A fine-toned manly voice was heard, as the boat approached the mission
smack, singing one of the popular hymns which are now pretty well-known
throughout the fishing fleets.
"No mistaking that voice," said David Bright turning an amused look on
Billy; "Singin' Peter won't knock off till he's under the sod or under
the sea."
"Then he'll never knock off at all," returned Billy, "for Luke there has
bin tellin' me that we only begin to sing rightly a song of praise that
will never end when we git into the next world."
"That depends, lad, on whether we goes up or down."
"Well, I s'pose it does. But tell me, daddy, ain't the hand very bad?
I'm so awful sorry, you know."
"It might ha' bin worse, Billy, but don't you take on so, my boy. We'll
be all right an' ship-shape when we gets it spliced or fixed up somehow,
on board the mission-ship."
The hand was not however, so easily fixed up as David Bright seemed to
expect.
"Come down an' let's have a look at it, David," said the skipper, when
the vessel's deck was gained.
By that time Singing Peter had stopped his tune, or, rather, he had
changed it into a note of earnest sympathy, for he was a very
tender-hearted man, and on terms of warm friendship with the master of
the _Evening Star_.
"It's a bad cut," said Peter, when the gaping gash in the poor man's
palm was laid bare, and the blood began to flow afresh. "We'll have to
try a little o' the surgeon's business here. You can take a stitch in
human flesh I daresay, skipper? If you can't, I'll try."
The mission skipper was, however, equal to the occasion. He sponged the
wound clean; put a couple of stitches in it with sailor-like neatness--
whether with surgeon-like exactness we cannot tell--drew the edges of
the wound still more closely together by means of strips of sticking
plaster; applied lint and bandages, and, finally, did up our skipper's
fist in a manner that seemed quite artistic to the observant men around
him.
"A regular boxin'-glove," exclaimed David, hitting the operator a gentle
tap on the nose with it.
"Thank 'ee, friend," said the amateur surgeon, as he proceeded to
re-stow his materials in the medicine chest; "you know that the
Fishermen's Mission never asks a rap for its services, but neither does
it expect to receive a rap without asking. Come, David, you mustn't
flourish it about like that. We all know you're a plucky fellow, but
it'll never splice properly if you go on so."
"Hold on, Mr Missionary!" cried Gunter, as the lid of the chest was
being closed, "don't shut up yet. I wants some o' your doctor's stuff."
"All right my hearty! What do _you_ want?"
"He wants a pair o' eye-glasses," cried Billy, whose heart was
comforted, and whose spirits were raised by the success of the operation
on his father's hand; "you see he's so short-sighted that he can't see
no good in nobody but his-self."
"Shut up, you young catfish! See here," said Gunter, stretching out his
wrists, which were red and much swollen.
"Oh! I can give you something for that;" so saying the skipper supplied
the fisherman with a little ointment, and then, going to a cupboard,
produced a pair of worsted cuffs. "You rub 'em well with that first,"
he said, "an' then wear the cuffs."
"He'll want more cuffs than that," said Billy.
"I think not my boy," said the skipper, with a benignant look, as he
stooped to lock the chest. "When these are worn-out he can have more."
"Well, if you'd take my advice," returned Billy, "you'd give him another
pair. A cuff on each side of his head would do him a world of good."
Gunter turned sharply to make a grasp at his young tormentor, but the
lad had taken care to have the cabin table between them, and at once
sprang laughing up the companion.
"He's a smart boy, that," remarked the mission skipper.
"Rather too smart," growled Gunter, as he pocketed his salve and cuffs,
and went on deck.
"Smart enough!" remarked David Bright with a low chuckle of
satisfaction.
"Come now," said the Missionary, "you'll stop and have some coffee or
cocoa with us. You can't work wi' that hand, you know. Besides,
there'll be no fishin' till this calm's over. So we mean to have a
little meetin' in the afternoon. We're in luck too, just now," he added
in a lower voice, "for we've got a real parson aboard. That's him
talkin' to my mate. He's here on a visit--partly for his health, I
believe--a regular clergyman of the Church of England and a splendid
preacher, let me tell you. You'll stop, now, won't you?"
