Derry was the first to break the solemn silence. “Those words never left me: ‘Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool,’” he said. “They stuck to me, and rang in my ears and searched every nook and cranny of my wicked heart. Often I had longed to be a Christian man for the little dear’s sake, if not for my own; but I said to myself, ‘No, Derry Duck, you are all pitch, you can’t be made white;’ and Satan helped me to hold on to that way of thinking. Your scripture gave the lie again and again to that. It seemed to say to me, You choose blackness and damnation, when God asks you to wash and be clean. What I’ve suffered these weeks, no soul out of perdition can tell. The devil clung to me. He would not let me go. He claimed me for his own. He told over to me my dark, hidden sins, and taunted me that I had gone too far to go back now. He hissed in my ear that no power could cleanse and save such as me. Then came up the words, ‘With God all things are possible,’ ‘Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow.’ ‘Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.’ And he has saved me. I am His. He has given me a mouth to praise him. O Blair, think of his wonderful mercy, to take poor wicked Derry Duck into the kingdom of heaven.”
The boy’s heart throbbed and swelled with joy and praise. What was the changing of water to wine, or the calming of the stormy sea, compared to this marvellous miracle wrought in a living human soul? “He to whom much is forgiven, loveth much,” said our blessed Saviour; and in Derry this truth was abundantly verified. The Christ whose blood could wash such as he, was a Lord for whom he was willing to suffer even unto death. The mercy that could stoop to ransom such a transgressor, claimed an affection before which poor Derry’s deep love for his earthly darling paled, as the things of time fade into insignificance before the things of eternity.
Blair had longed to see his rude shipmates forsaking their sins; he had prayed and wrestled in prayer for them. Yet now, when he saw the work begun before his eyes, he felt the faithlessness of those very prayers, and knew that they could have won no fulfilment, but for the merits of the great Intercessor in whose name they had ever been offered.
“Why should it be thought a thing incredible to you that God should raise the dead?” This question of the apostle comes with power to the Christians of our own day. Do you really believe it possible for God to raise to newness of life the dead in trespasses and sins? There is no soul so hardened that it cannot be melted to penitence by the touch of the mighty Spirit of God. Let this thought make us fervent, importunate, instant in prayer for the souls that are at death’s door and hasting to destruction.
Can any thing but the power of God make the moral man, once proud of his own uprightness, humble as the little child, leaning only on the cross of Christ for salvation? He who works this wonder can do yet more. What are the sins and self-will of the human heart, in comparison with the might of the majesty of Jehovah? He who laid the strong foundations of the earth, and led forth the marshalled millions of the stars in their wonderful order, can mould and fashion the soul of man at his will. Let us not stand doubting, timid, and faint-hearted, discouraged by the foul sins which blot and efface in man the fair image of his Maker. Let us rather “come boldly to the throne of grace,” and plead through the great Intercessor for every wanderer from the right path, and specially and perseveringly for those dear ones of our own households, who, like the prodigal, have left the Father’s house, to be in misery and want in sin’s far foreign land.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE CONFLICT.
Each kind affection nature gives
Religion makes more bright,
As sunshine on the landscape falls,
And beautifies with light.
The patriot had hitherto been sleeping in the heart of Derry Duck; but now he was to awake like a “strong man armed.” There is not one kindly, pleasant, honorable feeling, but is strengthened and ennobled by the touch of divine grace. Nor only so: he who finds himself suddenly alive to his allegiance to God, has at the same time his vision cleared to see around him a thousand hitherto unknown or neglected ties, which bind him to his fellow-men. In a whisper of conscience, he is taught that
He is the faithful patriot,
Who keeps his Maker’s laws;
Nor will the servant of his Lord
Forsake his country’s cause.
Among the sins of which Derry Duck was called deeply to repent, was the dishonor which he had brought on his own Christian land, in many a port where his wild deeds had left their guilty trace. What had he done for the glory of Christian America? Bravely he had fought under her flag; but it had been through reckless daring, or a thirst for gold. Not for a noble principle, not for the defence of home and kindred, altar and hearth-stone, had he raised his strong right arm.
