In July the following year, another son was born to Adoniram and Sarah. They named him Henry in honor of the brother he would never know. Adoniram and Sarah had two more sons, Charles, born December 18, 1843, and Edward, born December 27, 1844. This meant that Adoniram now had six living children, and Sarah, seven. However, counting the children who had died, Sarah had actually given birth to eleven children, and those births, along with the harsh conditions of Burma, had taken a toll on her body. She caught every illness that circulated in Moulmein, and long bouts of dysentery often kept her in bed for weeks at a time.
By March 1845, both Adoniram’s and Sarah’s health were in a weakened state. The ongoing bouts of sickness were causing Sarah to fade fast. Adoniram had a throat and chest infection that caused him to cough continually, and he could not speak above a whisper. The doctor warned Sarah that her only hope for recovery was to get back to the United States for treatment as quickly as possible. By April she was too sick to travel alone, so Adoniram made plans to return to America with Sarah and the three oldest children, Abigail, Adoniram Jr., and Elnathan. The three youngest children, Henry, Charles, and four-month-old Edward would stay behind with various missionary families.
On April 26, 1845, five members of the Judson family climbed aboard the Paragon. If all went well, when Adoniram and Sarah returned to Burma, the three oldest children would stay on in the United States. So it was with great sadness that they said farewell to the three youngest children. Adoniram realized it was probably the last time he would ever see his entire family together in one place. The only bright spot about the impending voyage was the knowledge that Sarah’s son George would be waiting for them in Boston. George was now eighteen years old, and as sad as she was to leave her three littlest children behind, Sarah was excited about seeing her oldest son again.
The voyage seemed to work wonders on Adoniram’s and the children’s health. Three weeks after setting sail, the children were playing tag on the foredeck and enjoying themselves immensely. Things were not going so well for Sarah, though. Sometimes she appeared to be improving, and then she would get sicker than she had been before.
By the time the ship dropped anchor in St. James Bay on the island of St. Helena in the south Atlantic, Adoniram was convinced Sarah was near death. Indeed she was, and in the early hours of September 1, 1845, Sarah Judson died. A coffin was rowed out to the ship and Sarah’s body placed in it. Adoniram, the three oldest Judson children, and many members of the crew escorted the body ashore. A local missionary conducted a funeral service, and Sarah was buried in the church cemetery. That night, Adoniram, his heart breaking, and the children returned to the ship, which immediately set sail for Boston.
The end had come so quickly for Sarah that Adoniram and the children could scarcely believe she was really dead and buried and that they were continuing on without her. A week later Adoniram wrote in his journal: “For a few days, in the solitude of my cabin, with my poor children crying around me, I could not help abandoning myself to heartbreaking sorrow. But the promise of the Gospel came to my aid, and faith stretched her view to the bright world of eternal life…”
Once again, Adoniram Judson, now fifty-seven years old, was a widower. This time, however, he had been left with the responsibility of six children of his own and one of Sarah’s. He wondered what he would do with the children when he reached Boston. His mother had died several years before, but his sister Abigail was still alive. She was now fifty-four years old, and Adoniram wondered whether she would be up to caring for his three lively children.
None of the children spoke much English, since Adoniram and Sarah had always spoken Burmese around the home. Adoniram was even a little worried about carrying on a long conversation in English and fitting in with American ways. After all, it had been thirty-three years since he had last set foot in his homeland. It seemed to him, too, that almost everyone he had known in New England was now dead. The “three Samuels”—Samuel Nott, Samuel Mills, and Samuel Newell, who in 1810 had signed their names along with his to the petition to the General Assembly of the Congregational Church requesting that they form a missionary society—were now faded memories. Samuel Mills had died at sea in 1818 while returning to Africa where he had been a missionary. Samuel Newell had died in India soon after leaving Adoniram and Ann and Luther Rice on the Isle of France. And as far as Adoniram was aware, Samuel Nott had died in India, too.
It was a Wednesday afternoon in mid-October when Adoniram and his three children finally stepped ashore in Boston. Thousands of people lined the dock and spilled out into the street beyond. Many of them carried a copy of Ann Judson’s biography, which had been reprinted many times and circulated throughout the United States.
Adoniram gulped, and tears welled in his eyes as he looked out at the cheering crowd. He realized that far from being a forgotten figure in history, he, along with the other early American foreign missionaries, had become a hero. It was gratifying to know people thought of him that way, though he did not consider himself a hero. He had simply done what he believed God had called him to do.
As Adoniram helped the children ashore in their new homeland, the crowd hushed, waiting for the veteran missionary to address them. Adoniram cleared his throat and opened his mouth to speak, but nothing more than a whisper came out. A pastor standing close by stepped forward and yelled Adoniram’s words of greeting, gratitude, and thanks to the crowd. When he was done, the crowd once again cheered wildly.
That night, as Adoniram lay alone in bed, his thoughts drifted back to the time he and Ann had stood together on the deck of the Caravan and watched the coast of New England fade from view. The newly married couple was barely out of their teens at the time and were filled with enthusiasm to spread the gospel. Now Ann was gone, along with the three children she had given birth to. And now Sarah was dead, too, along with three more of Adoniram’s children. Adoniram had paid a higher price than he could ever have imagined, yet the rewards were great. He had left behind him in Burma a complete translation of the Bible in the Burmese language, a strong contingent of missionaries, and hundreds of converts. Now he wondered what lay ahead of him. Would he see his adopted country and his three youngest children again?
