For Adoniram, things were even more desperate. What at first had seemed like a case of seasickness had turned into dysentery. Adoniram was too sick to eat, and his raging fever could not be quenched by the small amount of water he was given each day. He lay in his bunk for days on end, too weak to get up. He only faintly understood when the captain came to tell him he had abandoned all hope of reaching Madras and instead the ship was now headed three hundred miles farther north to the small port of Masulipitam.
Adoniram began to fade in and out of consciousness. When he was conscious, he thought about Ann back in Rangoon. He wondered how long it would be after his death before she received word of it. Finally, three months to the day after setting out so optimistically from Rangoon, the Two Brothers arrived off the coast of Masulipitam. The sea was now calm, and the crew were eager to go ashore. The captain asked Adoniram if he would like to be carried ashore, but Adoniram could hardly concentrate long enough to think about what to do next. Eventually, though, he managed to scribble a note. He addressed it to “Any English Resident” and begged whoever read the note to come and get him from the ship so that he could die in peace on dry land.
Late in the afternoon, a boat rowed by British soldiers in red uniforms came to collect Adoniram. The soldiers lifted him onto their boat, where he lay drooped across the bow as they rowed him ashore. Adoniram was met at the dock by a British army officer, who insisted Adoniram be his personal guest.
With some fresh clothes to wear, a cool bed to lie upon and plenty of food and water, Adoniram made a speedy recovery, which astonished him. He had been certain he was going to die. But instead of being laid out in a coffin, he was up and strolling around. Once his strength returned, Adoniram turned his attention to getting back to Rangoon. He fretted that Ann, after not hearing a word from him in nearly four months, would imagine the worst, and he was eager to get back to her. However, he flatly refused to reboard the Two Brothers, and sail south to Madras, the nearest major Indian port, where there was usually a steady stream of ships coming and going. Instead, he decided to travel the three hundred miles to Madras overland.
On April 1, 1818, Adoniram thanked the British officer for his kindness and generosity and set out to hire a palanquin, a padded box carried by four men. As he traveled along in the palanquin towards Madras, Adoniram thought about how things had changed in India for him. Where once he had been hounded by British officials who wanted to arrest him and deport him to England, now a British army officer had taken him in and shown him great kindness. He had done so not only because Adoniram was in such obvious need but also because the East India Company was now a little more tolerant of missionaries coming to India, though it still exercised great power over who was and wasn’t allowed to stay in the country. As well, it was obvious to all, even the most narrow-minded East India Company official, that Adoniram had not come to India to stay as a missionary, rather he was the innocent victim of regrettable circumstances that had marooned him in the country. As soon as he could, he would be on his way back to Burma.
When Adoniram finally reached Madras, more disappointment awaited him. Not a single ship in the harbor was headed north farther on up the Bay of Bengal, and none was expected until July or August. Once again, Adoniram felt trapped. He could do nothing but wait and pray that he would make it back to Rangoon soon.
In Madras, the Reverend Mr. Thomason, a chaplain with the East India Company, invited Adoniram to stay with him for as long as he needed. Appreciative of the offer, Adoniram tried to make himself useful, helping Mr. Thomason wherever and however he could. At lunchtime each day, he walked to the docks to see whether any new ships were on the horizon.
In late July, Adoniram finally found a captain whose ship was headed for Rangoon. But before he booked passage, he made some inquiries about the ship and its captain. He had no intention of being buffeted around the Bay of Bengal for another three months at the hands of an incompetent mariner. Everything was in order, and so with great relief Adoniram said farewell to Mr. Thomason and set sail for Rangoon.
Thankfully, the trip back was swift and comfortable. On August 2, 1818, Adoniram stood on deck and watched happily as the pilot boat slipped through the mouth of the Rangoon River on its way to meet them. His happiness was short-lived though. The pilot had some disturbing news for Adoniram. As far as he was aware, the mission in Rangoon had broken up. Adoniram questioned him repeatedly, but it was no use. The pilot did not know anything more, and he had no idea what had happened to the missionaries.
The trip up the Rangoon River seemed agonizingly slow to Adoniram as he fretted about whether Ann was dead or alive. And he wondered why the mission had broken up. And what had happened to the printing press and his nearly completed revision of the Burmese grammar book and dictionary? The questions plagued him, but he knew there would be no answers until he reached Rangoon.
Long afternoon shadows stretched across the countryside when the golden roof of the Shwe Dagon pagoda came into view, looming above the jungle. Adoniram was nearly home. He went below and collected his things. He didn’t have much, since he had packed only enough for about a month, not for the seven months it had been since he set sail from Rangoon. And while he was disappointed to be returning without a single Burmese Christian, the thought paled in comparison to the fears he had for his wife’s safety.
Tears of joy welled up in Adoniram’s eyes and streamed down his face when he saw Ann standing next to George Hough on the dock. His wife was alive and well! Adoniram rushed down the gangplank as soon as it was lowered, and he embraced Ann. Together they talked long into the night. Ann insisted Adoniram tell her his story first. She wanted to know where he had been and why he hadn’t brought any Burmese Christians back with him from Chittagong.
