There was on board the _Sunbeam_, on this her first voyage, a tall,
broad-shouldered, but delicate-looking young man, with a most woebegone
expression and a yellowish-green countenance. To look at him was to
pronounce him a melancholy misanthrope--a man of no heart or
imagination.
Never before, probably, did a man's looks so belie his true character.
This youth was an enthusiast; an eager, earnest, hearty Christian, full
of love to his Master and to all mankind, and a student for the
ministry. But John Binning had broken down from over-study, and at the
time we introduce him to the reader he was still further "down" with
that most horrible complaint, sea-sickness.
Even when in the depth of his woe at this time, some flashes of
Binning's true spirit gleamed fitfully through his misery. One of those
gleams was on the occasion of Dick Martin being rescued. Up to that
period, since leaving Yarmouth, Binning had lain flat on his back. On
hearing of the accident and the rescue he had turned out manfully and
tried to speak to the rescued man, but indescribable sensations quickly
forced him to retire. Again, when the first visitors began to sing one
of his favourite hymns, he leaped up with a thrill of emotion in his
heart, but somehow the thrill went to his stomach, and he collapsed.
At last however, Neptune appeared to take pity on the poor student. His
recovery--at least as regarded the sea-sickness--was sudden. He awoke,
on the morning after the opening of the case of books, quite restored.
He could hardly believe it. His head no longer swam; other parts of him
no longer heaved. The first intimation that Skipper Martin had of the
change was John Binning bursting into a hymn with the voice of a
stentor. He rose and donned his clothes.
"You've got your sea legs at last, sir," said Fred Martin, as Binning
came on deck and staggered towards him with a joyful salutation.
"Yes, and I've got my sea appetite, too, Mr Martin. Will breakfast be
ready soon?"
"Just goin' on the table, sir. I like to hear that question. It's
always a sure and good sign."
At that moment Pat Stiver appeared walking at an acute angle with the
deck, and bearing a dish of smoking turbot. He dived, as it were, into
the cabin without breaking the dish, and set it on the very small table,
on which tea, bread, butter, and a lump of beef were soon placed beside
it. To this sumptuous repast the skipper, the student, and the mate sat
down. After a very brief prayer for blessing by the skipper, they set
to work with a zest which perhaps few but seafaring men can fully
understand. The student, in particular, became irrepressible after the
first silent and ravenous attack.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, "the sea! the sea! the open sea! If you are ill, go
to sea. If you are fagged, go to sea! If you are used up, seedy,
washed-out, miserable, go to sea! Another slice of that turbot, please.
Thanks."
"Mind your cup, sir," said the skipper, a few minutes after, in a
warning voice; "with a breeze like this it's apt to pitch into your lap.
She lays over a good deal because I've got a press of sail on her this
morning."
"More than usual?" asked Binning.
"Yes. You see I'm trying to beat a _coper_ that's close ahead of us
just now. The _Sunbeam_ is pretty swift on her heels, an' if the breeze
holds--ha! you've got it, sir?"
He certainly had got it, in his lap--where neither cup, saucer, nor tea
should be.
"You are right, skipper, and if your ready hands had not prevented it I
should have got the teapot and sugar-basin also. But no matter. As
I've had enough now, I'll go on deck and walk myself dry."
On deck a new subject of interest occupied the mind of the rapidly
reviving student, for the race between the _Sunbeam_ and the _coper_ was
not yet decided. They were trying which would be first to reach a group
of smacks that were sailing at a considerable distance ahead on the port
bow. At first the _coper_ seemed to have the best of it, but afterwards
the breeze freshened and the _Sunbeam_ soon left it far astern. Seeing
that the race was lost, the floating grog-shop changed her course.
"Ah, she'll steer for other fleets where there's no opposition,"
remarked the skipper.
"To win our first race is a good omen," said John Binning, with much
satisfaction. "May the _copers_ be thus beaten from every fleet until
they are beaten from the North Sea altogether!"
"Amen to that," said Fred Martin heartily. "You feel well enough now,
sir, to think of undertaking service to-morrow, don't you?"
"Think of it, my friend! I have done more than think," exclaimed the
student; "I have been busy while in bed preparing for the Sabbath, and
if the Master sends us calm weather I will surely help in the good work
you have begun so well."
And the Master did send calm weather--so calm and so beautiful that the
glassy sea and fresh air and bright blue sky seemed typical of the quiet
"rest that remaineth for the people of God." Indeed, the young student
was led to choose that very text for his sermon, ignoring all his
previous preparation, so impressed was he with the suitability of the
theme. And when afterwards the boats of the various smacks came
trooping over the sea, and formed a long tail astern of the _Sunbeam_,
and when the capacious hold was cleared, and packed as full as possible
with rugged weather-beaten men, who looked at the tall pale youth with
their earnest inquiring gaze, like hungering men who had come there for
something and would not be content to depart with nothing, the student
still felt convinced that his text was suitable, although not a single
word or idea regarding it had yet struggled in his mind to get free.
In fact the young man's mind was like a pent-up torrent, calm for the
moment, but with tremendous and ever-increasing force behind the
flood-gates, for he had before him men, many of whom had scarcely ever
heard the Gospel in their lives, whose minds were probably free from the
peculiar prejudices of landsmen, whose lives were spent in harsh, hard,
cheerless toil, and who stood sorely in need of spiritual rest and
deliverance from the death of sin. Many of these men had come there
only out of curiosity; a few because they loved the Lord, and some
because they had nothing better to do.
