Will Weatherhelm: The Yarn of an Old Sailor

by William Henry Giles Kingston

We at last reached Plymouth, and I was carried to the hospital. I longed to write to my wife, and yet my heart sank within me when I thought that I should have to tell her what a maimed and altered being I was. I fancied that she would not know me, and would look on me with horror. When the surgeon saw me, directly I was carried to the hospital, he bid me cheer up, and said that he thought I should soon be strong enough to move. Scarcely had he left me, when I heard a man groaning heavily in the bed next to mine. The groans ceased. I asked the sufferer what was the matter with him. I was startled when he answered in a voice which I knew at once, “I am dying, and going I know not where, with a thousand sins on my head unrepented of and unforgiven.” It was Iffley who spoke. I was not certain whether he knew me. I answered, “There is forgiveness for the greatest of sinners. Repent. Trust in Christ. His blood will wash away all your sins.” There was no reply for some time. I thought that he had ceased to breathe.

“Who are you who says that?” he exclaimed suddenly; “you think that I do not know you. I knew you from the first, and I believe you know me. Can you forgive one who has injured you so severely—who would have injured you still more had he found the opportunity? Weatherhelm, I ask you, can you forgive me?”

I was silent for some minutes. There was a severe strife in my bosom. I prayed earnestly for God’s Holy Spirit. I uttered the words, “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us.” I felt that I could reply with sincerity, “Iffley, I do forgive you—from my heart—truly and freely.”

“Then I can believe that God will forgive me,” he cried out with almost a shriek of joy. “Yes, the chaplain here and others have talked to me about it. I could not believe them. I felt that I was far too guilty, and too wretched an outcast; but I am sure that what man can do, God will do. Yes, Weatherhelm, you have given a peace to my heart I never expected to dwell there. Go on, talk to me on that subject. Pray with me. I have no time to talk on any other subject, to tell you of my past career. That matters not. My hours are numbered. Any moment I feel may be my last on earth. Go on, go on.”

I did talk long and earnestly to him, and what I said seemed to increase his comfort. Our conversation was interrupted by a visitor who came round and read and talked to the poor wounded occupants of the wards. He came to my bed. I looked up in his face, and recognised in him my old friend and commander, Captain Tooke. He had left the sea, I found, and having a competence, thus employed himself in visiting hospitals, especially those which contained seamen, and in other works of a labouring Christian. I told him what had occurred between me and Iffley. He sat by the bedside of my former shipmate, and talked, and read to him, and prayed with him. His voice ceased. I saw him bending over Iffley. Slowly he turned round to me. “He is gone,” he said in a low voice. “He placed his hope on One who is ready and able to forgive, and I am sure that he is forgiven.” Captain Tooke promised to write to my wife to break to her the news of my wound. I got rapidly round,—indeed, the doctors said I might venture to move to my home whenever I pleased. Just then business called Captain Tooke to Portsmouth, and he invited me to accompany him. We found a vessel on the point of sailing there. We had a quick and smooth run, and in two days we were put on shore at the Point at the entrance of the harbour. A hackney coach was sent for, and we drove to Southsea. When I got near the house where I had left my uncle and aunt, and where I hoped to find my beloved wife, I felt so faint that I begged to be put down, thinking that the fresh air would revive me. Captain Tooke thought the same, and so, getting out of the carriage, he told me to sit down on a low wall near at hand, while he went on to announce my coming. While there, a little rosy, fair-haired boy ran laughing by, as if trying to escape from some one. I sprang forward, and putting out my hand, he took it and looked up in my face. I cannot describe the tumultuous feelings which came rushing into my bosom when I saw that child. “Who are you, my little fellow? What’s your name?” I asked, with a tremulous voice.

“Willand—Willand Wetherholm,” he answered plainly.

Yes, my feelings had not deceived me. I took him up, he nothing loth, though he looked inquiringly at my empty sleeve. “And your mother, boy, where is she?” I asked, still more agitated.

“In there,” he answered, pointing to our old abode. “She no guess I run away.”

I now went up to the house with the child hanging round my neck. I was blessed indeed. There was my own dear wife, still pale from her anxiety about me, weeping, but it was with joy at seeing me; and there were my kind uncle and dear Aunt Bretta, just as I had always known her.

My tale is ended. I never went to sea again, but in a short time obtained the same employment in which I was engaged when I was pressed. Never after that did I for a moment doubt God’s good providence and loving-kindness to all those who put their trust in Him. He afflicts us for our good. He tries us because He loves us. Reader, whatever may occur, trust in God and in His Son, whose blood can alone wash away all your sins. Love Him, confide in Him, and let your great hope, your chief aim, be to dwell with Him for eternity.