David Bright's countenance grew sad. The memory of his recent failure
and fall came over him.
"What's the use o' _me_ attendin' your meetin's?" he said, almost
angrily; "my soul's past recovery, for I don't believe in your prayin'
an' psalm-singin'."
"You trusted me freely wi' your hand, David, though I'm no surgeon. Why
won't you trust me a little wi' your soul, though I'm no parson--
especially as it seems to be in a very bad way by your own account?
Have a talk wi' the parson. He's got such a way with him that he's sure
to do you good."
It was not so much the words thus spoken as the grave, kind, sensible
tones and looks which accompanied them, that won the despairing
fisherman.
"Well, I'll stop," he said, with a short laugh; "the cocoa may do me
good, even though the meetin' don't."
"Now you're becoming soft and unmanly--a regular old wife," whispered
the demon, who had watched him anxiously throughout the whole morning.
"The boat's alongside, father," Billy called out, at that moment down
the open skylight.
"That's right," replied the father in a strong hearty voice. "You go
aboard wi' the rest, my boy, an' come back in the arternoon when you see
'em hoist the mission-flag. I'm goin' to stop aboard, an we'll all
attend the meetin' together. An' look you, Billy, fetch my Noo
Testament with 'ee--the one your mother gave me."
"Praise the Lord for these words!" said the mission skipper.
He did not say it very loud, for he was not by nature a demonstrative
man; neither did he whisper it, for he was not ashamed to thank his God
for mercies received.
At the same moment the demon fled away for that time--according to the
true word, "Resist the devil, and he will flee from you."
David Bright did not talk much that afternoon. His injured hand gave
him considerable pain, but it was not that which silenced him. Thoughts
too deep for utterance were passing through his brain. It was the
turning-point of his life; and, while his mind was busy with the great
issues that must be faced sooner or later by all mankind, he listened
with mingled surprise, hope, fear, and pleasure, to the free and hearty
converse of the godly crew of the gospel-ship, as they discoursed
pleasantly, now of the homes in Yarmouth or Gorleston, now of the home
above; or sang, with stentorian voices, some of the lively hymns that
are happily current in the present day, or prayed in the ungrammatical
language, and with the intense fervour, of untutored but thoroughly
earnest men.
They thought that David was suffering from his injury, and wisely let
him alone, though they occasionally gave him a cheering word, and
frequently plied him with hot cocoa, which he preferred much, he said,
to coffee.
This may seem to some a rather incongruous way of presenting religious
and secular things. It may be so, but we are not careful to preserve
congruity, or to dilute our dish to please the palate of the fastidious.
This world is full of incongruities, and we are endeavouring to present
that portion of it now under consideration as it actually is at the
present time.
The heartiest, the most genial, and perhaps the noisiest fisherman there
that day was the man whom we have referred to more than once as Singing
Peter. It seemed as if he were intoxicated with joy, and could not
refrain from bursting into song in praise of Redeeming Love. But Peter
was by no means exclusive in his ideas. He could descend to the simple
matters of this life when needful. Like David Bright he was a temporary
visitor to the mission-ship, and waited for the afternoon meeting.
Peter possessed:
"A heart at leisure from itself,
To soothe and sympathise,"
and found time to have a private talk with David, whom he drew out so
tenderly, yet powerfully, that he wormed from him the whole story of his
spiritual as well as spirituous warfare. He even got him down into the
cabin alone, and, when there, proposed that they should pray together.
To this David at once agreed, and the good man prayed with such simple
fervour that David found himself ere long weeping like a child. That
the prayer of Singing Peter was in harmony with his spirit was evident
from the deep "Amen!" which he uttered at its conclusion.
"Many a time, Peter," he said, grasping his friend's hand, as they rose
from their knees, "many a time has my face bin washed wi' salt water
from the sea, but it's not often bin dabbled wi' salt water from my
eyes!"
