They asked Vincent to hold services for the fifty-seven lost souls in the mine, the ones who had gone before them. A hundred men, women and children packed into Vincent’s tiny hut. Vincent had had nothing but coffee for days. He had had almost no solid food since the accident. He was too weak to stand on his feet. The fever and despair had returned to his heart. His eyes were just two black pin pricks, his cheeks had been sucked in, the circular bones under his eyes protruded, a dirty, red beard matted his face. He had rough sacking wrapped around his body to take the place of underwear. Only one lantern illuminated the shack. It hung from a broken rafter, giving but a flickering glow. Vincent lay on the straw in his corner, holding his head up on one elbow. The lantern flung fantastic, flickering shadows over the rough planks and the hundred mutely suffering souls.

He began speaking in a parched, feverish voice, every word filling the silence. The blackjaws, thin, emaciated, wracked by hunger and defeat, kept their eyes on him as they would on God. God was a long way off.

Strange, loud voices were heard outside the shack, lifted in indignation. The door was flung open and a child’s voice cried, “Monsieur Vincent is in here, Messieurs.”

Vincent stopped speaking. The hundred Borains turned their heads toward the door. Two well-dressed men stepped in. The oil lamp flared up for a brief moment. Vincent saw horror and fear written across the strange faces.

“You are welcome, Reverend de Jong and Reverend van den Brink,” he said without rising. “We are holding funeral services for the fifty-seven miners who were buried alive in Marcasse. Perhaps you will say a word of comfort to the people?”

It took the Reverends a long time to find their tongues.

“Shocking! Simply shocking!” cried de Jong, giving his protuberant stomach a resounding smack.

“You would think you were in the jungles of Africa!” said Van den Brink.

“Heaven only knows how much harm he’s done.”

“It may take years to bring these people back to Christianity.”

De Jong crossed his hands on his paunch and exclaimed, “I told you not to give him an appointment in the first place.”

“I know . . . but Pietersen . . . who could ever have dreamed of this? This chap is absolutely mad!”

“I suspected he was insane all the time. I never did trust him.”

The reverend spoke in rapid, perfect French, not one word of which the Borains understood. Vincent was too weak and ill to realize the import of what they were saying.

De Jong stomached his way through the crowd and said to Vincent quietly but fiercely, “Send these filthy dogs home!”

“But the services! We haven’t finished the . . .”

“Never mind the services. Send them away.”

The miners filed out slowly, uncomprehending. The two Reverends faced Vincent. “What in the world have you done to yourself? What do you mean by holding services in a hole like this? What sort of a new barbarous cult have you started? Have you no sense of decency, of decorum? Is this conduct befitting a Christian minister? Are you utterly mad, that you behave like this? Do you wish to disgrace our Church?”

The Reverend de Jong paused for a moment, surveyed the mean, sordid shack, the bed of straw on which Vincent lay, the burlap wrapped around his body and his deep sunk, feverish eyes.

“It is a fortunate thing for the Church, Monsieur Van Gogh,” he said, “that we have given you only a temporary appointment. You may now consider that appointment cancelled. You will never again be allowed to serve us. I find your conduct disgusting and disgraceful. Your salary is ended and a new man will be sent to take your place immediately. If I were not charitable enough to think you entirely mad, I would call you the worst enemy to Christianity that the Belgian Evangelical Church has ever had!”

There was a long silence. “Well, Monsieur Van Gogh, have you nothing to say in your own defence?”

Vincent remembered the day in Brussels when they had refused him an appointment. Now he could not even feel anything, let alone speak.

“We may as well go, Brother de Jong,” said the Reverend van den Brink after a time. “There is nothing we can do here. His case is quite hopeless. If we can’t find a good hotel in Wasmes, we’ll have to ride back to Mons tonight.”

16

THE FOLLOWING MORNING a group of the older miners came to Vincent. “Monsieur,” they said “now that Jacques Verney is gone, you are the only man we can trust. You must tell us what to do. We do not wish to starve to death unless we have to. Perhaps you can get ‘them’ to grant our wishes. After you have seen them, if you tell us to go back to work, we will. And if you tell us to starve, we will do that, too. We will listen to you, Monsieur, and to no one else.”