When Adoniram was done telling her of all his misadventures, Ann told him of all that had happened in Rangoon since he had left. He was shocked by the awful things that had occurred during his seven-month absence. Ann explained that for the first month all had gone well. The vicereine had come and taken her on several elephant expeditions. She had even asked Ann some searching questions about the Christian tracts she had seen. But after that, things changed fast. The viceroy was promoted, and he and the vicereine had moved to the royal city of Ava. The new viceroy of Rangoon was a single man, and so Ann, being a woman, could not present herself to him. Women in Burma were not permitted to speak to male officials. Regrettably, George Hough did not know much Burmese, so the missionaries had no proper way of introducing themselves to the new viceroy. Soon after the new viceroy’s arrival, an order came from the courthouse for George Hough to present himself there. No reason was given why his presence was required, and Ann began to fear something bad was going to happen now that they were no longer under the favor of the viceroy.
George Hough went to the courthouse, where officials told him that all foreign teachers had been banned from Burma and if George did not tell the Burmese officials everything he had been doing in Rangoon, they would write their report with his blood. The officials arrested him and questioned him for two days. Since George could speak only few words of Burmese and the officials could not speak a word of English, the questioning was long and torturous.
“It was about then a ship from Chittagong brought news that you had not landed there,” said Ann, sighing deeply. “I knew ships were often swept off course, but I did begin to worry.”
Adoniram reached over and clasped his wife’s hand. “I am sorry to have put you through that,” he said. “But tell me, what happened next? Why did they let George Hough go?”
Ann smiled. “I was beginning to give up hope of ever seeing him or you again when our Burmese language teacher came to visit. He suggested I write a petition on behalf of the mission and submit it to the viceroy. In doing so, he told me, we would find out whether the viceroy had ordered George Hough’s arrest or if his officials had done so without his knowledge in order to try to extract a bribe from the mission in return for George’s release. The viceroy was very angry when he read the petition. ‘Why has the foreign teacher been treated this way?’ he demanded of his officials. The officials got the message, and after an apology from them, George Hough was released and wasn’t bothered again. But no sooner had he been released than something much worse happened: Cholera broke out.”
“How can that be?” interjected Adoniram. “Cholera is found only in India.”
“Not anymore,” replied his wife grimly. “There was no mistaking it. It was awful. Thousands of people died. The death drums beat all day and all night. It was so frightening. A healthy person could wake up well and happy in the morning and be in his grave by dinnertime. I was scared. Sometimes I wished you were here with me, and other times I was glad you were away from the terrible disease.”
Adoniram could see Ann’s eyes welling up with tears, which Ann dabbed with the corner of a handkerchief. “On top of that,” she said after regaining her composure, “the ships that did come to Rangoon brought rumors of a war brewing between the Burmese and the British. Did you hear anything about it in Madras?”
Adoniram nodded. “I heard that tensions were building along the border between Burma and India.”
“Fortunately the rumors didn’t come to anything, but they scared Phebe Hough so much she insisted that George and she move to Calcutta,” said Ann.
“And what made them change their minds?” asked Adoniram.
“They haven’t,” said Ann. “In fact, they left on a ship a week ago, but it had to turn back when it got to the open sea. The cargo in the hold shifted dangerously. As soon as it’s reloaded, they intend to be off again. George packed up the printing press, and it’s stowed onboard the ship.”
Adoniram frowned. “But the press was donated for use in Burma,” he said, a note of frustration and disappointment in his voice.
“I know,” replied Ann soothingly. “George says he will keep printing anything we translate. He just wants to do it at a safe distance from Rangoon, that’s all.”
Adoniram and Ann sat in silence for a moment.
“Oh, I almost forgot!” exclaimed Ann. “There is one piece of good news. I received a letter two months ago saying the Baptist missions board is sending out two new missionaries and their wives to join us. They are the Wheelocks and the Colmans.”
Adoniram smiled broadly. “God takes one family from us and replaces it with two,” he chuckled. “Thank goodness Luther Rice went back to the United States to stir up interest in missionary work.”
“Think what we’ll be able to do with three missionary families here,” said Ann excitedly. ”I just know everything is going to work out fine, especially now that you’re home.”
As Adoniram Judson looked into his wife’s bright blue eyes sparkling with hope, he almost convinced himself she was right. But deep down inside, he had a nagging feeling the worst was yet to come.
Chapter 13
Into the Golden Presence
Six weeks later, in mid-September 1818, two young missionary men and their wives disembarked in Rangoon. Adoniram rushed to the dock to meet them. At first he was shocked at how young they were: Edward Wheelock was twenty-two, his wife, Eliza, was twenty, and James and Lucy Colman were both twenty-three. But then he realized he had been only twenty-four himself when he set out from New England to be a missionary. And like him, what they lacked in age they made up for in enthusiasm. They were adaptable, too. Back at the mission house, no one complained about the overcrowding or the new diet, which consisted of strange foods like curry and tropical vegetables that had never made their way to New England. Within days, the four new missionaries were hard at work learning the Burmese language. They were helped greatly in this by the grammar book and dictionary Adoniram had written.
