THE LONG VOYAGE.
The long voyage was made on the Oriental, Captain Myles. Mrs. Carr was
the only lady who had taken first-class passage. There was a rich young
man on board, who had been put under the care of a Scot of mature years;
the young man was peculiarly susceptible to the temptation of strong
drink, but the Captain reassured his sisters with the declaration that
there would be no drinking aboard his vessel! The young man wished to
visit Australia, one of the few countries he had never seen, and Duncan,
the Scot, had undertaken his charge that he, too, might have the treat
of foreign travel.
England had not faded from sight before the corks were flying.
Mrs. Carr found herself associated with a class of men who were far from
corresponding to the degree of their tickets. She felt the need of
woman's society, since her husband was the only man present who
possessed that refinement and moral instinct which had been the breath
of her life. She was unable to hide her disapproval of the drunken
orgies which the officers of the crew shared, and it was particularly
distressing to her to witness the deliberate ensnarement of the rich
young man, the evident scheme to make him drink that he might be fleeced
at the card-game.
She and her husband put their sentiments into words of remonstrance,
which resulted in the Captain's making slighting remarks, as they sat at
table. He took a spiteful pleasure in boasting in their presence that he
wouldn't employ a "teetotaler on his ship."
The first Sunday out Mr. Carr was asked to conduct the religious
services. He read the First Psalm and made remarks relative to the godly
and ungodly. Captain Myles was enraged. "I supposed we would have the
Church of England Service," he said at the conclusion; "we will have it
after this; I will read it, myself." And so he did, when he was not too
drunk; in that case, he had the ship's physician read it.
Mrs. Carr sought relief in the association of the other women on board,
but this was peremptorily stopped. "If she wants to keep company with
second-class people," said the Captain with a sneer, "let her buy a
second-class ticket."
The ship had not been many days from the British Isles before the crew
was almost completely demoralized. Drinking, gaming, coarse songs marked
the hours of the night. The sailors were at the mercy of the winds. The
vessel drifted over to the coast of Africa. It was becalmed two weeks
under the intolerable heat of the sun's vertical rays, while not a
breath of air came to relieve the hot glare of the Equator.
One day the Captain exclaimed with the air of one who has made a
terrible decision, "If we don't get wind to-morrow, I will jump
overboard!" The morrow came, and there was no wind. Of course the threat
of the Captain resulted in nothing more dangerous than a cooling bath in
the peaceful waters, but the effect of his words, and of his sudden leap
from the deck, were hard upon sensitive nerves.
Mrs. Carr being denied the companionship of women, found what relief
from the monotony she might, in writing letters, and especially in
writing in her commonplace-book many quotations from the poets. She
beguiled the time, also, in composing poetry which deals rather with
themes of home, than with those of distant scenes. The ship was wafted
toward South Africa, but it did not weigh anchor. "The only view we had
of South Africa consisted of some monkeys in the trees." When the Cape
Verde Islands were sighted, Captain Myles was anxious to exhibit his
skill by passing within a stone's throw of one on either side. Mrs.
Carr, rejoicing at the sight of something more human and picturesque
than monkeys in trees, took extensive notes:
"June 18. The Captain caught a large dolphin--change of color in dying.
Breakfasted on flying fish.
"June 19. Sighted Antonio and St. Vincent islands--passing between them.
Cape de Verde Islands, possessions of Portugese. Antonio with its
innumerable rocky points, some losing themselves far above the clouds.
The white haze peeping behind, lights up the acute angles of the
points--the heights are dark, frowning and barren, with white bowlders
at the feet. The gray terraces in the distance look like leaping waters,
rushing onward to the ocean, to kiss the breakers. The shores are dotted
with little villages whose houses are small and white, with red tiled
roofs. Around these villages are spreading greens along the shore, and
extending up the heights that, through the glass, are seemingly
inaccessible. Yet these heights are laid out, far up, with hedges into
green fields and waving orchards. The shore is indented with innumerable
little bays, and the magnificent ravines to which they point, fill the
soul with awe.
"St. Vincent is inhabited by the Portugese, yet there is not a spring,
or well of fresh water, or a blade of grass in the whole island. There
are the signs, far up the island, of the washing of the waves. What a
glorious sight they would present in a storm! Here and there, far up the
heights are solitary rocks and vast strata left bare by the washing of
rains and waves, and blackened by the elements. Signals are hoisted
opposite Porte Grande in order that the Oriental may be reported in
Liverpool in 12 days. Two sailing ships are in the harbor. The Oriental
passed between St. Vincent and Shell Island."
