Chapter 12
Chapter 12
Jungle Justice
January 25, 1953, was a day Betty Howard would never forget. Betty sat on the end of her bed reading her Daily Light devotional book. The verse for the day was from First Peter: “Think it not strange concerning the fiery trial which is to try you, as though some strange thing happened unto you: but rejoice, inasmuch as ye are partakers in Christ’s suffering.” Betty closed the book and bowed in prayer.
Bang! Bang! Betty cocked her head to listen. She had heard the unmistakable sound of gunshots. The sound was a little closer to the house than usual but nothing too out of the ordinary, since the Colorados and the local men all hunted with guns.
Once again Betty closed her eyes to pray. Then she heard shouts and screams beginning to permeate the air. Next she heard the sound of the hooves of galloping horses and people running. Suddenly the hair on Betty’s neck stood up as she heard Doreen scream from downstairs, “They’ve killed Don Macario!”
Betty sprang from the bed and sprinted down the stairs. “Don’t let it be true, don’t let it be true,” she prayed.
Pulling open the front door, Betty heard a volley of excited voices. “They’ve murdered Don Macario. Don Macario has been shot!” She stopped, unsure what to do next, when Don Lorenzo, one of the members of the Brethren Assembly, came running up.
“Is it true?” Betty asked.
Don Lorenzo nodded, gasping for breath. It took him several attempts to tell what he knew of the story. Apparently Don Macario and the Quiñones family had quarreled over whether Don Macario or the Quiñoneses had the right to plant banana trees in a cleared patch of jungle close by. As they argued, someone—Don Lorenzo was not sure who—had stepped up and shot Don Macario point-blank. “He dropped down dead. His body still lies over there where he fell.” As he spoke, Don Lorenzo pointed to a spot at the edge of the jungle where a crowd had gathered.
“I’m going straight over there,” Doreen said.
“No, don’t do that,” Betty replied. “Wait until we get the authorities. It could be dangerous.”
Doreen took no notice and marched off in the direction of the crowd. Betty watched her from the porch of her house. Soon Doreen was back, leading four men, each carrying the corner of a blanket. On the blanket was Don Macario’s dead body. Betty let out an involuntary gasp. This was the first time she had ever seen a murder victim.
Before long, Don Macario’s body was laid out on Barbara’s porch. No one knew what to do with it. One of the women of the village had galloped off to Santo Domingo to get the authorities, and the body could not be buried until some kind of investigation had been undertaken.
In the meantime, the body acted like a magnet to everyone within a five-mile radius of San Miguel. Nursing mothers, small children, old men, and teenage girls all appeared on the porch, eager for a chance to examine the dead body and discuss the circumstances of the death.
The scene repulsed Betty, but she too stayed on Barbara’s porch in a personal vigil. She was aware that Don Macario’s death had a different implication for her than for anyone else standing around. In front of her lay her link to the Tsahfihki language—and the key to getting a Bible to the Colorado Indians. Don Macario was the only person she knew who was fluent in both Tsahfihki and Spanish. And now he was dead—killed in a senseless act of violence.
Betty thought back to her morning devotion: “Think it not strange concerning the fiery trial which is to try you, as though some strange thing happened unto you: but rejoice, inasmuch as ye are partakers in Christ’s suffering.” She shook her head. Did Saint Peter really have this in mind when he wrote those words? It was one thing to read about rejoicing when a difficult thing occurred but quite another to rejoice in the midst of such a situation. How could she rejoice when someone had just brutally shot her only informant? How would such an act help to bring the gospel to an isolated people like the Colorados?
Hours passed. Arguments broke out between the mourners and the curious observers. Some said that Don Macario was murdered because he was helping Betty with her translation work; others said that he did not have the right to plant the bananas trees. Betty did not know what to think. She didn’t even care about the details of Don Macario’s death. All she knew was that a good Christian man who had been willing to help her in her linguistics work was now gone.