Groggy Fox was among them. He had come as before for "baccy,"
forgetting that the weed was not sold on Sundays, and had been prevailed
on to remain to the service. Dick Martin was also there, in a retired
and dark corner. He was curious to know, he remarked, what the young
man had to talk about.
It was not till after prayer had been offered by the student that God
opened the flood-gates. Then the stream gushed forth.
"It is," said the preacher--in tones not loud, but so deep and
impressive that every soul was at once enthralled--"it is to the
servants of the devil that the grand message comes. Not to the good,
and pure, and holy is the blessed Gospel or good news sent, but, to the
guilty, the sin-stricken, the bad, and the sin-weary God has sent by His
blessed Spirit the good and glorious news that there is deliverance in
Jesus Christ for the chief of sinners. Deliverance from sin changes
godless men into the children of God, and there is _rest_ for these. Do
I need to tell toilers of the deep how sweet rest is to the tired-out
body? Surely not, because you have felt it, and know all about it
better than I do. But it _is_ needful to tell you about rest for the
soul, because some of you have never felt it, and know not what it is.
Is there no man before me who has, some time or other, committed some
grievous sin, whose soul groans under the burden of the thought, and who
would give all he possesses if he had never put out his hand to commit
that sin? Is there no one here under the power of that deadly monster--
strong drink--who, remembering the days when he was free from bondage,
would sing this day with joy unspeakable if he could only escape?"
"Yes," shouted a strong voice from a dark corner of the hold. "Thank
God!" murmured another voice from a different quarter, for there were
men in that vessel's hold who were longing for the salvation of other as
well as their own souls.
No notice was taken of the interrupters. The preacher only paused for
an instant as if to emphasise the words--"Jesus Christ is able to save
to the _uttermost_ all who come to God through Him."
We will not dwell on this subject further than to say that the prayer
which followed the sermon was fervent and short, for that student
evidently did not think that he should be "heard for his much speaking!"
The prayer which was thereafter offered by the Admiral of the fleet was
still shorter, very much to the point, and replete with nautical
phrases, but an uncalled-for petition, which followed that, was briefest
of all. It came in low but distinct tones from a dark corner of the
hold, and had a powerful effect on the audience; perhaps, also, on the
Hearer of prayer. It was merely--"God have mercy on me."
Whatever influence might have resulted from the preaching and the prayer
on that occasion, there could be no doubt whatever as to the singing.
It was tremendous! The well-known powers of Wesleyan throats would have
been lost in it. Saint Paul's Cathedral organ could not have drowned
it. Many of the men had learned at least the tunes of the more popular
of Sankey's hymns, first from the Admiral and a few like-minded men,
then from each other. Now every man was furnished with an
orange-coloured booklet. Some could read; some could not. It mattered
little. Their hearts had been stirred by that young student, or rather
by the student's God. Their voices, trained to battle with the tempest,
formed a safety-valve to their feelings. "The Lifeboat" was,
appropriately, the first hymn chosen. Manx Bradley led with a voice
like a trumpet, for joy intensified his powers. Fred Martin broke forth
with tremendous energy. It was catching. Even Groggy Fox was overcome.
With eyes shut, mouth wide open, and book upside down, he absolutely
howled his determination to "leave the poor old stranded wreck, and pull
for the shore."
But skipper Fox was not the only man whose spirit was touched on that
occasion. Many of the boats clung to the mission vessel till the day
was nearly past, for their crews were loath to part. New joys, new
hopes, new sensations had been aroused. Before leaving, Dick Martin
took John Binning aside, and in a low but firm voice said--"you're
right, sir. A grievous sin _does_ lie heavy on me. I robbed Mrs
Mooney, a poor widdy, of her little bag o' savin's--twenty pounds it
was."
The latter part of this confession was accidentally overheard by Bob
Lumsden. He longed to hear more, but Bob had been taught somehow that
eavesdropping is a mean and dishonourable thing. With manly
determination, therefore, he left the spot, but immediately sought and
found his little friend Pat Stiver, intent on relieving his feelings.
"What d'ee think, Pat?" he exclaimed, in a low whisper, but with
indignation in his eye and tone.
"I ain't thinkin' at all," said Pat.
"Would you believe it, Pat?" continued Bob, "I've just heerd that
scoun'rel Dick Martin say that it _was_ him as stole the money from Mrs
Mooney--from the mother of our Eve!"
"You _don't_ say so!" exclaimed Pat, making his eyes remarkably wide and
round.
"Yes, I does, an' I've long suspected him. Whether he was boastin' or
not I can't tell, an' it do seem strange that he should boast of it to
the young parson--leastwise, unless it was done to spite him. But now
mark me, Pat Stiver, I'll bring that old sinner to his marrow-bones
before long, and make him disgorge too, if he hain't spent it all. I
give you leave to make an Irish stew o' my carcase if I don't. Ay, ay,
sir!"
The concluding words of Bob Lumsden's speech were in reply to an order
from Skipper Lockley to haul the boat alongside. In a few minutes more
the mission ship was forsaken by her strange Sabbath congregation, and
left with all the fleet around her floating quietly on the tranquil sea.