One day the discovery was made that there was a stowaway on board; it
was a young man with a crippled arm, who had slipped into a hiding-place
as the Oriental lay at the Liverpool dock. Captain Myles was all the
more furious because he found himself helpless to rid himself of the
unfortunate youth. He compelled the stowaway to do the meanest labor,
and the hardest his crippled state would allow. When the sailors
encountered him, they greeted him with oaths, if they greeted him at
all. He was set to scour the decks, and it was a task that had no
ending.
The Oriental drifted at last into the arms of the Trade Winds which sent
it whirling around the Cape of Good Hope. A furious storm came on. The
sea was lashed into mountain-peaks and was hurled in rushing torrents
over the decks. Those sailors who were obliged to remain above, walked
waist-deep in water. The man at the wheel was tied to his post--the
Captain was up all night; but not, now, at cards and drink. The rumor
spread among the passengers that the crew expressed their doubts of
weathering the gale. The rumor was founded upon truth; the outcome was
extremely doubtful. There was the usual scene preceding a probable
capsizing; curses and prayers, the sudden scream of agonized fear, or of
desperate appeal. "But we committed ourselves to the care of the
All-wise and Almighty, and went to sleep."
Morning came to show under its dim light a battered ship, doors broken
open, cabins inundated from the seas that had poured down the hatchways,
and spars swept away. But suddenly the ocean grew calm, the wind became
fair, and the vessel headed straight for Australia.
They were at table when the cry arose above, "Man overboard!" Captain
Myers started up with an oath and went growling and storming to see into
the matter. It was the stowaway, who had been cast dizzily from the
life-boat he was trying to paint by a sudden lurch of the vessel. The
Captain himself threw him a life-preserver and shouted, "Stop for him, he's
too crippled to swim to it. Ship about! Man the life-boat!" In that boat
brave sailors went down out of sight in the angry sea, then like a bird
sat on the crest. Our ship "across sea" rolled fearfully and the Captain
commanded the passengers to leave the deck. The sailors in the boat
returned, but the poor crippled boy could not be found. And so the fair
wind bore them on their way and the youth who had come from the unknown
into our story, dropped back again into the unknown. Was there any one
to care?[7]
One hundred and four days on the deep, during which period, land had
been sighted only three times. Mrs. Carr continued to remember, and to
write poetry. We find this, "Written on board the Oriental, South
Atlantic, August, 1868:
Homeland, dearest, gentle homeland,
Dearest now art thou to me--
Dearest, for between us stretches,
Dark and grim, the cruel sea.
I have left thee, home and homeland,
I have bade thy joys adieu
But, my heart, my heart is with thee,
For I know thy heart is true.
Now I know how great thy soul is,
Know its depths, so deep, so mild.
Dear and tender home and homeland,
Pray, pray for your wandering child.
So I smile--the Father's calling
To a land beyond the sea,
To the weary heavy-laden,
Who are groaning to be free.
Yield I? Yes, I once was weary,
Heavy-hearted and oppressed;
Yield because Christ died to save me,
Yield because he gave me rest.
With such glorious love to lead me
Can my heart its thrilling tell?
Home and homeland, I have left you;
Dear and tender, fare you well!"
Thus after her varied experiences, we find the young bride's poetic
fancy slipping past the grandeur of the ocean life, its terrible storm
and its terrible calm; she remembers not now the beautiful castle with
its orchid gate, nor thinks of the family of ten who are to return to
their peasantry in the stately rural life of Old England; nor of the
wonders of the British Isles; it is Kentucky that claims her deepest
love and sincerest tribute--And if her ears ring to the melody of "Old
Kentucky Home," a voice seems to speak, breaking its way through the
music with--"Go ye into all the world and preach the gospel to every
creature."
At last, the Oriental casts anchor in Hobson's Bay. The voyage is ended,
the experiences in a foreign land are to begin. The Carrs are urged by
many of the second-class passengers to report the conduct of Captain
Myles, but they let his insolence to them pass with the passing of
unfavorable winds that have so long delayed the ship. At this entrance
into a new life, they are saddened to discover that the Captain has
persuaded the rich young man to go back with him--to refuse even to
land. He has not yet been completely stripped at the gambling table, and
he is so valuable and tractable a victim, that all arts are employed to
feed his vanity and alienate him from his guardian. It is a fearful
disappointment to the sturdy Scot, Duncan, to be deprived of his travels
in Australia, but he will not leave his weak-minded charge; so he turns
his back on the land to see which, he has endured contumely and abuse,
and sails away to do all he can to save his ward from the Captain's
rapacity--thus furnishing the Carrs with an example of fidelity to his
promise made to the sisters of the unfortunate man, which they treasure
in their hearts.