The following few days in Boston were hectic. It seemed that everyone wanted to see the “Saint of Burma,” as Adoniram had been dubbed by the press. Adoniram was horrified by the title. He knew he had made many mistakes along the way, and he worried that people would think he was perfect. Adoniram attended meetings every day, sometimes going to as many as three or four. After a while the meetings all seemed to blur together in his mind, though one meeting would forever stand out in his memory. He had just finished speaking when an elderly man rose from the congregation and made his way to the front of the church. Adoniram stared; there was something vaguely familiar about the man. Suddenly, as the man climbed onto the platform, Adoniram realized who he was. It was Samuel Nott! The two men embraced. Many in the congregation wiped away tears as they watched the reunion of these two great Christian men.
Later Samuel Nott explained to Adoniram that reports of his death in India had been premature. He had become gravely ill there and eventually returned to the United States, where he had made a full recovery. Since then he had served as a Congregational pastor in Wareham, Massachusetts.
A week after arriving in Boston, Adoniram and the children were glad to board a train for Bradford to visit Ann’s mother and sisters, Mary and Abigail.
Of course, there was the inevitable round of meetings in Bradford, and soon Adoniram began to feel like a caged zoo animal on display. He longed for some peace and quiet, as did his children. The children were often left with strangers while he was away at speaking engagements, and they were finding it difficult to adjust to life in New England. Adoniram decided the sooner he could get them settled, the better off they would be.
After much consideration he decided to send the boys to live with Dr. and Mrs. Newton, friends of Sarah’s. George Boardman, the boys’ half brother, was already staying there, and the Newtons were happy to accept the responsibility of two more children. Adoniram had already decided that Abigail Ann, who was just about to celebrate her tenth birthday, should stay with his sister Abigail in Plymouth.
When he arrived in Plymouth to deliver his daughter, Adoniram was surprised by what he found. Abigail still lived in his parents’ house, and the room he had grown up in with Elnathan was still there, exactly as he had left it thirty-three years before. Abigail had refused to let anyone touch a thing. Walking into his boyhood bedroom gave Adoniram the eerie feeling of moving back in time.
A letter was waiting for Adoniram in Plymouth. It was from Burma, and it was not good news. Charles, the middle of the three youngest Judson children, had died soon after the rest of the family set sail for the United States. Charles had actually died a month before Sarah, and Adoniram breathed a prayer of thanks that Sarah never knew about it and never had to bear the grief of her son’s death as she herself lay ill.
By midwinter, Adoniram’s thoughts were turning back towards Burma and the two children he had not seen in nine months. The three older children were now settled into their new homes, and there was little more he could do for them. But before he could set sail again for Burma, there were still more meetings for him to speak at. In one particular case, a Reverend Mr. Gillette from the Eleventh Street Baptist Church in Philadelphia had written several times asking Adoniram to come and speak. Adoniram’s voice had still not returned to normal, and he wondered wearily why so many people still wanted to hear him speak. He kept putting off making a decision about going to speak in Philadelphia, but the Reverend Mr. Gillette was a persistent man. When he wrote again and said he would take the train to Plymouth and personally escort Adoniram back to Philadelphia, Adoniram felt it would be impolite to refuse his offer.
The train ride from Plymouth to New York went as planned, but the trip from New York to Philadelphia took two hours longer than normal because of a derailment ahead. They were two hours that would change the course of Adoniram’s life.
Chapter 19
Homeward Bound
The train hissed to a stop, and Adoniram glanced at the Reverend Mr. Gillette, who looked apologetic. “I don’t know what the holdup is. Let’s hope it won’t be long,” he said.
Adoniram nodded just as the conductor entered their carriage.
“Derailment on the line ahead. They’re clearing it now. Should be done in an hour or two,” announced the conductor with a strong Irish accent as he walked briskly down the aisle on his way to the next carriage.
“It looks like we’ll be sitting here awhile,” said Mr. Gillette. “I wish I’d brought some work with me.”
“Me too,” lamented Adoniram. “For once in my life I don’t have a single thing to read.”
Mr. Gillette pulled his leather satchel from the rack above his head and reached inside. “I’m sure this isn’t along your usual tastes, Dr. Judson, but you are welcome to take a look at it if you would like.”
Adoniram took the slim, leather-bound book the pastor was holding out to him. “Tripping in Author Land,” he read aloud, “by Fanny Forester. You’re right. It’s not my usual fare, but thank you for the thought.”
He opened the book and skimmed through the chapter titles, The Bank Note, Nickie Ben, and The Chief’s Daughter. Nothing Adoniram would want to read caught his eye, but since there was little else to do, he flipped to the middle of the book and began to read. Soon he was totally engrossed. The stories themselves were flimsy tales, something his daughter Abigail might read, he thought, but there was something about the writing style itself. The book was filled with humor and lightness, and Adoniram found himself feeling sorry that the author had wasted her talents on such trivial material.
