Master Robert Fowler of Burlington was a well-known figure in all the
fishing towns and villages along the Yorkshire coast in the year of
grace 1657. A man of substance was he, a master mariner, well skilled
in his craft; building his own ships and sailing them withal, and
never to be turned back from an adventurous voyage. Many fine vessels
he had, sailing over the broad waters, taking the Yorkshire cargoes of
wool and hides to distant lands, and bringing back foreign goods in
exchange, to be sold again at a profit on his return to old England's
shores. Thus up and down the Yorkshire coast men spoke and thought
highly of Master Robert Fowler's judgment in all matters pertaining to
the sea. On land, too, he seemed prudent and skilful, though some
folks looked at him askance of late years, since he had joined himself
to that strange and perverse people known as the Quakers.
Yet, in spite of what his neighbours considered his new-fangled
religion, Master Robert Fowler was prospering in all his worldly
affairs. Even now on the sunny day when our story opens, he was hard
at work putting the last touches to a new boat of graceful proportions
and gallant curves, that bade fair to be a yet more notable seafarer
than any of her distant sisters.
Why then did Master Robert Fowler pause more than once in his work to
heave a deep sigh, and throw down his tools almost pettishly? Why did
he suddenly put his fingers in his ears as if to shut out an unwelcome
sound, resuming his work thereafter with double speed? No one was
speaking to him. The mid-day air was very still. The haze that often
broods over the north-east coast veiled the horizon. Sea and sky
melted into one another till it was impossible to say where earth
ended and heaven began. An unwonted silence reigned even on Burlington
Quay. No sound was to be heard save for the tap, tap, tap of Master
Robert Fowler's hammer.
Again he dropped his tools. Again he looked up to the sky, as if he
were listening to an unseen voice.
Someone was truly speaking to him, though no faintest sound vibrated
on the air. His inward ear heard clearly these words--
'THOU HAST HER NOT FOR NOTHING.'
His eyes travelled proudly over the nearly completed vessel. Every one
of her swelling curves he knew by heart; had learned to know and love
through long months of toil. How still she lay, the beauty, still as a
bird, poising on the sea. Ah! but the day was coming when she would
spread her wings and skim over the ocean, buoyant and dainty as one of
the terns, those sea-swallows that with their sharp white wings even
now were hovering round her. Built for use she was too, not merely to
take the eye. Although small of size more bales of goods could be
stowed away under her shapely decks than in many another larger
clumsier vessel. Who should know this better than Robert, her maker,
who had planned it all?
For what had he planned her?
Was it for the voyage to the Eastern Mediterranean that had been the
desire of his heart for many years? How well he knew it, that voyage
he had never made! Down the Channel he would go, past Ushant and
safely across the Bay. Then, when Finisterre had dropped to leeward,
it would be but a few days' sail along the pleasant coasts of Portugal
till Gibraltar was reached. And then, heigh ho! for a fair voyage in
the summer season, week after week over a calm blue sea to the
land-locked harbour where flat-roofed, white-walled houses, stately
palm-trees, rosy domes and minarets, mirrored in the still water,
gazed down at their own reflections.
Was the _Woodhouse_ for this?
He had planned her for this dream voyage.
Why then came that other Voice in his heart directly he began to
build: 'FASHION THEE A SHIP FOR THE SERVICE OF TRUTH!' And now that
she was nearly completed, why did the Voice grow daily more insistent,
giving ever clearer directions?
What a bird she was! His own bird of the sea, his beautiful
_Woodhouse_! So thought Master Robert Fowler. But then again came the
insistent Voice within, speaking yet more clearly and distinctly than
ever before: 'THOU HAST HER NOT FOR NOTHING.'
The vision of his sea-swallow, her white wings gleaming in the sun as
she dropped anchor in that still harbour; the vision of the white and
rose-coloured city stretched like an encircling arm around the
turquoise waters, these dreams faded relentlessly from his sight.