In the afternoon the weather became unusually sultry, and as the calm
continued, many of the fishing-smacks closed by imperceptible degrees
around the mission-ship, whose flag flying at the mizzen told that the
worship of God was soon to begin. Several of the other smacks also flew
Bethel-flags. These belonged to the whole-hearted ones who had fairly
and boldly come out on the Lord's side. Others drew near, although they
did not fly the flag. Some of these belonged to the half-hearted, who
wanted medicines or books, and were rather indifferent about the
meeting, though willing enough, perhaps, to remain to it.
One way or another there was soon a long tail of boats floating astern
of the gospel-ship, and a goodly congregation on her deck. Her skipper
was very busy. Books were being actively exchanged. One or two men
wanted to sign the pledge. Salves, and plasters, and pills, were
slightly in demand, for even North Sea fishermen, tough though they be,
are subject to physical disturbance.
At last the hour arrived, and the heavy-booted, rough-jacketed,
sou'-westered, burly congregation adjourned to the hold, where,
appropriately seated on fish-trunks, they opened their hymn-books and
began to sing.
They had a harmonium--provided, of course, by the Mission--and it
chanced that the mission skipper had music enough in him to play a
simple accompaniment on it, but the strong-lunged congregation drowned
it out in the first five minutes.
Then the invalid clergyman stood up and prayed, and read a chapter of
God's Word, after which he preached--ay, preached in a way that drew
tears from some, and hearty exclamations of thankfulness from others.
It was not the power of rhetoric or of eloquence though he possessed
both, so much as that mighty power, which consists in being thoroughly
and intensely earnest in what one says, and in using a natural,
conversational tone.
There were more signings of the temperance pledge after the service, and
one or two whose minds had been wavering before, now came forward and
offered to purchase Bethel-flags. Others wanted to purchase Testaments,
prayer-books, and gospel compasses--the latter being the invention of an
ingenious Christian. It consisted of a mariner's compass drawn on
card-board, with appropriate texts of God's Word printed on the various
"points." The same ingenious gentleman has more recently constructed a
spiritual chart so to speak, on which are presented to the eye the
various shoals, and quicksands, and rocks of sin, and danger, and
temptation, that beset the Christian pilgrim, as well as the streams,
rivers, and channels, that conduct him from the regions of Darkness into
the realms of Light.
All this took up so much time that it was getting dark when our
fishermen began to go over the side, and proceed to their several
vessels.
Soon after that the aspect of nature entirely changed. The sultry calm
gave place to a fast increasing breeze, which raised white crests on the
darkening waves.
"A dirty night we're going to have of it," remarked David Bright to
Singing Peter, as he got into his tossing boat with some difficulty.
"It's all in the Master's hands," replied Peter, looking up with a glad
expression on his weatherworn face. With these words he left the
mission smack and returned to his own vessel.
The fishermen of the North Sea had cause to remember that night, for one
of the worst gales of the season burst upon them. Fishing was
impossible. It was all that they could do to weather the gale. Sails
were split and torn, rigging was damaged, and spars were sprung or
carried away. The wind howled as if millions of wicked spirits were
yelling in the blast. The sea rose in wild commotion, tossing the
little smacks as if they had been corks, and causing the straining
timbers to groan and creak. Many a deck was washed that night from stem
to stern, and when grey morning broke cold and dreary over the foaming
sea, not a few flags, half-mast high, told that some souls had gone to
their account. Disaster had also befallen many of the smacks. While
some were greatly damaged, a few were lost entirely with all their
crews.
Singing Peter's vessel was among the lost. The brightening day revealed
the fact that the well-known craft had disappeared. It had sunk with
all hands, and the genial fisherman's strong and tuneful voice had
ceased for ever to reverberate over the North Sea in order that it might
for ever raise a louder and still more tuneful strain of deep-toned
happiness among the harmonies of heaven.