Blair Robertson rejoiced to see the spirit of true patriotism awaking in the bosom of the hardy sailor. The high-souled boy had now a sharer in his enthusiastic love of his country, and devotion to her cause. They joined their labors at once to improve the defenders of the flag, who were their shipmates, and yet a disgrace to their native land. Blair went on in his own peculiar way; while Derry at once announced his position as a Christian mate, who would suffer no profanity in his hearing, and would see the crew of the Molly engage in no deeds on the high seas, not sanctioned by the letters of marque which were their warrant for their blows struck against the common foe.
Some outward change had been produced in the men of the privateer, when all thoughts were suddenly turned into a new channel. A fast sailing American merchant ship informed Captain Knox that the expected East Indiaman was not more than half a day behind her.
All was at once stir and bustle from stem to stern of the Molly. The sturdy little craft was like the bristling porcupine, ready and impatient for action, when the masts of the East Indiaman slowly rose above the horizon. The privateer gave chase at once, and rapidly neared its prey. The guns of the Molly gave the signal for surrender. The British flag went down, and Derry Duck, with a strong party of boarders was sent at once to seize the valuable prize.
Ready to pounce on their defenceless victims, the eager sailors climbed the sides of the huge vessel and stood upon its deck, cutlass and pistol in hand. Suddenly the hatchways were thrown open, and a band of British soldiers sprang forth with a fierce battle-cry. Derry Duck rushed among them with desperate valor, and was heartily seconded by his fearless followers.
From the deck of the Molly, Captain Knox could see the trap into which he had fallen. He could not use his well-loaded guns without destruction to his own men. He could only send reinforcements to their small band, and quietly see the battle fought hand to hand, which a few cannon balls would have settled in a moment.
Several skilful British marksmen were firing at the few who remained on the approaching privateer, when Captain Knox ordered Blair aloft.
Blair obeyed without a moment’s hesitation, and sped upward as if in the glee of boyhood’s play. Yet in the heart of the young patriot there was prayer for his soul, should it be set free in that hour of danger; there was burning love for his country’s cause. The eye of Derry Duck fell on the isolated group who had been firing at the privateer. He saw a well-known form climbing to the dizzy masthead, while the shot were flying around him. Derry rushed in among them with his axe in his hand, and waving it around his head scattered them like leaves before the wind. He stayed long enough to see that Blair had not dropped like a wounded bird among the rigging of the Molly.
Slowly, very slowly, the boy made his way to the deck, then sank down faint and bleeding. A bullet had entered his side; yet he had been so ready for the stroke that it had not thrown him off his guard. Although weak and giddy, he had made his way down his narrow pathway, and reported his duty done. Even the hardy captain gave a pitying glance at the brave boy as he was borne below by the sailors. Yet this was no time for such thoughts in the mind of Captain Knox. The reinforcement from the Molly were on the deck
of the East Indiaman. He could hear the hearty cheer of Derry Duck as he placed himself at their head, and rushed upon the brave Britons.
Derry’s impetuous charge was too much for the soldiers, many of them enfeebled by the climate of India, and going home to recruit in their native breezes. Over the deck swept Derry and his band like a fierce hurricane, which naught can stay or withstand. A shout of victory went up from the Molly, a shout which Derry’s excited men sent back over the water in a deafening reply. The East Indiaman was won; her crew were prisoners; her cargo the prize of the Molly.
Where was Blair Robertson amid the general triumph? This was Derry Duck’s first question, as his returning footsteps again trod the deck of the privateer.
Alone in the deserted cabin, Derry found what was more precious to him now than his share in the glory or the spoils of the recent fight.
