I would not wish for a better specimen of faith and confidence than was
shown by one of my patients, Edward Brown, a stoker, with whose little
narrative I will commence my sketches.
"Ah! doctor," he said one day, "I wish you had had to do with me when I
came back from the East."
"Why?" I said, and went on dressing a very serious injury he had
received to one hand, caused by his crushing it between a large piece of
coal and the edge of the furnace door.
"Because I should have got better much quicker if I had known you."
"Perhaps not," I said, "your own medical man may have done his best."
"Perhaps he did," was the reply. "But, lor! hard down I was just then.
It brings it all up again--those words."
"What words?" I said. "There, don't let that bandage be touched by
anyone."
"`In the midst of life we are in death.'"
"Why, Brown!" I exclaimed.
"Yes sir, those were the words--`In the midst of life we are in death.'
And they sounded so quiet and solemn, that Mary and I stopped short
close to the old-fashioned gate at the little churchyard; and then, as
if we moved and thought together, we went in softly to the funeral, and
stood at a little distance, me with my hat off and Mary with her head
bent down, till the service was over.
"There it all is again as I'm telling it to you, come back as fresh and
clear as if I was looking at it now: a nice little old-fashioned church,
with a stone wall round the yard, where the graves lay pretty thick and
close, but all looking green and flowery and old, a great clump of the
biggest and oldest yew-trees I ever saw, and a tall thick hedge
separating the churchyard from the clergyman's house. The sun was
shining brightly, turning the moss-covered roofs of the church and
vicarage into gold; from the trees close by came the faint twittering of
birds, and away past the village houses bathed in the bright afternoon
sunshine there were the fields of crimson clover, and the banks full of
golden broom and gorse. Over all was a sense of such peace and silence
that it seemed as if there was nothing terrible, only a quiet sadness in
the funeral, with its few mourners round the open grave, and the
grey-haired clergyman standing by; and last of all, when Mary and I went
up and looked into the grave, and read on the coffin-plate, `Aged _77_.'
one couldn't help feeling that the poor soul had only gone to sleep
tired with a long life.
"It was my fancy perhaps, but as we strolled round that churchyard, and
read a tombstone here and a board there, it seemed as if no sooner had
the parson gone in to take off his surplice, and the mourners left the
churchyard, than the whole place woke up again into busy life. A
chaffinch came and jerked out its bit of a song in one of the yews, the
Guinea-fowls in a farm close by set up their loud crying, the geese
shrieked on the green, and creaking, and rattling and bumping, there
came along a high-filled waggon of the sweetest hay that ever was caught
in loose handfuls by the boughs of the trees, and then fell softly back
into the road.
"We were very quiet, Mary and I, as we strolled out of the churchyard,
down one of the lanes; and then crossing a stile, we went through a
couple of fields, and sat down on another stile, with the high hedge on
one side of us and the meadow, that they were beginning to mow at the
other end, one glorious bed of flowers and soft feathery grass.
"`Polly,' I says at last, breaking the silence, `ain't this heavenly?'
"`And you feel better?' she says, laying her hand on mine.
"`Better!' I says, taking a long draught of the soft sweet-scented air,
and filling my chest--`better, old girl! I feel as if I was growing
backwards into a boy.'
"`And you fifty last week!' she says.
"`Yes,' I says, smiling, `and you forty-seven next week.' And then we
sat thinking for a bit.
"`Polly,' I says at last, as I sat there drinking in that soft breeze,
and feeling it give me strength, `it's worth being ill only to feel as I
do now.'
"For you see I'd been very bad, else I dare say I'm not the man to go
hanging about churchyards and watching funerals: I'm a stoker, and my
work lies in steamers trading to the East. I'd come home from my last
voyage bad with fever, caught out in one of those nasty hot bad-smelling
ports--been carried home to die, as my mates thought; and it was being
like this, and getting better, that had set me thinking so seriously,
and made me so quiet; not that I was ever a noisy sort of man, as any
one who knows me will say. And now, after getting better, the doctor
had said I must go into the country to get strength; so as there was no
more voyaging till I was strong, there was nothing for it but to leave
the youngsters under the care of the eldest girl and a neighbour, and
come and take lodgings out in this quiet Surrey village.
