Once more Francis and his friends set sail from Ancona, traveling with a convoy of crusading transports by way of Cyprus to Acre on the Syrian coast. It was a voyage of about six weeks. One can picture them standing on the deck of the transport watching for their first sight of the Holy Land, their hearts beating, hardly sure at first whether the dim shapes they saw on the horizon were clouds or the mountains of Israel. When they came nearer and saw the coastline, and knew it for the coast of Galilee, then surely Francis’s voice rang out, leading them all in a joyous Te Deum. Slowly the ship drew in to the little town of Acre among its date palms, Acre that had been called Accho Ptolemais in the days when the Phoenicians had sailed from it to the Tin Islands of the west. From the hills above Nazareth the boy Jesus could have seen the blue sea and the ships sailing from Ptolemais. It has been said that Joseph of Arimathea sailed with the Phoenicians and that on one voyage Christ the Son of God sailed with him. Francis and the brothers landed, bemused by memories, and by the thought that Nazareth was so near, and at Acre to welcome them was Brother Elias, Minister-Provincial of Syria, who was in charge of the Brothers Minor who were already in the Holy Land. But they could not stay at Acre. The transports had merely put in there because it was the military base for Damietta. Having greeted Elias and the brothers they sailed on down the coast to Damietta at the mouth of the Nile, where for a year and a half the chivalry of Christendom had been suffering and dying before the walls of the city and had not breached them yet. It was imperative to the success of the crusade that Damietta should be captured, for it was one of the gates of Egypt, and Egypt was the heart of Saracen power and influence. With Damietta in their hands the crusading army would be halfway to possession of the Holy Places.
To find himself in the crusaders’ camp must have been a great experience for Francis, for all about him were the dreams of his boyhood come to life. Here in their bright pavilions dwelt princes of the Church and of the world, knights and nobles from nearly every country in Europe, with their men-at-arms, their minstrels, their destriers, their sumpter mules, their hawks, and their dogs. The camp was brilliant with flying pennants, escutcheons and banners emblazoned in scarlet and azure and green. Francis, making his way through the lanes of glittering color, listened to many voices chattering in a babel of Spanish, French, German, English, and Italian, heard the songs of the soldiers, the ring of the trumpets, the clang of hammer on anvil. And at night, when it was quieter, he listened in delight to the music of the lutes and viols and the songs of the troubadours, stealing out into the darkness from the glowing pavilions where the princes, knights, and prelates were feasting. He watched the lifting pennants in the torchlight and the lights out at sea, where the Venetian fleet was riding at anchor, and sometimes he wandered away from it all into the stillness of the night and looked out over the desert, faintly lit by the glory of stars in the sky, and breathed the breath of the East, and knew that this was Egypt. And then the lights at sea, the camp behind him, vanished from his consciousness, and he heard nothing but the faint rustle of the wind in the date palms close to him, saw nothing except the little donkey plodding through the desert, the man with weary, bowed shoulders walking beside it, a woman in a blue cloak upon the donkey’s back with her baby in her arms.
When he came back to the busy camp again he was confused and distressed by the contrast between that vision and this. For it had not taken him long to discover that only outwardly was this chivalry that of his boyhood’s dreams. There were a few Galahads here; he saw them kneeling at mass, their young faces rapt and absorbed when the cup was lifted. Sometimes he saw a bearded Charlemagne, or the eyes of Roland met his with a smile of recognition in them. There were some holy priests among those who followed in the trains of the bishops and abbots, and many good fellows among the rough men-at-arms. But in this army of the cross there was also much of the riffraff of Europe, here for loot. The drunkenness and vice of the camp appalled Francis and nearly broke his heart. He was not surprised at the bloodshed and disaster that had marked the progress of the siege, and when he heard that the commanders of the army were planning what they hoped would be the final assault on Damietta he knew it would not succeed. Such sin as he saw about him could not fail to pull down upon itself the inevitable aftermath of pain and death. He was in great fear for these men but as always he was practical. What could he do? He could preach repentance and Christ crucified to the sinners about him, and he could do his best to prevent the attack upon Damietta.