The rough sailor asked no questions of the fainting lad. Tearing open Blair’s garments, he found at once the wound, and with ready skill and unwavering firmness his sharp knife did the surgeon’s duty. The bullet was forced out by Derry’s hard fingers, and his rough hands tied the bandage with a touching attempt at tenderness. Blair uttered no murmur. His lips moved gently, but they whispered only words befitting the sinner passing into the presence of his God.
Derry caught the low whisper, and understood its meaning. “I can’t let you go. What! going? Oh my lad!” and Derry Duck’s hard, blood-marked face was suddenly wet with tears.
CHAPTER XVIII
Wages
The East Indiaman was too important a prize to be trusted to any other than the skilful sailor and brave officer, Derry Duck. He was at once ordered to prepare to take her into an American port, with all due formalities.
Derry’s sea-chest contained more than his scanty wardrobe, his golden gains during this long cruise were garnered there. Yet he trusted it to the hands of unscrupulous men, while his own arms found a more welcome burden. Tenderly as a mother bears her sleeping infant, Derry clasped a slender figure to his rough bosom, and would suffer no one to give him aid in his office of love. There was a gentle pulsation in the heart so near to his. There was a growing warmth in the form which was so precious to the mate of the Molly.
Blair was still alive, and Derry would allow no duty to interfere with the sacred privilege of caring for the wounded youth, and bearing him home, living or dead, to his mother.
On a couch of Indian luxury Derry laid the prostrate figure of Blair Robertson, and as he turned to leave the cabin, the face of the once hardened tar was softened into womanly gentleness as he said, “God help him, and bring him to, sound and well.”
The excessive faintness and exhaustion of the wound had indeed seemed to Blair like the lingering, reluctant parting of soul and body; and he might well have adopted the words of that hymn, honored by the murmured breathings of many a dying saint:
“What is this absorbs me quite,
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirit, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?
The world recedes, it disappears:
Heaven opens on my eyes, my ears
With sounds seraphic ring:
Lend, lend your wings: I mount, I fly;
O grave, where is thy victory!
O death, where is thy sting!”
The curtain which separates this lower world from the glories of the unseen bliss above, had grown thin and almost transparent to the eyes of the Christian boy, thus brought to the gates of death. Near, very near to him seemed the face of the Saviour who had of late been his realized and beloved companion. It was as the mother bows down to her suffering child, that this glimpse of the dear Redeemer was made so plain to the weakened, prostrate boy. He was still in the flesh, and to know weary waiting and suffering, ere health should once more send the glad blood bounding along his veins.
Yet there was work for Blair Robertson on his couch of pain, work to do for his heavenly Master. Blair was not the only sufferer on board the prize.
Often during the homeward voyage, a settee was placed beside the soft couch which Derry had appropriated to Blair’s especial use. The occupant of the settee was a huge, muscular, repulsive young man, whose yellow hair lay uncombed on his pillow, while his pale, freckle-marked face was distorted with pain, rage, and the torture of a rebellious spirit, when sorely smitten by the hand of God.
Many of Brimstone’s fierce shipmates had been hurried into eternity in the midst of the struggle on the deck of the East Indiaman. Blair’s coarse tormentor, however, had escaped with his life, but with one leg so wounded and bruised that it was promptly cut off, as the only way of preventing ultimate death. Brimstone ground his teeth and swore fearful imprecations at each movement that reminded him of his loss. It was in vain that Derry bade him be quiet, and rather thank God that time was left him for repentance. In Brimstone’s hardened heart there seemed no resting-place for good seed, no soil prepared for the heavenly plant.
His only relief was in forgetfulness of his misfortune, when he was wiled from thoughts of himself by one of Blair’s stirring tales of adventure, or ballads of the olden time. Blair would weary out his little strength for the benefit of his companion, and yet win not one word of thanks for his kindly endeavors. Yet he persevered, ever mingling in his stories and songs whispers of the only source of comfort for the afflicted, the only balm for the suffering soul.
Brimstone’s wild and wicked life had poisoned the very sources and flow of his life’s blood. His was no flesh to heal, like that of a healthy child.