Instead he saw the _Woodhouse_ beating up wearily against a bleak and
rugged shore on which grey waves were breaking. Angry, white teeth
those giant breakers showed; teeth that would grind a dainty boat to
pieces with no more compunction than a dog who snaps at a fly. Must he
take her there? A vision of that inhospitable shore was constantly
with him as he worked. 'New England was presented before him.' Day
after day he drove the thought from him. Night after night it
returned.
'Thou hast her not for nothing. She is needed for the service of
Truth.' Master Robert Fowler grew lean and wan with inward struggle,
but yield his will he could not, yet disobey the Voice he did not
dare. When his wife and children asked what ailed him he answered not,
or gave a surly reply. Truth to tell, he avoided their company all he
could,--and yet a look was in his eyes when they did not notice as if
he had never before felt them half so dear. At length the
long-expected day arrived when the completed vessel sailed graciously
out to sea. But there was no gaiety on board, as there had been when
her sister ships had departed. No cargo had she. No farewells were
said. Master Robert Fowler stole aboard when all beside were sleeping.
The _Woodhouse_ slipped from the grey harbour into the grey sea,
noiselessly as a bird. None of the crew knew what ailed the master,
nor why his door was locked for long hours thereafter, until the
Yorkshire coast first drew dim, and then faded from the horizon. He
would not even tell them whither the vessel was bound. 'Keep a
straight course; come back at four bells, and then I will direct you,'
was all his answer, when the mate knocked at his door for orders.
But within the cabin a man was wrestling with himself upon his knees;
till at last in agony he cried: 'E'en take the boat, Lord, an so Thou
wilt, for I have no power to give her Thee. Yet truly she is Thine.'
* * * * *
At that same hour in London an anxious little company was gathered in
a house at the back side of Thomas Apostles Church, over the door of
which swung the well-known sign of the Fleur-de-luce.
The master of the house, Friend Gerard Roberts, a merchant of Watling
Street, sat at the top of the table in a small upper room. The anxiety
on his countenance was reflected in the faces round his board. Seven
men and four women were there, all soberly clad as befitted
ministering Friends. They were not eating or drinking, but solemnly
seeking for guidance.
'Can no ship then be found to carry us to the other side? For truly
the Lord's word is as a fire and hammer in me, though in the outward
appearance there is no likelihood of getting passage,' one Friend was
saying.
'Ships in plenty there are bound for New England, but ne'er a one that
is willing to carry even one Quaker, let alone eleven,' Friend Roberts
answered. 'The colonists' new laws are strict, and their punishments
are savage. I know, Friends, ye are all ready, aye and willing, to
suffer in the service of Truth. It is not merely the threatened
cropping of the ears of every Quaker who sets foot ashore that is the
difficulty. It is the one hundred pounds fine for every Quaker landed,
not levied on the Friends themselves, mind you--that were simple--but
on the owner of the boat in which they shall have voyaged. This it is
that hinders your departure. It were not fair to ask a man to run such
risk. It is not fair. Yet already I have asked many in vain. Way doth
not open. We must needs leave it, and see if the concern abides.'
Clear as a bell rose the silvery tones of a young woman Friend, one who
had been formerly a serving-maid at Cammsgill Farm: 'Commit thy way
unto the Lord, trust also in Him, and He shall bring it to pass. Shall
not He who setteth a bound to the sea that it shall not pass over, and
taketh up the isles as a very little thing--shall not He be trusted to
find a ship for His servants who trust in Him, to enable them to
perform His will?' As the clear bell-like tones died away the little
company, impelled by a united instinct, sank into a silence in which
time passed unnoticed. Suddenly, at the same moment, a weight seemed to
be removed from the hearts of all. They clasped hands and separated.
And at that very moment, although they knew it not, far away on the
broad seas, a man, wrestling on his knees in the cabin of his vessel,
was saying with bitter tears, 'E'en take, Lord, an so Thou wilt, though
I have no power to give her to Thee. Yet truly she is Thine.' When four
bells were sounded on the good ship _Woodhouse_, and a knock came to
the door of the cabin as the mate asked for directions, it was in a
steady voice that Master Robert Fowler replied from within, 'Mark a
straight course for London; and after--whithersoever the Lord may
direct.'