"Polly never thought I should get better, and one time no more did I;
for about a month before this time, as I lay hollow-eyed and yellow on
the bed, knowing, too, how bad I looked--for I used to make young Dick
bring me the looking-glass every morning--the doctor came as usual, and
like a blunt Englishman I put it to him flat.
"`Doctor,' I says, `you don't think I shall get better?' and I looked
him straight in the face.
"`Oh, come, come, my man!' he says, smiling, `we never look at the black
side like that.'
"`None of that, doctor,' I says; `out with it like a man. I can stand
it: I've been expecting to be drowned or blown up half my life, so I
shan't be scared at what you say.'
"`Well, my man,' he says, `your symptoms are of a very grave nature.
You see the fever had undermined you before you came home, and unless--'
"`All right, doctor,' I says; `I understand: you mean that unless you
can get a new plate in the boiler, she won't stand another voyage.'
"`Oh, come! we won't look upon it as a hopeless case,' he says; `there's
always hope;' and after a little more talk, he shook hands and went
away.
"Next day, when he came, I had been thinking it all over, and was ready
for him. I don't believe I was a bit better; in fact, I know I was
drifting fast, and I saw it in his eyes as well.
"I waited till he had asked me his different questions, and then just as
he was getting up to go, I asked him to sit down again.
"`Polly, my dear,' I says, `I just want a few words with the doctor;'
and she put her apron up to her eyes and went out, closing the door
after her very softly, while the doctor looked at me curious-like, and
waited for me to speak.
"`Doctor,' I says, `you've about given me up. There, don't shake your
head, for I know. Now don't you think I'm afraid to die, for I don't
believe I am; but look here: there's seven children downstairs, and if I
leave my wife a widow with the few pounds I've been able to save, what's
to become of them? Can't you pull me through?'
"`My dear fellow,' he says, `honestly I've done everything I can for
your case.'
"`That's what you think, doctor,' I says, `but look here: I've been at
sea thirty years, and in seven wrecks. It's been like dodging death
with me a score of times. Why, I pulled my wife there regularly out of
the hands of death, and I'm not going to give up now. I've been--'
"`Stop, stop,' he says gently. `You're exciting yourself.'
"`Not a bit,' I says, though my voice was quite a whisper. `I've had
this over all night, and I've come to think I must be up and doing my
duty.'
"`But, my good man--' he began.
"`Listen to me, doctor,' I says. `A score of times I might have given
up and been drowned, but I made a fight for it and was saved. Now I
mean to make a fight for it here, for the sake of the wife and bairns.
I don't mean to die, doctor, without a struggle. I believe this here,
that life's given to us all as a treasure to keep; we might throw it
away by our own folly at any time, but there's hundreds of times when we
may preserve it, and we never know whether we can save it till we try.
Give me a drink of that water.'
"He held the glass to my lips, and I took a big draught and went on, he
seeming all the time to be stopping to humour me in my madness.
"`That's better, doctor,' I says. `Now look here, sir, speaking as one
who has sailed the seas, it's a terrible stormy time with me; there's a
lee shore close at hand, the fires are drowned out, and unless we can
get up a bit of sail, there's no chance for me. Now then, doctor, can
you get up a bit of sail?'
"`I'll go and send you something that will quiet you,' he said, rising.
"`Thank ye, doctor,' I says, smiling to myself. `And now look here,' I
says, `I'm not going to give up till the last; and when that last comes,
and the ship's going down, why, I shall have a try if I can't swim to
safety. If that fails, and I can really feel that it is to be, why, I
hope I shall go down into the great deep calmly, like a hopeful man,
praying that Somebody above will forgive me all I've done amiss, and
stretch out His fatherly hand to my little ones at home.'
"He went away, and I dropped asleep, worn out with my exertion.
"When I woke, Polly was standing by the bedside watching me, with a
bottle and glass on the little table.
"As soon as she saw my eyes open, she shook up the stuff, and poured it
into a wine-glass.
"`Is that what the doctor sent?' I says.
"`Yes, dear; you were to take it directly.'
"`Then I shan't take it,' I says. `He's given me up, and that stuff's
only to keep me quiet. Polly, you go and make me some beef-tea, and
make it strong.'