It was midafternoon by the time two police officers and another missionary named Bill rode into San Miguel. Betty had not met Bill before, but she had heard about him and how he had served as a missionary in the area for a long time and was familiar with the local customs. She felt relieved, assured that Don Macario’s body was now in good hands. However, as was often the case in the jungle, things did not go smoothly.
The taller of the two police officers announced that he could not begin his investigation until he knew what had happened. This made no sense whatsoever to Betty—an investigation was supposed to find out what had happened. But there was no reasoning with the officer. And even though he heard from many witnesses as to how the killing had occurred, the officer insisted that someone perform an autopsy and retrieve the bullets so that he could be sure that the man had been shot.
Betty’s stomach lurched at the thought, but Bill agreed to perform the autopsy. The scene that followed was one Betty knew she would never forget, even if she wanted to. Bill knelt beside the corpse and after some time was able to locate the bullets. This seemed to satisfy the police officer that Don Macario had been murdered, and now the officer could get on with the investigation.
Betty then turned her attention to the police officers. The officers walked over to the bushes where Don Macario had fallen after being shot, shined their flashlights into them, and then beat the bushes for a minute or so.
“No one is here now,” one of the officers declared.
“No one,” the other officer agreed. “We have a victim but no suspects,” he added, looking up at the sky.
“Too bad we can’t stay any longer, but it will be dark soon. We must be going,” the first officer commented.
By now Bill had washed himself up as best he could, and he and the two police officers mounted their horses and galloped off in the direction of Santo Domingo.
So that’s jungle justice, Betty thought as she watched the men ride away. The police had been more interested in the show than in actually getting to the bottom of what had happened and determining who had committed the murder.
By now the sun had set. Doreen and Barbara got some flashlights and took the body to the schoolroom for the customary wake. Since Don Macario had no family in the area, the members of the Brethren Assembly took charge. Betty took her turn staying part of the night with the body. She joined in the hymn-singing and prayers and the long silences. As the all-night vigil wore on, endless cups of coffee were consumed. Betty could hear the sounds of hammering as a coffin was constructed across the clearing. Early the next morning a funeral service was held, and Don Macario was buried in the small cemetery nearby. Light rain fell as his body was laid to rest, mimicking Betty’s gray mood.
After the funeral service, Betty went to her room to rest, but rest would not come. Nightmarish images played before her eyes, and unanswerable questions plagued her. Had the fact that Don Macario was her informant led to his death? Did God care that her one link to the language of the Colorados was gone? Was this part of His plan for the Colorado people, or had Satan just won a huge victory? And how would she overcome her discouragement and find the will to keep going when everything now seemed empty and lost?
No answers to her questions were forthcoming, but Betty found solace in reciting the simple Bible verses that she had learned as a child. She recited the verses like lifelines. “Surely he hath borne our griefs and carried our sorrows…and with his stripes we are healed” (Isaiah 53:4–5) was one of her favorite verses. Yes, she knew she would never understand what had happened, but she would try hard to trust God to help her carry on with her linguistic work.
The following morning Betty pulled out her file box and pen and continued with her work, reviewing the notes and charts of the Tsahfihki language she had made so far. As she worked, she silently prayed that God would show her the way ahead without Don Macario at her side.
Three nights after her informant’s murder, Betty once again heard the sound of horses’ hooves galloping into the clearing. A friend of Doreen’s had come to visit. She also brought with her a telegram that had Betty’s name on it. Betty’s heart skipped a beat as she opened the telegram. Was someone ill, or dead? What could be so urgent as to warrant a telegram?
A huge smile spread over her face as she read, “Meet me in Quito. Love, Jim.”
Suddenly the way seemed clear to Betty. Although she was willing to stay with the Colorado Indians, she had a wonderful feeling that God was unfolding the next stage of His plan for her. She hurried upstairs to pack. She would leave for Quito first thing in the morning.