Blithely and gaily henceforward the _Woodhouse_ skimmed her way to the
mouth of the Thames and dropped anchor at the port of London. But as
yet Master Robert Fowler knew nothing of the anxious group of Friends
waiting to be taken to New England on the service of Truth (five of
them having already been deported thence for the offence of being
Quakers, yet anxious to return and take six others with them). Neither
did these Friends know anything of Master Robert Fowler, nor of his
good ship _Woodhouse_.
Yet, though unknown to each other, he and they alike were well known
to One Heart, were guided by One Hand, were listening to the
directions of One Voice. Therefore, though it may seem a strange
chance, it was not wonderful really that within a few hours of the
arrival of the _Woodhouse_ in the Thames Master Robert Fowler and
Friend Gerard Roberts met each other face to face in London City. Nor
was it strange that the ship's captain should be moved to tell the
merchant of the exercise of his spirit about his ship. In truth all
Friends who visited London in those days were wont to unburden
themselves of their perplexities to the master of that hospitable
house over whose doorway swung the sign of the Fleur-de-luce. Lightly
he told it--almost as a jest--the folly of the notion that a vessel of
such small tonnage could be needed to face the terrors of the terrible
Atlantic. Surely a prudent merchant like Friend Roberts would tell him
to pay no heed to visions and inner voices, and such like idle
notions? But Gerard Roberts did not scoff. He listened silently. A
look almost of awe stole over his face. The first words he uttered
were, 'It is the Lord's doing and it is marvellous in our eyes.' And
at these words Master Robert Fowler's heart sank down, down like
lead.
Long afterwards, describing the scene, he says: 'Also when (the
vessel) was finished and freighted, and made to sea, contrary to my
will, was brought to London, where, speaking touching this matter to
Gerard Roberts and others, they confirmed the matter in behalf of the
Lord, that it must be so.'
'It must be so.' This is the secret of Guidance from that day to this.
The Inner Voice alone is not always enough for action; the outer need
or claim of service alone is not necessarily a call. But when the
Inner Voice and the outer need come together, then truly the will of
the Lord is plain, and 'It must be so.'
Master Robert Fowler was not yet willing or ready to sacrifice his own
wishes. A decisive victory is not to be won in one battle, however
severe, but only throughout the stress of a long campaign. The
struggle in his cabin, when he allowed the ship's head to be turned
towards London, must needs be fought out again. The unreasonableness
of such a voyage in such a vessel, the risk, the thought of the
dangers and misery it would bring, took possession of his mind once
more, as he himself confesses: 'Yet entering into reasoning and
letting in temptation and hardships, and the loss of my life, wife,
and children, with the enjoyment of all earthly things, it brought me
as low as the grave, and laid me as one dead to the things of God.'
'Let the sacrifice be made, if it must be made,' he said to himself,
'but it is too much to expect any man to make it willingly.' For days
he went about, in his own words, 'as one dead.'
The eagerness of the Friends to depart, their plans for the voyage,
their happy cares, only loaded his spirit the more. It was a dark,
sad, miserable time; and a dark, sad, miserable man was the owner of
the _Woodhouse_.
Till on a certain day, the Friends coming as usual to visit his ship
brought another with them, a Stranger; taller, stronger, sturdier than
them all; a man with a long drooping nose and piercing eyes--yes, and
leather breeches! It was, it could be no other than George Fox!
What did he say to Robert Fowler? What words did he use? Did he argue
or command? That was unnecessary. The mere presence of the strong
faithful servant of the Lord drew out a like faithfulness in the other
more timid soul.
Robert Fowler's narrative continues:
'But by His instrument, George Fox, was I refreshed and raised up
again, which before was much contrary to myself that I could have as
willingly have died as gone; but by the strength of God I was now made
willing to do His will; yea even the customs and fashions of the
customs house could not stop me.'
'Made willing to do His will.' There is the secret of this 'wonderful
voyage.' For it was absurdly dangerous to think of sailing across the
Atlantic in such a vessel as the _Woodhouse_: or it would have been,
had it been a mere human plan. But if the all-powerful, almighty Will
of God really commanded them to go, then it was no longer dangerous
but the only safe thing they could do.
