Would Jack die? His wounds were very grievous. “He is in God’s good hands,” the doctor had said.
Tom Fairlie was a thorough English sailor—no better and no worse than the average. He attended church on Sunday, and was always on the quarter-deck when the bell rang for prayers; but the actual praying, I fear, he usually left to the parson himself. If asked, Tom would have told you that it was the parson’s duty to make it all right with the Great Commander above in behalf of himself and shipmates; but now it occurred to Tom that he might himself personally address the Being in whose hands poor Jack lay. God was good. Dr. MʻHearty had said so, and the doctor knew almost everything. He hesitated for a few moments, though. It seemed like taking the parson’s duty out of his hands. Was it impertinence? He looked at Jack’s poor, white, still face—looked just once, then knelt and prayed—prayed a simple sailor’s prayer that isn’t to be found anywhere in a book, but may be none the less effectual on that account.
When Tom rose from his knees Jack’s eyes were open.
“I’ve been sort of praying for you, Jack. I feel relieved. Seems to me the Great Commander is going to throw you a rope and pull you through the surf.”
Jack’s lips were moving as if in feeble reply. But his mind was wandering.
“The blue flower, Gerty—cull that. Oh, not the other! How dark it is! Gerty, I cannot find you. Dark, dark, dark!”
And poor Jack relapsed once more into insensibility.
“I’ve been sort of praying for you, Jack.”
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