He had little appetite to eat the food he had brought, but he soon drank up the contents of the flask. The mixture was somewhat strong, and sent him off to sleep again. Once more Satan had him at an advantage, for even then, had he gone to the captain, he would have been sent on shore, and retrieved his fault by returning home and relieving his mother’s anxiety. Undo it he could not; for a sin, once committed, can never by man’s power be undone, never forgiven. All sin is committed against God—the slightest evil thought, the slightest departure from truth, is sin against God’s pure and holy law, and He alone can forgive sin. He forgives it only according to the one way He has appointed. He blots it out altogether from remembrance. That way is through faith in the perfect and complete atonement of Jesus Christ, whose blood, shed for man, “cleanseth from all sin.” There is no other way. He accepts no other recompense for sin. There is no undoing a sin, no making amends. All sins, from such as those which men call the smallest to the greatest, are registered, to be brought up in judgment against the sinner, and the all-cleansing blood of Jesus can alone blot them out. Man, as a proof of his living faith in Christ’s atonement,—of his sorrow for sins committed,—of his hatred of sin, of his repentance,—will, of necessity, do all he can to make amends to his fellow-man for the wrong he has done him; he will restore what he has taken; he will explain the truth where he has spoken falsely; he will be kind and gentle to those he has treated harshly; he will give to those of his substance, or forward their interests whom he has injured in any way. But all this cannot blot out one letter in the eternal register of accusations to be brought against him at the day of judgment. Oh! that people did but know this, and would remember that when they sin they sin not only against their fellow-man, but against the all-pure, all-holy God, who can by no means overlook iniquity; in whose sight even the heavens are unclean, without whose knowledge not a sparrow falls to the ground, and by whom the very hairs of our head are numbered.
Chapter Two.
Appearing on deck, Archy is severely reprimanded by the captain, a strict, yet a kind and religious man—His first Sunday at sea—Among the icebergs and ice—Capture of a whale.
Archy Hughson felt very weak and very wretched. The ship had for some hours been tumbling fearfully about, so it seemed to him, now pitching into the seas, which struck her stout bows with heavy blows, now rolling from side to side. He knew that a strong gale was blowing, and he could not help dreading that the casks might break loose, and come down upon him. He longed to escape from his prison, and began to think that Max must have forgotten him altogether. At length he again fell asleep. He was awakened by three heavy knocks above his head, Max’s promised signal. He waited the time agreed on, and then began to crawl out, and grope his way upwards. At last he saw daylight above him, and scrambling along, he reached the foot of a ladder. Climbing up with uncomfortable feelings at his heart as to the reception he might meet with, he gained the upper deck.
The first person he encountered was an old man with weather-beaten features, but a kind expression of countenance, Andrew Scollay by name, a boat-steerer, who was at that moment about to descend.
“Why, lad, where do you come from?” asked old Andrew, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“I wanted to come to sea; so I hid myself away,” answered Archy. “I hope I have not done wrong.”
“You have not done right, boy, or you would not have needed to hide yourself away,” said Andrew, scanning his features. “I think I have seen you before. What is your name?”