'Our trembling hands held in Thy strong and loving grasp, what shall
even the weakest of us fear?'
Perhaps Master Robert expected when once he was ready to obey
cheerfully, that all his difficulties would vanish. Instead, fresh
difficulties arose; and the next difficulty was truly a great one. The
press-gang came by, and took Robert Fowler's servants off by force to
help to man the British fleet that was being fitted out to fight in
the Baltic; took them, whether they would or no, as Richard Sellar was
to be captured in the same way, seven years later.
So now the long voyage to America must be undertaken not only in too
small a boat, but with too few sailors to work her. Besides Robert
Fowler, only two men and three boys were left on board to sail the
ship on this long, difficult voyage.
Presently the Friends began to come on board; and if the captain's
heart sank anew as he saw the long string of passengers making for his
tiny boat--who shall wonder or blame him? It was a very solemn
procession of weighty Friends.
In front came the five, who had been in America before, and who were
going back to face persecution, knowing what it meant. Their names
were: first that 'ancient and venerable man' William Brend; then young
Christopher Holder of Winterbourne in Gloucestershire, a well-educated
man of good estate; John Copeland of Holderness in Yorkshire; Mary
Weatherhead of Bristol; and Dorothy[34] Waugh, the serving-maid of
Preston Patrick, who had been 'convinced and called to the ministry'
as she went about her daily work in the family of Friend John Camm, at
Cammsgill.
After them followed the other five who had not crossed the Atlantic
before, but who were no less eager to face unknown difficulties and
dangers. Their names were: William Robinson the London merchant;
Robert Hodgson; Humphrey Norton (remember Humphrey Norton, he will be
heard of again); Richard Doudney, 'an innocent man who served the Lord
in sincerity'; and Mary Clark, the wife of John Clark, a London
Friend, who, like most of the others, had already undergone much
suffering for her faith. On board the _Woodhouse_ they all came,
stepping on deck one after the other solemnly and sedately, while the
anxious captain watched them and wondered how many more were to come,
and where they were all to be lodged. Once they were on board,
however, things changed and felt quite different. It was as if an
Unseen Passenger had come with them.
This is Robert Fowler's own account: 'Upon the 1st day of Fourth Month
called June received I the Lord's servants aboard, Who came with a
mighty hand and an outstretched arm with them; so that with courage we
set sail and came to the Downs the second day, where our dearly
beloved William Dewsbury with Michael Thompson came aboard, and in
them we were much refreshed; and, recommending us to the grace of God,
we launched forth.'
After this his narrative has a different ring: Master Fowler was no
longer going about his ship with eyes cast down and hanging head and a
heart full of fear. He had straightened his back and was a stalwart
mariner again. Perhaps this was partly owing to the great pleasure
that came to him before they actually set sail, when, as he tells,
William Dewsbury came on board to visit the travellers. 'Dear William
Dewsbury' was the one Friend of all others Robert Fowler must have
wished to see once more before leaving England, for it was William
Dewsbury's preaching that had 'convinced' Robert Fowler and made him
become a Friend a few years before. It was William Dewsbury's teaching
about the blessedness of following the inner Voice, the inner
guidance, that had led him to offer himself and the _Woodhouse_ for
the service of Truth.
Perhaps he said, half in joke, half in earnest, 'O William Dewsbury! O
William Dewsbury! thou hast much to answer for! If I had never met
thee I should never have undertaken this voyage in my little boat!' If
he said this, I think a very tender, thankful light came into William
Dewsbury's face, as he answered, 'Let us give thanks then together,
brother, that the message did reach thee through me; since without
this voyage thou could'st not fully have known the power and the
wonder of the Lord.'
Quakers do not have priests to baptize them, or bishops to confirm or
ordain them, as Church people do. Yet God's actual presence in the
heart is often revealed first through the message of one of His
messengers. Therefore there is a special bond of tender fellowship and
friendship between those who are truly fathers and children in God,
even in a Society where all are friends. In this relation William
Dewsbury stood to Robert Fowler.
