Feeling chilled from the damp after the great heat of the morning, as soon as I had doffed my wet things I went round to the galley to see if I could discover a drop of hot coffee knocking about, as it was getting on for tea-time, being now late in the afternoon; but when I got there, instead of finding Ching Wang, who was always punctuality itself in the matter of meal-times, busy with the coppers, there he was flat on his stomach on the floor of his caboose, with a hideous little brass image or idol, which might have been Buddha for all that I know to the contrary, set up in the corner—the Chinese cook being so actively engaged in salaaming in front of this image, by touching the deck with his forehead and burning bits of gilt paper before it, as incense I suppose, that he did not notice me.
“Hullo, Ching Wang,” I said, “what are you about?”
“Me chin chin joss, lilly pijjin,” he answered, turning to me his round, unconscious, and imperturbable face as if he were engaged in some ordinary occupation of everyday life. “Me askee him me watchee if kyphong catchee ship, no sabey?”
The poor fellow evidently believed more in his god than I did in mine; for here he was in a moment of danger, as he thought, praying for help, while I, who had almost lost my life when I so nearly escaped tumbling from the topgallant yard only a moment or so since, had thoughtlessly forgotten Him who had saved me!
I think of this now, but I didn’t then. Nay, I even laughed at Ching Wang’s ignorance when speaking to Tim Rooney, whom I met as I retreated from the galley, telling him that I wondered how the generally astute Chinaman could really fancy he was propitiating Buddha, or whoever else he believed in as his sovereign deity, by burning a few scraps of tinsel paper to do honour to the senseless image.
“Be jabers, though,” argued Tim on my giving him this opinion of mine, “I can’t say, sorr, as how we Christians be any the betther.”
“Why!” I exclaimed indignantly. “How can you say so?”
“Begorra, sure we all thry to have our ray-ligion as chape as we can,” replied he coolly. “Don’t we, Cath’lics an’ Protistints aloike, for there’s little to choose atwane us on the p’int, contint oursilves wid as little as we can hilp, goin’ once to chapel or church, mebbe, av a Sunday an’ thinkin’ we’ve wiped out all the avil we may a-done in the wake, an’ have a clane sheet for the nixt one—jist as this poor ig’rant haythin booms his goold paper afore his joss an’ thinks that clears off all his ould scores. I say no differ, sure, mesilf, Misther Gray-ham, atwane us, that same, as I tould ye.”
I did not answer Tim, but his words affected me more than any sermon I ever heard from the pulpit; and, as I went back to my cabin I determined to try and keep to something I had promised father before parting from him, and which I had neglected up to then—my promise being never to forget my daily prayer to “Him who rules the waves,” even should I have no time to look at my Bible.
The weather cleared up before sunset, and the wind subsequently began to blow steadily from the southward and eastward, showing that we had at length got into the wished-for “trade;” so the ship soon had all plain sail set on her again, now heading, though, sou’-sou’-west on the port tack, and making a bee-line almost for the island of Trinidad off the South American coast.