The first was the easier task, for he loved sinners and knew how to talk to them. Dissolute nobles, worldly clergy, and the jailbirds and bandits in the ranks alike listened to the little man, at first with kindly amusement, later with attention. He put the fear of God into them and if they were not too hardened he broke their hearts. There were many repentances. Presently it was not only the Galahads who knelt at mass but rank upon rank of men who soon would meet their death as the penitent thief met his, with good hope of paradise because they had repented of their sins. It was said of Francis at this time, “He is so lovable that he is worshiped by all.” Here too in this camp Francis had his kingdom.
But he was not successful in preventing the attack upon Damietta. It was not often that he shrank from any duty, but though martyrdom held no terror for him he was not at all happy at the thought of going to the commanders of the army and telling them the attack would fail. They would be sure to laugh at him. “If I tell them disaster will happen to them,” he said to one of the brothers, “they will think me a fool; yet if I remain silent I shall not escape the judgment of my conscience. Tell me, therefore, what think you I should do?” The brother replied with humor, “Less than nothing is it for thee to be judged of men; for it is not now that they will begin to call thee a fool.”
So Francis went bravely to the men in command and gave his warning, and they laughed at him, and on August the 29th, 1219, with trumpets sounding and banners flying, the great army marched forward to defeat and death. Throughout the progress of the battle Francis was in such agony of mind that he could not bring himself to watch it. Twice he sent one of the brothers up to a high place to watch and bring him news, and twice the brother returned to say he could not see how things were going. Then Francis sent him a third time and he came running back with fearful news; the army was retreating, defeated and broken. When the remnant returned it was found that the crusaders had lost six thousand men captured and killed, and among the latter was almost the whole chivalry of the knights of Spain, who had fought with heroic grandeur.
For a while Francis and the brothers had their hands full ministering to the wounded and the dying, and then, out of all the tragedy and pain, came the moment for which Francis had been waiting, the chance to do what he had come to do. A truce was called that the dead might be buried and negotiations opened. Both sides wanted a pause in the fighting. The sultan because he hoped the discouraged Christian army would take itself off altogether, and the crusaders because they were waiting for reinforcements. Now was the time for Francis to cross over to the enemy lines and preach to the infidels.
Characteristically he decided to go straight to the sultan. All Francis’s ideas had this bold simplicity, the ideas of a man who is either quite mad or supremely sane. The sultan was the representative of his people and the symbol of the Moslem faith. Where he led, his people would follow, and if he were captured for Christ, his people might very well be captured too. This was common sense to Francis, and he went to the papal legate who was with the army and asked for permission to go and preach to the sultan. As soon as the legate had recovered a little from the shock of the request he reminded Francis that the sultan had offered a golden ducat per head for every martyred Christian. But at this Francis’s face lit up with joy and the legate capitulated. With such men as Francis there was nothing else to do. Saints, geniuses, and lunatics are alike, hard to withstand, and Francis probably seemed to him a mixture in equal parts of all three.
Francis chose Illuminato for the
supreme honor of accompanying him to probable martyrdom. The Moslem tortures were well known. Decapitation would only be the coup de grâce of a long process. In that black hour there was nothing to tell Illuminato that he would be Bishop of Assisi in his eighties and die in his nineties. His heroism was supreme and that of Francis cannot be compared to it because Francis wanted to die a martyr’s death. But he did understand the feelings of his companion sufficiently to give him a little comfort as they set out together. A couple of lambs ran across their path and he said cheerfully to Illuminato, “Put thy trust in the Lord, brother; for in us that saying is fulfilled: Behold I send you forth as sheep in the midst of wolves.”
