back in the ditch in a semi-conscious state holding his precious possessions closely to his stomach. He would rather die than lose any of them for he was unable to replace them if they were lost. He knew exactly what had happened to him but he felt too weak to lift himself up to crawl to the road. He opened and closed his eyes a number of times, occasionally going into delirium, for he had not eaten or drunk anything for seven whole days. He was not certain how long he lay there but suddenly he became aware of the sound of footsteps and the voices of two people holding a discussion as they walked towards him along the road. He called out shrilly at the top of his voice several times which proved to be effective as one of the men came over to the ditch and peered down. The newcomer was dressed in a brown smock and the top of his head had been shaved. He was clearly a monk who lived and worked in a monastery in Assisi.
‘By St. Francis!’ he swore. ‘There’s a man laying in this ditch asking for help!’
His colleague came over quickly and together they helped pull the little Frenchman out of the ditch with his belongings which he still clutched tightly to his stomach.
‘How did you get here?’ asked the first monk puzzled.
Beaucaire related his sad story and they prepared to carry him back to the monastery which was only a short distance away.
‘Thrown in a ditch to get you out of the city,’ commented the first monk angrily. ‘Well never mind. Let’s get some food inside you and nurse you back to health. You’ll be all right.’
‘I cannot interpret the mentality of some people,’ ventured the second monk equally annoyed. ‘Thrown in a ditch and left to die. It’s unbelievable. To a complete stranger too! Where’s the mercy? Come, we’ll take you back with us.’
The two men hoisted the street entertainer, holding him under his legs, carrying him the few hundred yards to the place where they lived and prayed.
The little Frenchman was delighted at his sudden spate of good fortune. First of all he had been found before he froze to death in the ditch. Secondly, the monks took a great deal of care of him. They gave him quarters in which he had a bed and fed him regularly until he was able to stand on his own two feet again. Furthermore, they showed him much warmth and kindness during the period of recovery. However, the transition from the street to the monastery created a problem for the entertainer. In his mind, it was a form of incarceration, preventing him from going out to do what he wanted to do... perform to the general public. On the other hand, if he was able to endure the boredom, he could stay where he was until the Spring arrived when the weather would be warm and clement for him to perform out in the open. However, the pull of the open air was becoming far too strong for him.
He stayed at the monastery for eight weeks. In that time he had recovered his health and his strength before the feeling of imprisonment overcame him. He decided it was time to take to the road again and face his public whatever the weather. But there was one thing which troubled him greatly. The monks, bound by vows such as those of poverty, chastity and obedience, prayed to the Blessed Virgin three times each day. He had been with them for two months but he had never ever gone into the church to see the statue. No one had reproached him or chided him for his negligence. They simply treated him as a guest who could do as he wished. Nonetheless, having been fed and taken care of by the monks with such kindness and dedication, he felt it was now time to give thanks for all they had done for him. Naturally, they would not wish to hear his gratitude for themselves; they would prefer him to make his offering directly to the Blessed Virgin. But that was the rub! How could he do it? He had already been extremely concerned about his deficiencies as they became apparent at the monastery when dining and spending time with the monks. He was well aware that the brethren were able to sing and chant in full voice and with great gusto. Beaucaire had been with them when they were in full voice with the echoes resounding around the walls. Sadly, he was unable to join in with them because he had never learned any of the hymns or psalms. His parents, although they were Roman Catholics, were not particularly religious. They lived some distance from the nearest church and, in fact, he was a little ashamed that he had only attended a service five times in his whole life. Although he tried to get to grips with the words of some of the hymns and psalms his mind never seemed to remember them. He was no actor, no singer, only a man who could remember a few basic jokes. Consequently, he was unable to join in with any kind of thanksgiving, merely putting on an intelligent expression whenever they prayed in such a manner. What else could he do? Consequently, he was unable to go to the Blessed Virgin and sing a hymn or chant a psalm to show his appreciation.
Alternatively, he had watched the monks carve intricate crucifixes of all kinds which they placed at various points in the monastery and in their cells but, with regard to dexterity, there was no such skill within him. His hands were short and slender, used to throwing knives, plates and balls in the air and catching them as they came down. However, when it came to holding a knife steadily in his hand to do any carving he was relatively useless. When he was very young, his teacher at school near Loire had once laughed loudly at his woodworking efforts. Indeed, much to his despair, it became a matter of amusement for the whole school. He had tried to make a miniature farm-cart out of wood and when he presented it in front of the class to the teacher it came apart with all the pieces falling on the floor. That was the highlight of his claim to woodworking fame... he was no good with his hands at all! On other occasions, he had seen two of the monks make stained glass windows. They were very precise in fitting the coloured glass pieces together to make the final frame but it was way beyond his ability to do the same. He was all fingers and thumbs when it came to fitting small pieces together and, not only that, he was frightened to cut himself on the tiny coloured segments of glass.
