_WHERE GUS CAST ANCHOR_
I have asked Gordon to write down for me his experiences of that night.
Two considerations led me to this course: first, because the incident
had so much to do with his own soul's life, his faith, his future
ministry; second, because Gordon was so much more able than I, when one
of life's great events was concerned, to tell it as it should be told.
When I asked him to undertake this duty--to write out the story of that
midnight errand--I practically had to tell him I was putting our life
experience, or a large portion of it, down in black and white. But I
don't think Gordon ever suspected it was meant for other eyes than
those of our own immediate dear ones--and one of the great moments of
my life will be when my husband sees this book, if, indeed, it shall
ever deserve a name so great.
Here is Gordon's story of that night, just as he wrote it out
himself--I told him my story began with a foreword, so he said he'd
have one too.
* * * * *
_Foreword:_
I am writing this, so personal though it seem, because Helen wants it.
If it hadn't been for the children's mother, their father never could
have told what he is now about to write. Some time, perhaps long after
my poor day's work is done, they may read this page from the volume of
their father's life. May the same grace enrich, the same truth ennoble
their youthful lives: "The angel that redeemed me from all evil bless"
them both, as a father's lips prayed long ago.
* * * * *
When little Tim Rayfield told me he wanted me to "get his father in," I
knew one of the crucial moments of my life had come. Indeed, I felt
the hour was almost as critical for me as for Tim's dying father. Why,
I need not state at length. But perhaps I ought to say this much, that
I felt a new sense of power as I pressed on through the night with
Tim's grimy hand in mine. I use the word "new" advisedly--for I must
tell, no matter whose eye may yet read the confession, that, for some
years before, I had shrunk from such scenes as these in helplessness
and despair; I had lost the joy of the miraculous in my ministry; I can
honestly say that I always tried to be faithful to every duty, but
little by little the glory and the power of a Supernatural Gospel had
slipped away from me.
I have seen people smile when I use the word "supernatural" as the only
fitting term to characterize a gospel. But such as smile have very
smiling lives. The word--and all that is behind the word--has a very
different meaning when laughter is banished from the lips, when the
voice of joy is hushed, when some fateful sorrow falls and we can only
stumble on through the encircling gloom. Such an hour came to me,
filled with a bitterness worse than death; it was then I found my Lord
anew. When the billows overswept and whelmed me I learned to pray;
when the shadows closed in about me I descried the Divine Friend among
them; when I lost my boy, and my father-heart was broken, I learned of
One who gave His own Son, His well-beloved Son.
Let me revise my words. It was not I who "found my Lord"; but He found
me--He and Helen--and they sought me hand in hand.
"That's the room," said Tim, panting from his haste, for the little
fellow had led me at great speed; "there, d'ye see that light in the
window--that upstairs window?"
I saw, and in a moment we were climbing a decrepit stair. Groping our
way along an unlighted passage, my guide, still clinging to my hand,
turned sharply into the squalid home. It consisted evidently of two
rooms, the inner of which contained the couch whereon lay Tim's sinking
father.
The boy never stopped till he had led me to the very edge of the bed.
A few tattered covers wrapped the form of the dying man. His face,
already conforming to the stamp of death, told the story of a
lifetime's sin. Nobody could look upon it without reading there the
tokens of a life of passion and excess. The heavy eyes looked up
sullenly into my face as I stood above him.
"It's the preacher, Gus--don't," pleaded a woman who bent above him;
for his lips were framing some word she evidently feared my ears would
catch. "Don't, Gus--he's goin' to help you if he can; Tim fetched
him--he's the preacher from the Hollow, an' Tim seen him last Sunday."
The man's set features seemed to relax a little as I took his hand. I
hesitated as to how I should best begin--but he opened the way himself.
"I'm all ready for sea, boss," he broke out with a gasping laugh; "last
voyage, looks like--an' nobody don't know the port. But I've got my
papers, Cap'n--I've got my papers, an' I'll have to sail."
"Don't mind him, sir," his wife said in a hushed voice; "he's an old
sailor, you see--only two years since he quit the sea and come here to
live. He got his left foot hurt--an' that's what's killin' him
now--he's got gangarene, sir."
"Goin' to be a dirty night, boss, by the looks o' things," the dying
tar broke in with pitiful bravado; "the wind's risin', ain't it--better
shorten sail, eh?"
I put my face close to his. "Do you want a pilot, my friend?" I asked
him low.
"Don't call me that," he retorted gruffly; "call me mate--I was mate on
the _Dolphin_ when that dam crowbar fell on my foot."
"Don't you want a pilot, mate?" I asked again.
"Where to take me?" looking far through the window into the dark.
"To the harbour," I answered softly.
"I don't know where it is."
"He knows."
"Say," and the eyes were now fixed very intently on me; "I'm goin' to
ask ye a question. An' I want an answer straight--no tackin' or
manoeuvrin'--d'ye think I'm dyin', Cap'n?"
"Yes," I answered; "yes, you're dying, sir."
"Then get him in," broke out poor Tim with a piteous wail as he
presented himself in front of me and looked up into my face; "please
get him in quick, afore he dies--that's what I fetched you for,
sir--oh, please get him in."
I had seen the day when I almost feared to be alone with a dying man.
What I had to say, in those days, could be as well said to others as to
him. But now, as Tim besought me, and as his father looked up with
eyes in which a yearning hope was already to be seen, I felt that no
others must be near while I sought to help his soul. So I asked Tim
and his mother if they would withdraw to the adjoining room--they
should be called, I said, if the summons came apace.
Then I closed the door--for this hour had more than bridal
holiness--and I gave myself in love to the dying soul. The mock
heroism, the banter, fell off from him like a garment, for I think he
saw I believed in God. I need not tell, must not reveal, all he
disclosed to me from the dark storehouse of a wasted past. But I met
him, and his crimson sins, and his accusing conscience--I met them all,
and at every turn, with the Cross of the Lord Jesus and with the
all-atoning grace of God. How I gloried in that hour in the great
evangel! And how there rolled about me, with tides ample like the
ocean's, the thought of the magnitude and infinitude of the love of
Christ! And how--oh, blessed memory to my long beleaguered soul--I
witnessed the ancient miracle with joy, marvelling anew at the
greatness and glory of the Gospel, scorning with high contempt all that
would raise its feeble hand against such power as may be seen wherever
a sinful soul meets with the pardoning Lord!
Over and over again I read to him from the third of John: "God so loved
the world that He gave His only begotten son," its richness growing on
my own soul as well as his.
"Let me see that," said the dying mate; "I want to look at it--every
cap'n reads the log himself."