Reason and fear raised their heads once again, even after William
Dewsbury's visit. Robert Fowler thought of going to the Admiral in the
Downs to complain of the loss of his servants, and to ask that a
convoy might be sent with them. But he did not go, because, as he
says, 'From which thing I was withholden by that Hand which was my
Helper.'
The south wind began to blow, and they were obliged to put in at
Portsmouth, and there there were plenty of men waiting to be engaged,
but when they heard that this tiny vessel was actually venturing to
cross the Atlantic, not one would sail in her, and this happened again
at South Yarmouth, where they put in a few days later.
At Portsmouth, however, the Friends were not idle. They went ashore
and held a meeting, or, as Robert Fowler puts it, 'They went forth and
gathered sticks and kindled a fire, and left it burning.' Not real
sticks for a real fire, of course, but a fire of love and service in
people's hearts, that would help to keep the cold world warm in after
days.
This was their last task in England. A few hours later they had
quitted her shores. The coast-line that followed them faithfully at
first, dropped behind gradually, growing fainter and paler, then
resting like a thought upon the sea, till it finally disappeared. Only
a vast expanse of heaving waters surrounded the travellers.
At first it seemed as if their courage was not to be too severely
tested. 'Three pretty large ships which were for the Newfoundland'
appeared, and bore the _Woodhouse_ company for some fifty leagues. In
their vicinity the smaller vessel might have made the voyage, perilous
at best, with a certain amount of confidence. But the Dutch warships
were known to be not far distant, and in order to escape them the
three 'pretty large ships made off to the northward, and left us
without hope or help as to the outward.'
The manner of the departure of the ships was on this wise. Early in
the morning it was shown to Humphrey Norton--who seems to have been
especially sensitive to messages from the invisible world--'that those
were nigh unto us who sought our lives.' He called Robert Fowler, and
gave him this warning, and added, 'Thus saith the Lord, ye shall be
carried away as in a mist.' 'Presently,' says Robert Fowler, 'we
espied a great ship making up to us, and the three great ships were
much afraid, and tacked about with what speed they could; in the very
interim the Lord fulfilled His promise, and struck our enemies in the
face with a contrary wind, wonderfully to our refreshment. Then upon
our parting from these three ships we were brought to ask counsel of
the Lord, and the word was from Him, "Cut through and steer your
straight course and mind nothing but Me."'
'Cut through and steer your straight course, and mind nothing but Me!'
Alone upon the broad Atlantic in this cockle-shell of a boat! Only a
cockle-shell truly, yet it held a bit of heaven within it--the heaven
of obedience. Every day the little company of Friends met in that
ship's hold together, and 'He Himself met with us and manifested
himself largely unto us,' words that have been proved true by many
another company of the Master's servants afloat upon the broad waters
from that day to this. There they sat on the wooden benches, with
spray breaking over them, the faithful men and women who were daring
all for the Truth. Only three times in the whole voyage was the
weather so bad that storms prevented their assembling together. Much
of the actual navigation of the vessel seems to have been left to the
strange passengers to determine. The Captain's narrative continues:
'Thus it was all the voyage with the faithful, who were carried far
above storms and tempests, that when the ship went either to the right
hand or to the left, their hands joined all as one, and did direct her
way; so that we have seen and said, "We see the Lord leading our
vessel even as it were a man leading a horse by the head; we regarding
neither latitude nor longitude, but kept to our line, which was and is
our Leader, Guide, and Rule."'
Besides the guidance vouchsafed to the Friends as a group, some of
them had special intimations given to them.
'The sea was my figure,' says Robert Fowler, 'for if anything got up
within, the sea without rose up against me, and then the floods
clapped their hands, of which in time I took notice and told Humphrey
Norton.'[35]
In this account Humphrey Norton always seems to hear voices directing
their course, while Robert Fowler generally 'sees figures'--sights
that teach him what to do. Guidance may come in different ways to
different people, but it does come surely to those who seek for it.
