Death at Sea.
Our voyage was now drawing to a close. We had passed far to the east of the Cape of Good Hope, and turning northward, entered the tropics. Warm clothing was laid aside, and fresh air and shelter from the burning sun eagerly sought. The experience of the torrid zone in the Atlantic was repeated in the Indian Ocean, and we again had the alternations of light winds, calms, and squalls.
But though these external circumstances were the same, how changed a place was our ship! It seemed to be a new world, and our life a new life. This impressed me, especially at the close of the second Sabbath after the great change in our captain. It was a brilliant evening. The planet Jupiter was shining brightly in the east, and Venus as brightly over against it in the west, while immediately overhead the moon rode among silvery clouds, pouring a flood of mellow light on the gently-rippled waves. The missionary passengers were seated here and there, or walked the deck; the captain was stretched upon the ship's rail, with his Bible in his hand. In the forepart of the vessel the crew were grouped around two of our company—it was evening prayers forward. The two gentlemen were seated on camp-stools. At their left hand, on a spar lashed to the deck, sat the poor Greek, whose daily wasting frame was a living sermon, the Spanish sailor, the Scotchman, the Italian, the Swede; before them an American boy; on their right the rest of the crew. All were eagerly listening. From the after-part of the ship, I could see in the soft twilight the gestures of the speaker, as, with his Testament in his left hand, he pointed with his right to heaven. I quietly drew near and heard the words, “Behold, I stand at the door and knock; if any man hear my voice and open unto me, I will come in and sup with him and he with me."
Our days now passed more swiftly than we wished. We felt loath to leave the labours just begun, and to lose the companionship of our captain, now a friend and brother. Some of the men also seemed impressed; and we would willingly have prolonged our voyage to water the seed that had been sown, but the end of our ocean journey was at hand. The end of life's way was more near at hand to one of our fellow-voyagers; it was the Greek sailor, “Old Bob," as he was always called, a weatherbeaten, sun-burnt tar, some fifty years of age. His features were those of the Greek, and his costume had something of the air of his nation. The sailor's life is a hard one, and he was a broken-down old man, though far short of threescore years and ten. We had been but a few days at sea when he became sick, and he never returned to his duty. During the latter part of the voyage his breathing was most painful, and so violent as to be heard all over the ship; his limbs were swollen and diseased. The captain, whose heart was now full of love to all about him, lent him his arm-chair, and in this the poor man sat groaning and panting for breath day and night. When conversed with, at first, he showed some emotion, but latterly all feeling seemed to have left him. Kindness and attention were repaid by discontent and cursing. At times he would drop asleep, and ceasing to think of his breath, would awake suffocating, and break the silence of night with the most awful outcries. Seated in the armchair, on our last Saturday at sea, he died. His groans in this world will be heard no more; but where, oh where, is his soul?
The Sabbath morning broke calm and peaceful. At an early hour the body of the poor Greek was brought to the ship's gangway for burial. The corpse, sewed in a canvas winding-sheet, with weights attached to the feet, was laid on a plank at the open port. Every soul on board was present. Amid a solemn silence, a hymn was sung. The oldest of the missionary band, having read select portions from the Scriptures, and led in prayer, made a solemn address to the living; again he read from the Scriptures, and at a fitting moment the plank was raised, and the body launched into the deep. With a heavy splash it fell upon the water; there was a gurgling; a few bubbles rose and broke, and once more all was still as death.
The men resumed their seats, and listened with earnest solemnity to a brief address from another, calling upon them to prepare to meet their God. We had preached often; but upon this last Sabbath of our voyage God was speaking to all in a manner that could not be misunderstood.
[Note.—Time proved the conversion of our captain to have been no temporary excitement, but a true work of the Spirit of God. About a year after the departure of our good ship B—— from Madras, the same vessel, with the same commander, again furied her sails, and dropped her anchor in the roads. Hardly had the anchor touched bottom before our friend was on shore, and making his way toward the house of his missionary passengers. The warmth of his greeting showed that his heart was true. He had grown in grace, and was full of the deepest interest in our work among the heathen. The native Christians looked with astonishment upon a godly captain cheering them in their efforts to follow Christ, and he with delight upon converts from the idolatry of their nation. Upon his former arrival he had received from his wife a letter of congratulation upon his being rid of the missionaries, who, she knew, would be a source of great annoyance to him. During this visit he heard from her, that she also had resolved to serve the Lord, and with him travel the road to heaven. Again he left us, and again a third year found him in Madras, still growing in grace, and delighting in the society of Christian friends. Again he returned to India, but not to go again to his earthly home. He was cut down by cholera in Calcutta, and has gone, we cannot doubt, to be with Him whom, not having seen, he loved.