The sight of the lambs must have taken the thoughts of them both back to the shepherd boy who had preached the children’s crusade, and the other little boy who had gone up and down the ranks of the brothers picking out the twelve who were to come with Francis to this nightmare country. How flat it was, flat beneath the pitiless blue sky, a wasteland of reeds and lagoons and sand, no trees except the palms. They were far from the forests of Italy, from her mountains and musical ravines, and from Assisi upon her hill. They were far from home and every step they took brought them nearer to that grim crouching old city of Damietta, and the camp of the victorious army of Sultan Melek-El-Kamil. They were crossing the wasteland that divided Christendom from the dark heathen world at the thought of which men trembled, two little plodding figures who never looked back at the crusaders’ camp that was receding farther and farther away behind them. Their bare feet left light tracks in the sand that lasted for a while and then disappeared as the desert wind stirred over them. The sounds of the Moslem world came out to meet them, high shrill cries in an unknown tongue, weird singing, a hot breath of scents that were alien and frightening. They went on. They reached the fringes of the camp and saw it all before them, terrible, rich, and strange. Then they were over the rim of the heathen world and swords flashed about them. They were set upon, seized, and captured. The terrible new world closed over their heads and they disappeared.
The wonderful story becomes mysterious and uncertain with their disappearance. They were in the Saracen camp for some time, they emerged from it alive after much suffering, and their mission was on the face of it a failure. These are the bare facts but around them there is woven a web of stories that may be factually true, or may not, but are at any rate true to the fact of Francis. They show him courageous, quick-witted and ready to endure any agony to save a soul for Christ. The joyful thing about all the stories of him is that whether they are proved fact or unproved tradition they all show us Francis and for that reason all ring true.
At first Francis and Illuminato had to suffer rough handling from the Moslem soldiers. Possibly they were beaten, perhaps they were kept in chains for a few days. That they were not killed was most likely because the soldiers thought them mad, and Allah bids men spare the mentally sick. They could not understand the lingua franca and so Francis could not talk to them. All he could do was to cry out through all they did to him, “Soldan! Soldan!” And the soldiers, not knowing what to do with these lunatics, brought them to the courtiers about the sultan, who were able to talk to Francis and ask his business. He said he had come to preach the gospel of Christ to the sultan. Ferocious though these men could be, they were not without chivalry and courtesy and they spared this strange little man who had so trustingly put his life in their hands. Possibly they were touched by him, beaten and weary, with bruised flesh and torn habit, and yet so bright-eyed and eager and so apparently unconcerned by his danger and physical plight. They spoke of him to Melek-El-Kamil, and the sultan said that he would see the two Christians. Perhaps he thought talking to them would pass an idle hour entertainingly.
The story tells us that he made amused preparations for the audience. He ordered a carpet covered with crosses to be spread on the ground, saying, “If he treads on the cross I will accuse him of insulting his God; and if he refuses to walk on it, I will accuse him of insulting me.” Then he came to his great pavilion, surrounded by his emirs and courtiers, soldiers and Nubian slaves, and seated himself there. Color glowed about him, the crimson and blue of the arras, the robes and jeweled turbans of the men in attendance. There was a point of brightness here and there as the subdued light struck fire from a great ruby or a curved scimitar. There was a hush of expectation, and then the two poor tattered friars were brought in.
Francis saw nothing of the splendor about him, he saw only the dark bearded face of Melek-El-Kamil the infidel, a man for whom Christ had died and yet who did not worship him, and compassion for him surged up in his heart. The light of his love leaped into his eyes as he met the amused and wary glance of the infidel, and he went quickly toward him over the carpet studded with crosses. At once the sultan pulled him up, taunting him with having trodden underfoot the cross he professed to adore. Francis’s retort flashed out instantly, one of his perfect answers. “You should know,” he said, “that our Lord died between two thieves. We Christians have the true cross; the crosses of the thieves we have left to you, and these I am not ashamed to tread upon.” The sultan was delighted. Francis’s quick wit had won him a hearing, and he listened attentively while the battered little Christian preacher talked to him about his God. He spoke with such love and conviction that he touched the heart of Melek-El-Kamil. He was oddly drawn to the little man and when their eyes met he felt a bond between them. When the sermon ended and Francis stood silent before him, trembling with eagerness and exhaustion, he spoke gently to him. He asked him to stay in his camp awhile that they might talk together again, and he gave orders that the two friars were to be courteously treated.
