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The Sidewalks of New York
by Colonel
Edward H. Joy
This is a selection from the unpublished manuscript,
'Our Fathers Have Told Us',
some early-day stories from The
Salvation Army
Am I succeeding in passing on to my younger readers some of
the thrill of the earlier years of The Army, when from nearly
every country where we were at work, there came word that
their soil was being enriched by the blood of Salvationist
martyrs, the see of The Army today?
Scarcely a city, and villages innumerable, but had its
own tale of sickness and loneliness patiently borne, and where
men and women were laying down their lives to maintain our
standards. Ours
is, indeed, a glorious heritage!
In the days of my boyhood I was thrilled by the stories of
happenings in the cities and towns of the United States.
Week by week, as I read the American 'War Cry', a bond
of Salvation kinship was being created, as I compared the
happenings over the sea with those we were enduring in my own
land, and I must confess, there was a feeling of relief in my
heart that my lot was cast in pleasanter circumstances.
I read of an Army girl in Minnesota - than an unknown country
to me - who was brought to death by inches from the kicks of
the ruffians in the town where she was stationed; another was
an Officer fired upon by an angry mob and severely wounded in
the streets of Baltimore.
Those 'War Crys' from afar told the story of an Army Soldier
of New Orleans, who, going one day on a simple errand for
himself, was met by a gang of hoodlums and so severely kicked
and wounded, that, within a week, we was carried to his grave
accompanied by his mourning, yet rejoicing, comrades.
I read, too, of another Soldier, this time in a California
town, who, selling 'War Crys' in a saloon, was invited by some
of the customers to share their drinks.
One his refusing and proceeding to deal with them on
the error of their ways, two of them demanded he should
desist, drawing their guns to back up their demand.
He continued his entreaties, however, thereupon both
men fired upon him, severely wounding him in the thigh and the
stomach. In such
ways did our American comrades share in the worldwide wave of
persecution surging around us.
Here is a story worthy of being included in any tales of the
'stirring deed of old', even though it be but one among others
similar in incident and tragic ending in more than one land of
our occupation.
The girl of whom I am going to tell was born in a wealthy and
luxurious home, of which she was the petted only daughter.
Her father idolized her, and she lived in the highest
degree of comfort until reverses overtook her father, and he
lost all his property and his life through shock.
On the day of her father's death, her mother sank into
hopeless invalidism which lasted for two years, and during
that time Mary Mason was a sick nurse and a household drudge.
Life, indeed, went hard with her.
But no so hard as it might have been, for just then she
entered into the knowledge of Christ as a personal Saviour.
This had come to her in a Salvation Army meeting.
She became a sincere Salvationist and rejoiced in all
that it meant.
Then, also, she had promised to marry a man whom she loved
with all her heart.
Her wedding day was fixed, but her lover died on the
day before that fixed for the happily expected marriage.
In ordinary circumstances she might have gone for comfort in
her sorrow to the people of The Army, bust just then we were
torn apart by the defection of our leader, our ranks scattered
by dissensions - no need to dwell on the details, save to say
that one sorrowing soul was denied a friendship she craved,
and stung to the quick by what she regarded as being out of
all keeping with what she had expected, she abandoned her
newly-found experience, and flung off all profession of
religion.
But God called her; louder than the voices of insincerity was
the wooing voice of the gentle Shepherd, and, by and by, she
went to The Army again, and renewed her vows and pledged
herself to a fuller service for God.
The intervening years had been filled up in a loving
toil for her brother, whom her mother had left to her care.
"Look after him always, Mary," she had said, and faithfully
Mary had laboured to fulfil that dying request.
She worked in homes, drudging as a servant, so that she
might find the necessary funds to put the lad through a
medical college.
On the day he attained his diploma she drew a long breath -
she was free now to serve God in The Army, and to fill in some
of the spaces which the years and her getting away from God
had created.
She entered the old Training Home in New York, and full of
ardour, - the free, dauntless ardour of fifty years ago.
She had all the sings of a long, useful life - plump,
rosy-cheeked, and a sunny disposition, for she was happier now
than she had been for years.
The sorrows and disappointments of the past were lost
in the flood of present usefulness; she was happy beyond
expression.
But those were the days when the Salvationists were hated and
misunderstood people in old New York; when saloon-keepers
incited the mobs against us; when no filthy story was too
obscene to be levelled against us; when no newspaper told any
good about us. No
public conveyance could be entered without a stream of abuse
being poured upon any Salvationist passenger.
No Army pedestrian could safely walk abroad.
One day, perhaps it was foolish of then to do so, Mary and the
loved 'Mother' of the little Training Home went out for a
short walk together.
"Come out for a breath of fresh air," invited the
Staff-Captain, "it will do both of us good."
So they went out together.
They were unwise, you might say, to dare to tread the
sidewalks of New York in broad daylight; there were foolish to
expect that the police would afford them any protection.
For a few moments they walked unmolested, and then a
rough, hulking fellow show could have lifted Cadet Mary with
one hand, struck her a blow with all his force between her
shoulders. The
blow knocked her down, and she was suffering terribly when the
Staff-Captain lifted her and brought her back to the Training
Home.
"Bruised lung," said the doctor, laconically and unfeelingly.
"She was weak there before, ought never to have joined
your Army - can't last long!"
The fellow who had done the mischief sauntered on his way,
proudly, very likely, that he has asserted the right of New
Yorker city to protest against the 'Blood and Fire' invasion;
so called gentlemen had smiled at the prostrate girl; none had
come forward to help her and her comrade.
It may seem difficult for American Salvationists of
today, so honoured and beloved, to believe that such things
are less than fifty years old.
Mary lay down on her narrow Training Home bed to die, nursed,
though she was, with every possible loving care.
She suffered much, but her grief was that she would
never be able, after all, to do anything for her Master; never
be able to fill up those lost years.
"It's all right, I know," she whispered in long,
gasping breaths, "but it seems hard I'll never be able to do
anything for Him.
Dear Lord, lay not this sin to his charge!"
Did that hulking hoodlum ever feel the force of her
prayers?
One more blow she was to receive a're her trials were at an
end - this time on her bruised heart.
The Army people had written to her brother, the one for
whom she had toiled for so many years - to say that she was
dying. But he
never answered.
Those were the days when to join The Salvation Army meant
social ostracism, and the complete severance of family ties.
The newly-fledged physician would have no dealings with
his sister who had made herself a drudge for him.
She died in the arms of her Training Home 'Mother'; died with
a smile on her face, and a 'Father, forgive them!' on her
lips.
She was buried on a wet, chilly day, and nobody, possibly,
remembers much about it these fifty years after, except one
man, if he yet be living, who knelt at the Penitent Form at
her Memorial Service.
The account of her passing did not take up much more
than a column of the 'Cry'.
Since then I have searched old files of American 'War
Cry' but could find nothing more about Mary Mason, only in
other ways have I filled in the details of her story.
Let us lay a wreath on her grace - where is it? - and let it
be inscribed: "Killed for daring to wear on the streets of New
York a garb which showed she belonged to Jesus Christ!," and
having done that let us take up the fight once more under the
Flag which flies all the higher because of those who have laid
down their lives for it.
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