The next day was one of the longest in Betty’s life. She felt like she was moving in slow motion—even the delays had delays. Landslides blocked the way on the truck ride to Quito, and the driver waited endlessly for passengers who waved him down and then disappeared. The chain on the road over the Andes opened late—almost too late to make it to Quito by nightfall. But finally she made it, and two days after receiving the telegram, Betty was in Quito chatting across the table with Jim Elliot. Betty and Jim were at the Tidmarshes’ house, where they had been invited to stay.
The dinner conversation was fascinating. Ed McCully and his wife, Marilou, had been invited to dine with the Tidmarshes. Betty knew Ed from Wheaton College. Ed had been in the same year as Jim at college and planned to become a lawyer. In his senior year, Jim had been the president of the Foreign Missions Fellowship, and he had challenged those in the fellowship to target five people and pray that God would call them to be missionaries. Ed McCully was the senior class president, and Jim had targeted him as one of the five people he was praying for. Nonetheless, at the end of his senior year, Ed had not been called to missions but had gone off to earn his law degree at Marquette University. He and Jim had stayed in touch, and somewhere along the way Ed finally felt the call to missionary service. And now here he was in Ecuador. He and Marilou had been in Quito for a month, learning Spanish in preparation for joining Jim and Pete Fleming in the work at Shandia.
Ed and Marilou had many questions about the work at Shandia, and Betty was enthralled as Jim answered them. Jim told how he and Pete had managed to clear the overgrown airstrip at Shandia, making it no longer necessary to make the six-hour trek from the nearest airstrip at Pano to Shandia. Nate Saint, the Missionary Aviation Fellowship (MAF) pilot who serviced the missionaries of the Oriente, could now fly people and supplies in and out of Shandia.
Jim also spoke of a recent experience in which he and Pete had been called out in the middle of the night to try to save the life of a small child sick with pneumonia. They had given the young girl a shot of antibiotics, but despite their best efforts, the child had died. It had been a heartbreaking experience, and Jim explained that he hoped that Ed’s presence would vastly improve the quality of the medical care the missionaries could offer at Shandia. Jim explained to Betty that before leaving for Ecuador, Ed had taken a yearlong course at the School of Missionary Medicine in Los Angeles.
When dinner was over, Ed and Marilou returned to the house in which they were staying to check on their nine-month-old son, Steve. The Tidmarshes tactfully retired to their room, leaving Betty and Jim alone together.
A fire crackled in the fireplace as the couple talked. They discussed the similarities and differences of their missionary journeys thus far. After a few minutes their conversation fell silent, and then Jim simply asked, “Betty, will you marry me?”
Betty’s heart skipped a beat. This was the moment she had been waiting for! She thought for a moment and then asked, “Jim, do you believe God has given His permission for us to get married and for you to give up the life of a single missionary and take me as your partner?”
Jim nodded, his voice thick with emotion. “Yes, Betty, I do.”
That was enough for Betty. “Then the answer is yes.”
Their conversation soon turned to practical matters. Jim was adamant that Betty learn to speak the Quichua language before their marriage. He explained that he had seen too many missionary wives who had good intentions but had become weighed down with household duties and babies and never got around to learning the local language. He also said that the wedding could not be anytime soon. He had already committed to building a new house for the McCully family, and he had undertaken several other large projects.
Betty told Jim that she was willing to wait as long as it took, and in the meantime she would begin her Quichua language studies—just as soon as she could figure out a way to do so.
Jim and Betty enjoyed a wonderful week together in Quito: Betty had a ring on her finger and a man at her side. And while in Quito, Betty decided to take advantage of the unexpected trip to civilization and get a medical checkup. On the day that Jim left to return to Shandia to continue with his work there, Betty received some stunning news—a routine chest X-ray had turned up something ominous: an active case of tuberculosis.
Surely not, Betty silently prayed. Was this just another test, another suffering that she had to go through? And how would it affect her plans to marry Jim? There was no way she could go back to the jungle with TB. At the very least she would have to stay and be treated in Quito. Or, if the tuberculosis was too far advanced, she would need to return home to the United States—possibly to die!