"She looked horrified, poor old girl, and was going to beg me to take
hold of the rotten life-belt he'd sent me, when I held out my shaking
hand for it, took the glass, and let it tilt over--there was only about
a couple of teaspoonfuls in it--and the stuff fell on the carpet.
"I saw the tears come in her eyes, but she said nothing--only put down
the glass, and ran out to make the beef-tea.
"The doctor didn't come till late next day, and I was lying very still
and drowsy, half asleep like, but I was awake enough to hear him whisper
to Polly, `Sinking fast;' and I heard her give such a heart-broken sob,
that as the next great wave came on the sea where I was floating, I
struck out with all my might, rose over it, and floated gently down the
other side.
"For the next four days--putting it as a drowning man striving for his
life like a true-hearted fellow--it was like great foaming waves coming
to wash over me, but the shore still in sight, and me trying hard to
reach it.
"And it was a grim, hard fight: a dozen times I could have given up,
folded my arms, and said goodbye to the dear old watching face safe on
shore; but a look at that always cheered me, and I fought on again and
again, till at last the sea seemed to go down, and, in utter weariness,
I turned on my back to float restfully with the tide bearing me
shorewards, till I touched the sands, crept up them, and fell down worn
out, to sleep in the warm sun--safe!
"That's a curious way of putting it, you may say, but it seems natural
to me to mix it up with the things of seagoing life, and the manner in
which I've seen so many fight hard for their lives. It was just like
striving in the midst of a storm to me, and when at last I did fall into
a deep sleep, I felt surprised--like to find myself lying in my own bed,
with Polly watching by me; and when I stretched out my hand, and took
hers, she let loose what she had kept hidden from me before, and,
falling on her knees by my bedside, she sobbed for very joy.
"`As much beef-tea and brandy as you can get him to take,' the doctor
says, that afternoon; and it wasn't long before I got from slops to
solids, and then was sent, as I told you, into the country to get
strong, while the doctor got no end of praise for the cure he had made.
"I never said a word though, even to Polly, for he did his best; but I
don't think any medicine would have cured me then.
"I was saying a little while back that I pulled my wife regularly out of
the hands of death, and of course that was when we were both quite
young; though, for the matter of that, I don't feel much different, and
can't well see the change. That was in one of the Cape steamers, when I
first took to stoking. They were little ramshackle sort of boats in
those days, and how it was more weren't lost puzzles me. It was more
due to the weather than the make or finding of the ships, I can tell
you, that they used to steer their way safe to port; and yet the
passengers, poor things, knowing no better, used to take passage, ay,
and make a voyage too, from which they never got back.
"Well, I was working on board a steamer as they used to call the
_Equator_, heavy laden and with about twenty passengers on board. We
started down Channel and away with all well, till we got right down off
the west coast of Africa, when there came one of the heaviest storms I
was ever in. Even for a well-found steamer, such as they can build
to-day, it would have been a hard fight; but with our poor shaky wooden
tub, it was a hopeless case from the first.
"Our skipper made a brave fight of it, though, and tried hard to make
for one of the ports; but, bless you! what can a man do when, after ten
days' knocking about, the coals run out, and the fires, that have been
kept going with wood and oil, and everything that can be thrust into the
furnaces, are drowned; when the paddle-wheels are only in the way, every
bit of sail set is blown clean out of the bolt-ropes, and at last the
ship begins to drift fast for a lee shore?
"That was our case, and every hour the sea seemed to get higher, and the
wind more fierce, while I heard from more than one man how fast the
water was gaining below.
"My mate and I didn't want any telling, though. We'd been driven up out
of the stoke-hole like a pair of drowned rats, and came on deck to find
the bulwarks ripped away, and the sea every now and then leaping aboard,
and washing the lumber about in all directions.
"The skipper was behaving very well, and he kept us all at the pumps,
turn and turn in spells, but we might as well have tried to pump the sea
dry; and when, with the water gaining fast, we told him what we thought,
he owned as it was no use, and we gave up.
"We'd all been at it, crew and passengers, about forty of us altogether,
including the women--five of them they were, and they were all on deck,
lashed in a sheltered place, close to the poop. Very pitiful it was to
see them fighting hard at first and clinging to the side, but only to
grow weaker, half-drowned as they were; and I saw two sink down at last
and hang drooping-like from their lashings, dead, for not a soul could
do them a turn.