A hundred members of the church have come from Melbourne to Hobson's
Bay, to welcome the missionaries. Among them, the happiest is Oliver's
fellow-student at Harrodsburg, G. L. Surber.
"For many months we have been waiting to hear if some sacrificing ones
would leave the United States for this country--" as he and Gore had
left, a few years before. "Then at last," he writes, "we were rejoiced
to hear that Brother O. A. Carr and wife had left Liverpool for
Melbourne. Our anxiety was to see them in health. For a fortnight we
read the daily papers eagerly, hoping to hear from them. At last our
suspense was relieved by a telegram--the Oriental had entered the Head,
which constitutes the entrance to the port of Melbourne, about 45 miles
from the city. When I heard the news, I felt as I never felt before.
Now, I thought, my long loneliness is to end, and the cause of Christ
can be more fully met! I could not help weeping, but it was the weeping
of a rejoicing soul. My brethren in America do not appreciate their
blessings. What wonder that I, cast, as it were, upon a distant island,
almost alone, should rejoice at the coming of a co-laborer!"
He continues: "After receiving the telegram, September 2nd, a number of
brethren with myself went to the port, and took a skiff and went out to
meet them. After rowing about till nearly sunset, we learned that the
Oriental wouldn't cast anchor till the next day. So early the next
morning we again made our way to the landing; by this time the brethren
had begun to gather from all parts of the city and suburbs. At eight
o'clock that spring morning, we went aboard--" It must be borne in mind
that the Australian spring begins in September.
"Brother Carr didn't know I was there until I laid my hand upon his
shoulder, and spoke to him. Picture that meeting, if you can! Here in
this foreign land I grasped the hand of the dear companion of my
school-days! What thrilling joy! Sister Carr was soon rejoicing with us.
Blessed be our Heavenly Father, for bringing them safely across the
seas!
"After a few moments their luggage was in our boat and we were rowing to
the pier where we found a throng of brothers and sisters waving
handkerchiefs, and praising God for his goodness. With what rejoicing
the Christians grasped the hands of the missionaries, as they stepped on
shore! There was no time for introductions, none waited for that; but
such a shaking of hands, and welcoming of Brother and Sister Carr, was
enough to move the angels to rejoice. In a few minutes they had taken
the train for the city; then in a cab I took them to my residence, where
they are now resting from their hardships, soothed by the climate, and
delighting, after months upon the deep, in the bloom of peach and plum,
and the blossoming of our spring gardens."
Thus G. L. Surber writes home that Benj. Franklin of the Christian
Church may publish the letter; thus he writes, until he corrects and
polishes up the sentences, changing his "We made our way to the landing"
to--"we turned our faces," etc. and scratching out "waving
handkerchiefs" for something about "open hearts." But we make nothing of
his careful remoulding of ideas, nor give a snap for his "open heart."
The handkerchiefs shall wave in this history--let them stream to the
breeze, each a white fluttering banner of peace and love, raised above
the heads of this vanguard of Christian soldiers, this beautiful spring
morning of September 3rd, 1868.
[7] Just then, it seemed that every one on the ship "cared": That
drunken, card-playing priest proposed to say "mass for the poor boy's
soul"; but Captain Myles said: "None of your foolishness here". I could
not escape the thought that he would have "read mass", if it had been in
the Prayer-book, whether foolishness or not; for the ship's Captain is
ordained to read the church service, or to appoint some one to read it.
That desire to do something, springing from a feeling of helplessness
and grief seems natural to mortals and cries out most pitilessly when
faith is absent. I doubt not it was as sincere as any prayer ever
uttered when Luther wanted to "say mass for the soul" of his mother. I
had seen the poor boy cuffed about deck, driven to his hard task, beaten
with a broom, and had remonstrated in vain. Between the priest with his
rollicking ditties, gambling and drunkenness and the boy there was a
great gulf fixed on that ship. "No association with second-class
passengers" was the edict; and was not the priest first-class? and the
boy, what was he? He had hidden himself among the boxes in the ship's
hold at Liverpool to be taken any where, perhaps, out of the world, and
so it was. That boy, that scene, what led to it and what followed, Mrs.
Carr never forgot--"A neglected one, a prodigal, it may have been, but
still a human; he needed something other than sacerdotal robes to show
him that you are the servants of the Most High." Yes, she "cared" and so
do I, even to this day. O. A. C.