The inward Voice spoke to Robert Fowler also when they were in mid
Atlantic after they had been at sea some two weeks:
'We saw another great ship making up to us which did appear far off
to be a frigate, and made her sign for us to come to them, which was
to me a great cross, we being to windward of them; and it was said "GO
SPEAK TO HIM, THE CROSS IS SURE; DID I EVER FAIL THEE THEREIN?" And
unto others there appeared no danger in it, so that we did, and it
proved a tradesman of London, by whom we writ back.'
The hardest test of their faith came some three weeks later, when
after five weeks at sea they had still accomplished only 300 leagues,
scarcely a third part of their voyage, and their destination still
seemed hopelessly distant. The strong faith of Humphrey Norton carried
them all over this trial. 'He (Humphrey Norton) falling into communion
with God, told me that he had received a comfortable answer, and also
that about such a day we should land in America, which was even so
fulfilled. Upon the last day of the fifth month (July) 1657, we made
land.'
This land turned out to be the very part to which the Friends had most
desired to come. The pilot[36] had expected to reach quite a different
point, but the invisible guidance of his strange passengers was clear
and unwavering. 'Our drawing had been all the passage to keep to the
southward, until the evening before we made land, and then the word
was, "There is a lion in the way"; unto which we gave obedience, and
said, "Let them steer northwards until the day following."'[37]
That must have been an anxious day on board the _Woodhouse_. Think of
the two different clues that were being followed within that one small
boat: the Friends with their clasped hands, seeking and finding
guidance; up on deck the pilot, with his nautical knowledge, scoffing
very likely at any other method of progress than the reckoning to
which he was accustomed. As the slow hours passed, and no land
appeared to break the changeless circle of the sea, the Friends felt a
'drawing' to meet together long before their usual time. 'And it was
said that we may look abroad in the evening; and as we sat waiting
upon the Lord, we discovered the land, and our mouths were opened in
prayer and thanksgiving.'
The words are simple as any words could be. But in spite of the 260
years that separate that day from this, its gladness is still fresh.
All voyagers know the thrill caused by the first sight of land, even
in these days of steamships, when all arrangements can be made and
carried out with almost clock-like precision. But in the old time of
sailing ships, when a contrary wind or a sudden calm might upset the
reckoning for days together, and when there was the added danger that
food or water might give out, to see the longed-for land in sight at
last must have been even more of an event.
To all the Friends on board the _Woodhouse_ this first sight of
America meant a yet deeper blessedness. It was the outer assurance
that the invisible guidance they were following was reliable. The
Friends rejoiced and were wholly at rest and thankful. But the pilot,
instead of being, as might have been expected, convinced at last that
there was a wisdom wiser than his own, still resisted. Where some
people see life with a thread of guidance running through it
unmistakably, others are always to be found who will say these things
are nothing but chance and what is called 'coincidence.'
Such an one was the pilot of the _Woodhouse_. As the land drew nearer,
a creek was seen to open out in it. The Friends were sure that their
vessel was meant to enter there, but again the pilot resisted. By this
time the Friends had learned to expect objections from him, and had
learned, too, that it was best not to argue with him, but to leave him
to find out for himself that their guidance was right. So they told
him to do as he chose, that 'both sides were safe, but going that way
would be more trouble to him.' When morning dawned 'he saw, after he
had laid by all the night, the thing fulfilled.'
Into the creek, therefore, in the bright morning sunlight the
_Woodhouse_ came gaily sailing; not knowing where she was, nor whither
the creek would lead. 'Now to lay before you the largeness of the
wisdom, will, and power of God, this creek led us in between the Dutch
Plantation and Long Island:'--the very place that some of the Friends
had felt that they ought to visit, but which it would have been most
difficult to reach had they landed in any other spot. Thus 'the Lord
God that moved them brought them to the place appointed, and led us
into our way according to the word which came unto Christopher Holder:
"You are in the road to Rhode Island." In that creek came a shallop to
guide us, taking us to be strangers, we making our way with our boat,
and they spoke English, and informed us, and guided us along. The
power of the Lord fell much upon us, and an irresistible word came
unto us, that the seed in America shall be as the sand of the sea; it
was published in the ears of the brethren, which caused tears to break
forth with fulness of joy; so that presently for these places some
prepared themselves, who were Robert Hodgson, Richard Doudney, Sarah
Gibbons, Mary Weatherhead, and Dorothy Waugh, who the next day were
put safely ashore into the Dutch plantation, called New Amsterdam.'