While Blair was daily making long strides towards health, fierce pains and burning inflammation seized on Brimstone’s stunted limb. Then no voice could soothe him, no words of comfort reach his ear. He chafed and tossed upon his narrow couch like a wounded beast of the forest, and finally refused to suffer any hand to dress or touch the afflicted part.
Pain ceased at last, the end was near. Death would soon claim the loathsome body, and bring the polluted soul before the judgment-bar. Blair gently told the sufferer the awful truth, yet not from the lips of the lad would he believe such an announcement. It was not until Derry’s blunt confirmation made sure the fearful tidings, that the dying man would believe that he stood on the brink of eternity.
We draw the curtain on the horrors of the scenes that followed. May it never be the reader’s lot to hear the desperate cries of a ruined soul about to meet its God.
The transgressor must eat of the fruit of his choice, and sink into the pit towards which his face has been resolutely set. The wages of sin is death.
Vain were the pleadings of Blair, and the rougher urgency of Derry, calling on the dying man to lift his eyes to the cross of Christ, trust, and be saved.
With a fearful howl of anguish the condemned soul took its flight; while his companions, awe-struck, prayed God to spare them such a doom.
On the dark waters the body of Brimstone was cast, to be seen no more until it should rise at the last day, we fear, to the resurrection of damnation.
Lost seemed the labors of Blair Robertson for the good of his worthless shipmate; but no prayerful effort for the holy cause is vain. Blair had other listeners than the ear to which he spoke. Unconscious of all around him, he had but striven to touch and uplift the soul of the dying man. The group of sailors gathered round the departing wretch would soon be scattered far and wide on the rolling seas, thousands of miles from the home of Blair Robertson, and the solemn truths he had spoken might spring up in their hearts and bear fruit unto eternal life.
CHAPTER XIX
Home
A light fall of snow had clothed all Fairport in white, and whispered in the ears of lingering birds that they had better be off for the “sunny south,” ere old winter had fairly begun his icy reign. Cold and dark, the waters of the harbor lay encircled by the pure and glistening land. Cheerful wood fires were warming many a hearth-stone, while wives and mothers thought of their absent ones on the sea, and h
oped and prayed no chilling storm might be rending their sails and perilling the lives so precious to home and native land.
Mrs. Robertson had suffered from many anxious thoughts since the departure of her brave son. But hers was not a timid or a repining spirit. She knew that the same eye watched over him on sea as on land; and the almighty arm could protect him as well upon the deep waters, as in the shelter of his mother’s fireside.
Fairport glasses had plainly seen the British colors mounted by the vessel which had borne away the young pilot. The mother’s heart throbbed as she mentally pictured the determined patriotism of her darling son. Not merely a fancy and a picture that scene remained.
The two privateers which had given chase to the dismantled British vessel had an easy victory, and soon brought her triumphantly into Boston harbor. Hal Hutching’s story won him liberty at once. The English boy had no sooner set foot on land, than he turned his face in the direction of Fairport. Way-worn and foot-sore he was, when he knocked at last at Mrs. Robertson’s door. Warmth and welcome, love and gratitude awaited him within. It was his privilege first to tell the mother how nobly her son had borne himself in the hour of trial, and with what calmness he had faced the king of terrors. Poor Hal by turns wept and glowed with enthusiasm, as he dwelt on the praise of his friend, while the mother’s heart welled with deep thankfulness at the mercy which had so spared and honored her boy.
Many and many a time was Hal Hutchings forced to tell over his story to auditors of all ages and conditions. The Fairport Guard, formally assembled, demanded the right of a relation especially for them. Every young heart beat high, and every eye flashed with kindling pride in their brave commander, and each one resolved to be, like him, an honor to his home and country. Like Lycurgus, their leader had given his laws, then left his followers to be faithful until his return. Anew they pledged themselves to keep their pure code, and strive to be a body which Blair Robertson the patriot would not be ashamed to command.
The Edward S. Ellis Megapack Page 148