So what else did the monks do that he might emulate to give praise to the Blessed Virgin? They chanted long prayers in Latin. That in itself was a serious problem. The street entertainer could spe
ak only French. He had never learned any Latin at all. In fact, he had never heard it spoken before except on the five occasions he had been to church. It was indeed a strange language to him. Worse still, all the prayer books were in Latin therefore he was unable to recite any of the prayers. What on earth could he do to give thanks to the Blessed Virgin? And then it came to him. There was only one thing possible within his power and he decided to do it!
One evening, just before supper, during the hour when the monks were allowed to converse in the refectory, he stole on tiptoe across the great flagstones of the monastery into the small church. He walked slowly down the aisle towards the altar and laid his tiny square of worn carpet before the statue of the Blessed Virgin. The church was almost in darkness except for the yellow candle-light above the statue. In that single pool that glowed, the juggler went through his repertoire of tricks, cracking his jokes, throwing his knives, catching his plates and finally standing on his head balancing the six shining balls each of which reflected the candle-light. As it happened, one of the monks had been praying in his cell and was late for supper. As he sauntered past the church, he caught sight of the street entertainer who by that time was three-quarters of the way through his act. Horrified at the sight, he ran to the Abbot to explain what he had seen. Accompanied by a number of angry brethren, the superior of the monastery rushed into the church just as the juggler was ending his programme.
‘Is this the way you reward us for our hospitality?’ demanded the Abbot angrily. ‘We give you shelter, food and kindness, restore you back to health and what do you do? You desecrate our church by performing outlandish tomfool tricks on consecrated ground before the Blessed Virgin! I’m speechless! Absolutely speechless!’
Beaucaire realised he was in an extremely delicate position. He had heard a number of tales where monks had meted out serious physical punishment to people who defamed their religion and their practices. He had no idea whether such tales were true or not but at that moment he considered it was not for him to find out to his disadvantage. The situation appeared to be very ugly and he could offer no excuse for his actions except that he wanted to give thanks for all he had received. The monks clearly didn’t see it in the same light. But how could he escape their wrath and come away completely unscathed? The monks stared at him waiting for guidance from the Abbot and Beaucaire looked at them with his big round black eyes, neither of them making a move. Suddenly, when the tension reached its height in the silence that prevailed, the miracle occurred. As the Abbot made his decision and ran forward preparing to take hold of the juggler, he halted at the sound of a voice which came from the statue of the Blessed Virgin who looked down at him.
‘Be merciful,’ she uttered in a low voice. ‘This man is trying to show his appreciation to me in the only way he knows how to... by performing his act. He is unskilled in the ways of the monastery and I ask that you show him mercy.’
Without hesitation, the Abbot and all the monks fell upon their knees, muttering prayers under their breaths, begging mercy for their souls. Beaucaire remained upright watching them with a bland expression on his face.
‘This man is not desecrating consecrated ground but offering his thanksgiving to me which I fully accept,’ she went on. ‘Now, all of you, return to your duties and continue to pray to me accordingly as you all do so well.’
They got to their feet bowing before the statue in turn for a few brief moments as if waiting to be dismissed. Then the Abbot turned on his heel and walked backwards out of the church. It was a sure sign from Heaven that his faith was wholly true, otherwise why would the Blessed Virgin actually speak to them all? It was indeed a miracle... one which had been witnessed by all the brethren in the monastery as well as himself. But there was something else which tortured him at the back of his mind. It was mostly the fact that all the prayers and praises of the monks, all their matins, primes and evensongs, all their alms and sacrifices had failed to earn a benediction of that kind. Yet the performance of a simple ordinary ignorant street entertainer had been sufficient to allow her to speak. Perhaps, he thought, simplicity and honesty are far more important in the long run in a person’s life as against a forced life of prayers and praises in a monastery.
When they had all gone, the little Frenchman breathed a sigh of relief. That was a close one! A real close one! He could have been seriously injured by the brethren because they misinterpreted his actions. It had been a miracle that he had managed to survive. As far as the voice of the Blessed Virgin was concerned, Beaucaire had never had to resort to ventriloquism before but, needs must when the Devil drives, and fortunately it had worked very well indeed.