'New Amsterdam, on an unnamed creek in the Dutch Plantation,' sounds
an unfamiliar place to modern ears. Yet when that same Dutch
Plantation changed hands and became English territory its new masters
altered the name of its chief town. New Amsterdam was re-christened in
honour of the king's brother, James, Duke of York, and became known as
New York, the largest city of the future United States of America.
As to the unnamed 'creek' into which the _Woodhouse_ was led, that was
probably the estuary of the mighty river Hudson. 'Here,' continues
Robert Fowler, 'we came, and it being the First Day of the week
several came aboard to us and we began our work. I was caused to go to
the Governor, and Robert Hodgson with me--he (the Governor) was
moderate both in words and actions.'
This moderation on the Governor's part must have been no small comfort
to the new arrivals. Also the laws of the New Netherland Colonies,
where they had unexpectedly landed, were much more tolerant than those
of New England, whither they were bound. Even yet the perils of the
gallant _Woodhouse_ were not over. The remaining Friends had now to
be taken on to hospitable Rhode Island, the home of religious liberty,
from whence they could pursue their mission to the persecuting
Colonists on the mainland.
A few days before their arrival at New Amsterdam, the two Roberts
(Robert Hodgson and Robert Fowler) had both had a vision in which they
had seen the _Woodhouse_ in great danger. The day following their
interview with the Governor, when they were once more on the sea, 'it
was fulfilled, there being a passage between the two lands which is
called by the name of Hell-Gate; we lay very conveniently for a pilot,
and into that place we came, and into it were forced, and over it were
carried, which I never heard of any before that were; there were rocks
many on both sides of us, so that I believe one yard's length would
have endangered both vessel and goods.'
Here for the last time the little group of Friends gathered to give
thanks for their safe arrival after their most wonderful voyage. If
any of them were tempted to think they owed any of their protection
and guidance to their own merits and faithfulness, a last vision that
came to Robert Fowler must have chased this thought out of their minds
once for all.
'There was a shoal of fish,' he says, 'which pursued our vessel and
followed her strangely, and along close by our rudder.' The master
mariner's eye had evidently been following the movements of the fish
throughout the day, as he asked himself: 'What are those fish? I never
saw fish act in that way before. Why do they follow the vessel so
steadily?' Then, in the time of silent waiting upon God, light
streamed upon this puzzle in his mind.
'In our meeting it was shewn to me, these fish are to thee a figure.
"Thus doth the prayers of the churches proceed to the Lord for thee
and the rest."' That was the explanation of the wonderful voyage. The
_Woodhouse_ and her little company had not been solitary and
unprotected, even when the three 'pretty great ships' drew off for
fear of the Dutch men of war and left them alone.
The prayers of their friends in England were following them across the
vast Atlantic, though unseen by human eyes, even as those hosts of
shining fish, which surrounded the vessel as she drove her prow
through the clear water, would be unseen to a spectator above its
surface. George Fox was praying for the travellers. William Dewsbury
was sure to be praying for them. Friend Gerard Roberts would be also
much in prayer, since the responsibility of the voyage was largely on
his shoulders. Besides these, there were the husbands, wives, and
little children of some of the Friends, the brothers and sisters of
others, all longing for them to arrive safely and do their Master's
work. Now here came the fish to assure Robert Fowler that the faith he
believed was true. Real as the things we can see or touch or feel seem
to us to be, the unseen things are more real still. Ever after, to
those who had crossed the Atlantic in the good ship _Woodhouse_, the
assurance of God's clear guidance and the answered prayers of His
people must have been the most real of all.
Robert Fowler's story of the marvellous voyage ends with these words:
'Surely in our meeting did the thing run through me as oil and bid me
much rejoice.'