"I was holding on by the shrouds when the mate got to the skipper's
side, and I saw in his blank white face what he was telling him. Of
course we couldn't hear his words in such a storm, but we didn't want
to, for we knew well enough he was saying--
"`She's sinking!'
"Next moment there was a rush made for the boats, and two of the
passengers cut loose a couple of the women; place was made for them
before the first boat was too full, and she was lowered down, cast off,
and a big wave carried her clear of the steamer. I saw her for a moment
on the top of the ridge, and then she plunged down the other side out of
our sight--and that of everybody else; for how long she lived, who can
say? She was never picked up or heard of again.
"Giving a bit of a cheer, our chaps turned to the next, and were getting
in when there came a wave like a mountain, ripped her from the davits,
and when I shook the water from my eyes, there she was hanging by one
end, stove in, and the men who had tried to launch her gone--skipper and
mate as well.
"There were only seven of us now, and I could see besides the three
women lashed to the side, and only one of them was alive; and for a bit
no one moved, everybody being stunned-like with horror; but there came a
lull, and feeling that the steamer was sinking under our feet, I shouted
out to the boys to come on, and we ran to the last boat, climbed in, and
were casting off, when I happened to catch sight of the women lashed
under the bulwarks there.
"`Hold hard!' I roars, for I saw one of them wave her hand.
"`Come on, you fool,' shouts my mate, `she's going down!'
"I pray I may never be put to it again like that, with all a man's
selfish desire for life fighting against him. For a moment I shut my
eyes, and they began to lower; but I was obliged to open them again, and
as I did so, I saw a wild scared face, with long wet hair clinging round
it, and a pair of little white hands were stretched out to me as if for
help.
"`Hold hard!' I shouts.
"`No, no,' roared out two or three, `there isn't a moment;' and as the
boat was being lowered from the davits, I made a jump, caught the
bulwarks with my hands, and climbed back on board, just as the boat
kissed the water, was unhooked, and floated away.
"Then as I crept, hand-over-hand, to the girl's side, whipped out my
knife, and was cutting her loose, while her weak arms clung to me, I
felt a horrible feeling of despair come over me, for the boat was
leaving us; and I knew what a coward I was at heart, as I had to fight
with myself so as not to leave the girl to her fate, and leap overboard
to swim for my life. I got the better of it, though--went down on my
knees, so as not to see the boat, and got the poor trembling, clinging
creature loose.
"`Now, my lass,' I says, `quick'--and I raised her up--`hold on by the
side while I make fast a rope round you.'
"And then I stood up to hail the boat--the boat as warn't there, for in
those brief moments she must have capsized, and we were alone on the
sinking steamer, which now lay in the trough of the sea.
"As soon as I got over the horror of the feeling, a sort of stony
despair came over me; but when I saw that little pale appealing face at
my side, looking to me for help, that brought the manhood back, and in
saying encouraging things to her, I did myself good.
"My first idea was to make something that would float us, but I gave
that up directly, for I could feel that I was helpless; and getting the
poor girl more into shelter, I took a bit of tobacco in a sort of stolid
way, and sat down with a cork life-buoy over my arm, one which I had cut
loose from where it had hung forgotten behind the wheel.
"But I never used it, for the storm went down fast, and the steamer
floated still, waterlogged, for three days, when we were picked up by a
passing vessel, half-starved, but hoping. And during that time my
companion had told me that she was the attendant of one of the lady
passengers on board; and at last, when we parted at the Cape, she kissed
my hand, and called me her hero, who had saved her life--poor grimey me,
you know!
"We warn't long, though, before we met again, for somehow we'd settled
that we'd write; and a twelvemonth after, Mary was back in England, and
my wife. That's why I said I took her like out of the hands of death,
though in a selfish sort of way, being far, you know, from perfect. But
what I say, speaking as Edward Brown, stoker, is this: Make a good fight
of it, no matter how black things may look, and leave the rest to Him."
He nodded gravely at me, placed his bandaged hand in the sling I had
contrived, and went away without another word.