The next morning, he left the monastery to walk the streets of Assisi. It was a small town with few people living there. It’s only claim to fame was that St. Francis had been buried there in the huge thirteenth century basilica on the Hill of Paradise. It was sufficient to attract a number of tourists who visited the place during the summer months but this was Spring, well before the tourist season, and no one was there. After deciding to leave the town, he hitched a ride on a passing wagon which happened to be going to Florence. He thought about performing in the Piazza del Duomo but his heart wasn’t in it. Any city which could arrange for him to be taken to the countryside, thrown in a ditch and left to die was not worth its salt. He was far better off with the poor people in the villages and towns in his own country. Consequently, he hitch-hiked on another wagon and soon returned to his native France. Perhaps there was a Blessed Virgin looking after him he thought when he considered all that had happened. Maybe it had been a miracle that she had spoken. After all, to his amazement, he soon discovered that he had another deficiency to add to his lack of talent. He found out that when he tried to throw his voice nothing happened. He had no talent for ventriloquism... none at all!
The Quaker
Guy Strutt was released from prison at Five Points Penitentiary, New York, in 1865. The act was effected by a special decree issued no less than by President Abraham Lincoln himself. The American Civil War had finally ended and the great man decided to grant an amnesty to all pacifists and conscientious objectors allowing them to leave jail as free men. The war had been bitter and self-inflicted, encouraged by the principle and greed by those in the South who resisted the emancipation of the black community. Many soldiers had been killed unnecessarily on both sides. There were some who fought the cause with great courage while others proved themselves to be less than honourable on the field of battle. However, right from the start, there was never any real doubt about the outcome. Sadly, war is an armed conflict which, in the end, produces no real winners. It is a horrendous state of animosity bringing death and casualties to both sides.
Strutt was a confirmed pacifist. He had refused to fight for the North, or for anyone else for that matter, on religious grounds. He was a member of the Religious Society of Friends, commonly known as the Quakers... a remark made by the founder of the Society, George Fox, who had commented that the members “trembled at the word of the Lord”. They were truly pacifists, refusing to take oaths, and also prohibiting the use of titles. They also rejected outright the ministry and sacraments of the established church. Strutt, rising to six feet four inches in height with the girth of a wrestler, was unable to prove his prowess as a fighter in the American Civil War. In his younger days, however, he had been a formidable opponent in any street fight. At one time he considered he might take up prize-fighting as a career, then he saw the light and prayed to the Lord for mercy for his sins, vowing never to take up arms or fight anyone else in his lifetime.
He had been drafted for duty for the North against the South as early as 1862 with orders to report to Commander Torcher in Tennessee but he stuck to his principles well aware of the punishment for refusing to fight. He made no bones about his intention and stayed where he was, unlike many others who took flight and disappeared when receiving papers demanding that they join the army to fight the
ir fellow countrymen in the South. Subsequently, he was sent to Five Points Penitentiary in New York where he served a sentence which lasted for just over three years. Although the conditions at the prison were the worst kind experienced anywhere in the world, he never regretted his decision to remain a conscientious objector for one moment. Indeed, he felt vindicated for his views and religious beliefs on his release for he always considered that God would let him go free when it was his desire to do so.
From the moment he left prison, his luck changed for the better. Within a week, he was visited by a whole host of other Quakers willing to help him return to society again. To his advantage, one brother Quaker offered him permanent employment in his bookshop which he had recently opened in Manhattan. At the time, people were starting to become more educated and the books sold each year were increasing in number. He had been working there for almost a month when a pleasant young lady entered the shop one day asking for a particular book. Alicia was tall and very slender. She was pretty, auburn-haired, with a pale face which was enhanced by high cheek bones. Even better was the fact that she was single in status. He readily entered into conversation with her and found that, although not a Quaker, she followed most of the same principles as himself. They went out together one evening and within three months they were married. In less than three years, they had two children, a boy, Archibald, and a girl, Rebecca. Strutt still worked in the bookshop but he became cognisant of the fact that the United States was a developing country with many opportunities for those who wished to reach out and take them. News came in each month of more settlers taking wagon trains to the West towards Texas, Arizona, Nevada and California. They made claims of land there which was bought up for a pittance and they built new homes and grazed stock. Furthermore, reports indicated that the weather was far more favourable in those climates than in New York where the summers were intolerably hot and the winters undesirably cold.