The days must have passed strangely for Francis and Illuminato. They prayed and said their offices in some quiet place, talked as they could with the men who looked after them, ate the strange food and listened to the alien noise of the great camp all about them. Perhaps they ventured to walk about the camp a little, saying to one and another, “God give thee his peace!” At evening they would have heard the cry of the Muezzin, “There is one God, Allah, and Mohammed is his Prophet!” And when the faithful turned toward Mecca in prayer they would have prayed also, making large slow signs of the cross, their faces turned toward Jerusalem. And Francis talked with Melek-El-Kamil and failed to win him for Christ.
The sultan liked to talk with Francis, and was so charmed by him that he wanted him to stay with him always. “Willingly,” said Francis, “if you and your people will be converted to Christ.” But the sultan only smiled and shook his head. He was moved by all Francis’s pleadings, infinitely attracted by the man himself and by his faith, but the head of the Moslem world, whatever his private doubts and longings, could acknowledge only one God, Allah, and Mohammed as his Prophet. To bring Melek-El-Kamil and his people to Christ, to bring peace to the world, Francis would have done what he said; he would have offered his life for this man and stayed with him always. That offering was refused but there remained the other. He could offer his death. He offered himself to undergo the barbarous Moslem ordeal by fire. “If you hesitate as to the merits of the law of Mohammed and the faith of Christ,” he said to his friend, “command that a great fire be lighted, and I together with your priests will enter into the fire that you may know which is the more worthy and true.” The sultan, who had observed the most revered among his priests quietly leaving the pavilion at this point, said smilingly that he doubted if any priest of his would accept the challenge. Francis replied, “Then if you will promise for yourself and your people to come to the worship of Christ if I come out of the fire unhurt, I will enter the fire alone. But if I am burnt up, impute it to my sins, and if the divine power protects me, acknowledge Christ to be true God and the savior of all.”
But the sultan refused the test. Had he accepted it there would have been an uproar among his people, and Francis would have lost his life. He refused and there was no more that Francis could do except ask for permission to return to the Christian camp.
It was granted and the two friends said goodbye to each other with sorrow in their hearts. “Pray for me,” said Melek-El-Kamil, “that God may deign to reveal to me that faith which is most pleasing to him.” It was Pilate’s cry of “What is truth?” – the cry of the heathen world feeling blindly for God’s hand in the dark.
And so Francis and Illuminato left the Moslem camp and once again the two little figures plodded through the wasteland of sand and rushes and water toward the pavilions of the Christians. They had failed. Neither converts nor martyrdom had been granted to them. The taste of failure was bitter but no doubt Francis was well used to it. His biographers record only his successes but there must have been occasions when his prayers failed to turn a sinner from his sin, or when a sick man on whom he had laid his hands went from him only to die. But his humility would have taken the worst sting from the pain. For who was he? Only a miserable manikin who had offered himself to be used or not used, to die or not to die, just as God wished. It was the willingness that mattered, not the success. The willingness was all. But The Little Flowers of Saint Francis is not content to leave the matter there, and if the story that it tells of the death of Melek-El-Kamil is legend it is a legend that stands as a symbol for some unknown truth. For God the great Husbandman wastes nothing. Every prayer, every task of love, all pain of mind or body borne for his sake, is gathered into the storehouse whose wealth pours out unceasingly for the salvation of souls. Melek-El-Kamil would never have forgotten Francis and the memory would have wrought upon him.
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