Price had resumed his former attitude, and made no answer. As soon as the interruption of the lieutenant had ceased, Robinson resumed his interrogatory to the boatswain: “Where then?—not in hell, I hope.”
“Ay,” returned the latter, “in the fire that is never quenched, and for ever and ever.”
“I hope not,” replied Robinson; “I may deserve punishment, and I know I do. I’ve been overhauling my log-book, while the sea here has been dashing over my bows, and washing my figure-head; and there are some things I wish I could forget;—they will rise up in judgment against me; but surely not for ever?”
“You should have thought of that before, my good fellow. I am sorry for you,—sorry for all those who have perished, for they were good seamen, and, in the worldly service, have done well. I was reflecting the other day whether, out of the whole navy, I should be able to muster one single ship’s company in heaven.”
“Well, Mr Hardsett, it’s my firm opinion, that when the hands are turned up for punishment in the next world, we shall be sarved out according to our desarts. Now, that’s my belief; and I shan’t change it for yours, Mr Hardsett, for I thinks mine the more comfortable of the two.”
“It won’t do, Robinson, you must have faith.”
“So I have, in God’s mercy, boatswain.”
“That won’t do. Yours is not the true faith.”
“Mayhap not, but I hope to ride it out with it nevertheless, for I have it well backed with hope; and if I still drive,”—said Robinson, musing a short time—“why, I have charity as a sheet-anchor, to bring me up again. It’s long odds but our bodies will soon be knocked to shivers in those breakers, and we shall then know who’s right, and who’s wrong. I see small chance of our saving ourselves, unless indeed we could walk on the sea, and there was but one that ever did that.”
“Had the apostle had faith, he would not have sunk,” rejoined the boatswain.