Reverend Ferdinand Greenleaf ’s letter to Dr George Cross,
2nd August 1915, continued
V
As the years passed, our numbers continued to fluctuate. Natives who had nowhere else to go came drifting in from neighbouring rivers, some travelling hundreds of miles on foot avoiding capture to see our Mission for themselves. Although some men left of their own free will, many families stayed on and we made housing arrangements without fuss. In 1886 I sent a letter to the Department of Public Instruction signifying our continued need for materials and attaching a thorough list of the items we were in desperate need of – rations, sugar, tea and figs of tobacco, and also boards, iron, doors, windows for the schoolhouse. Six months later the Department telegrammed to announce a visit to inspect our progress in order to approve funding. I immediately rounded up the children and for a week of days and evenings we practised from the Bible until I had many quoting from it by heart. The Word of God was truly becoming a light to their feet and a lamp to their path! On the big day, and without a moment’s shyness, little Mercy ran up to the inspectors and tugged at the sleeve of one of the gentlemen. She then quite confidently, and without encouragement, recited William Hickson’s version of ‘God Save the Queen’. Three hours later, at the close of the inspection, I was informed that all of the materials would be supplied as well as a skilled carpenter at our disposal. They had recognised the importance and the unmistakable success of the day school, and, furthermore, I think due to sweet Mercy, elected to raise it to the position of a public school, thereby securing to our institution all the benefits, they promised, enjoyed by every White school in the Colony. I was overfilled with joy and promise on that evening and I gave my thanks upon my knees for some hours.
And yet, the delivery of the much-needed items was delayed again and again. The season was very dry and the harvest did not wither for want of harvesters, but from the sheer violence of the sun. Our few head of sheep were dying of starvation. I prayed for help and direction, and – lo! – direction and help came!
An old Blackfellow came to my hut saying, ‘Plenty of fish down long river.’
At first I took no notice, but as he kept repeating it, I said, ‘Alright, I will send a horseman tomorrow.’
Upon saying this he became very warm. ‘You no send horse, you send big dray with me.’
I was struck by the old man’s confidence and thinking the Lord might provide, I approved a fishing expedition. The next morning, four men and the old Jacky led us to a section of the river that bottlenecked below Kengal. On reaching a short, steep slope to the river I had not before come across, three of the Blackfellows stripped from their clothes, bounded down the bank without a thought and plunged into the waist-high water, and within moments began spearing the fish. Such a sight I had never before witnessed. The three spearmen kept old Jacky, another fellow Wowhely and myself gathering up and bagging, and in the course of hours we had secured about six hundredweight. After thanking God we returned to the Mission and caused a general rejoicing throughout the settlement. The women immediately set aside two-thirds of the catch for drying and preserving.
As we were feasting that evening, Hans Keller and I heartily agreed that we had been blessed. I asked him whether he thought it correct, in such thin times, that we should allow the Natives to go about their old ways if we could sustain ourselves. With the assistance of his sated appetite he saw little problem with it.
From that day forward I took to the capacities of the Blackfellows as a keen observer. They showed me the tubers at the river we could eat after roasting on the fire, and a type of native potato that the women pounded and produced from the vegetable a fine, fluffy cake. I learned more of their language and, over the years, listed 115 words of theirs that I have attached here – and in exchange, they took to my sermons with an equal fervour. Although not without difficulty in the language. I understood that the parts of my sermons that divided us were not the sentiments, but the words. That’s what the Blackfellows told me when I explained God; they said Baymee to me, and furrowed their brows and nodded like we were talking in the seriousness that we were. And so, after much reflection and frustration I prayed and asked the Lord – ‘Why am I only hidden with Christ in Paul? Why can they not be hidden in God with Baymee?’ The answer I decided upon was that I should be flexible with words. That I should be open to translation, as it were.
So, in secret I gathered with the men and gave sermons about Him, neither the Lord nor Baymee. I told the courageous stories and the enchantment of creation and they nodded and listened, enraptured in the tales. I never told Baumann, or Keller, or any Church or Government official who visited the Mission once I made this decision. At first, I thought that Baymee was their word for God, but deep down I think I knew it wasn’t. I think I always knew we were praising their own God in the absence of mine. Because, where had the Lord Jesus been in those years?
We were dependent on only the land for our rations, and the materials from the Department of Public Instruction never surfaced, and I had still not yet built an official Prosperous Church. I had not yet installed the rose emblem of coloured glass in its eastern facade. At least the river flowed on time, the sun rose and dipped each day; at least they could point their God out to me, Baymee they uttered. Baymee they said as the men pointed up to what they called Kengal – the great granite apparition that looms north of Prosperous Mission. I’d take their arm and point it just an inch or so higher, so that in my faith I could say we were pointing to the heavens, but their arms always dropped a little when I let go, and they would correct me at forty-five degrees, their fingers at the tip of Kengal – Baymee they’d confirm indisputably.