“Oh, I meant, brother, that you should think of it. I believe that was what I meant.”
“You’re not very sure. But let me tell you this, that there never does pass a single 25th of February that I do not think of that fearful shipwreck. Ay, girl, and pray too. I’ve been praying as I sat here—praying with my eyes on the newspaper, when you all thought I was reading it. You look at me, sister; and Tommy has woke up, and he is looking at me too. Well, you little know how often old sailors like me pray, and what strange things we do pray for, and how our prayers are often heard. You see, sister, those who go down to the sea in ships, and see the wonders of the Lord in the mighty deep, get a kind of used to thinking more than shore-folks do. In many a dark black middle watch, we are alone with the ocean, one might say, and that is like being in the presence of the great Maker of all. Verily, sister, I think the waves on such nights seem to talk to us, and tell us things that the ear of landsman never listened to. No one could long lead the life of a sailor and not be a believer. Do you mind, sister, that New Testament story of our Saviour being at sea one night with some of his disciples, when a great storm arose, and the craft was about to founder? How he was asleep in the stern-sheets, how in an agony of terror they awoke him, how his words ‘Peace, be still’ fell like oil on the troubled waters, and how they all marvelled, saying, ‘What manner of man is this, that even the wind and sea obey him?’
“Well, sister, I never knew nor felt the full meaning of those words until I became a sailor. But sometimes on dreamy midnights, when darkness and danger were all around us, I have in my thoughts accused the ocean of remorselessness, the winds of cruelty; and, as I did so, seemed to hear that answer come to me up from the black vastness, ‘We obey Him.’ The winds sang it as they went shrieking through the rigging, the waves sang it as they went toiling past: ‘We obey Him,’ ‘We obey Him.’ Then have I turned my thoughts heavenward and been comforted, knowing in whose good hands we all were.
“A sailor’s prayer, sister, on a night like this, while he sits comfortably by the fireside, is for those in danger far at sea or on some surf-tormented lee shore. But on this particular evening, on this 25th of February, I always add a prayer for my good old shipmate, Captain Herbert—and may heaven give him peace.”
“Captain Herbert is still at sea, brother?”
“Ay, sister, and will be, if spared, for many a year. He seems unable to rest on shore, although he is rich enough to retire. You see, he never had but the one boy, Bernard; and, foolish as it may appear, he cherishes the notion that he still lives, and that some day he will meet him again.
“And never a strange sailor does he meet in any part of the world, or any port of the world, but he questions concerning all his life and adventures. More than once has my friend been thus led astray, and has sailed to distant shores where he had heard some English lad was held prisoner by Indians or savages. But all in vain.
“It was a sad story, you say, sister? Indeed, lass, it was. Shall I repeat it?
“Well, stir the fire, Tommy, and make it blaze and crackle. How the storm roars, to be sure.”
Whoo—oo—oo! Whoo—oo—oo! howled the wind again; but the fire only burned the brighter, and the fireside looked the cheerier for the sound.