Chapter XXVII: Where Gus Cast Anchor

I have asked Gordon to write down for me his experiences of that night. Two considerations led me to this course: first, because the incident had so much to do with his own soul's life, his faith, his future ministry; second, because Gordon was so much more able than I, when one of life's great events was concerned, to tell it as it should be told.

When I asked him to undertake this duty--to write out the story of that midnight errand--I practically had to tell him I was putting our life experience, or a large portion of it, down in black and white. But I don't think Gordon ever suspected it was meant for other eyes than those of our own immediate dear ones--and one of the great moments of my life will be when my husband sees this book, if, indeed, it shall ever deserve a name so great.

Here is Gordon's story of that night, just as he wrote it out himself--I told him my story began with a foreword, so he said he'd have one too.

* * * * *

_Foreword:_

I am writing this, so personal though it seem, because Helen wants it. If it hadn't been for the children's mother, their father never could have told what he is now about to write. Some time, perhaps long after my poor day's work is done, they may read this page from the volume of their father's life. May the same grace enrich, the same truth ennoble their youthful lives: "The angel that redeemed me from all evil bless" them both, as a father's lips prayed long ago.

* * * * *

When little Tim Rayfield told me he wanted me to "get his father in," I knew one of the crucial moments of my life had come. Indeed, I felt the hour was almost as critical for me as for Tim's dying father. Why, I need not state at length. But perhaps I ought to say this much, that I felt a new sense of power as I pressed on through the night with Tim's grimy hand in mine. I use the word "new" advisedly--for I must tell, no matter whose eye may yet read the confession, that, for some years before, I had shrunk from such scenes as these in helplessness and despair; I had lost the joy of the miraculous in my ministry; I can honestly say that I always tried to be faithful to every duty, but little by little the glory and the power of a Supernatural Gospel had slipped away from me.

I have seen people smile when I use the word "supernatural" as the only fitting term to characterize a gospel. But such as smile have very smiling lives. The word--and all that is behind the word--has a very different meaning when laughter is banished from the lips, when the voice of joy is hushed, when some fateful sorrow falls and we can only stumble on through the encircling gloom. Such an hour came to me, filled with a bitterness worse than death; it was then I found my Lord anew. When the billows overswept and whelmed me I learned to pray; when the shadows closed in about me I descried the Divine Friend among them; when I lost my boy, and my father-heart was broken, I learned of One who gave His own Son, His well-beloved Son.

Let me revise my words. It was not I who "found my Lord"; but He found me--He and Helen--and they sought me hand in hand.

"That's the room," said Tim, panting from his haste, for the little fellow had led me at great speed; "there, d'ye see that light in the window--that upstairs window?"

I saw, and in a moment we were climbing a decrepit stair. Groping our way along an unlighted passage, my guide, still clinging to my hand, turned sharply into the squalid home. It consisted evidently of two rooms, the inner of which contained the couch whereon lay Tim's sinking father.

The boy never stopped till he had led me to the very edge of the bed. A few tattered covers wrapped the form of the dying man. His face, already conforming to the stamp of death, told the story of a lifetime's sin. Nobody could look upon it without reading there the tokens of a life of passion and excess. The heavy eyes looked up sullenly into my face as I stood above him.

"It's the preacher, Gus--don't," pleaded a woman who bent above him; for his lips were framing some word she evidently feared my ears would catch. "Don't, Gus--he's goin' to help you if he can; Tim fetched him--he's the preacher from the Hollow, an' Tim seen him last Sunday."

The man's set features seemed to relax a little as I took his hand. I hesitated as to how I should best begin--but he opened the way himself.

"I'm all ready for sea, boss," he broke out with a gasping laugh; "last voyage, looks like--an' nobody don't know the port. But I've got my papers, Cap'n--I've got my papers, an' I'll have to sail."

"Don't mind him, sir," his wife said in a hushed voice; "he's an old sailor, you see--only two years since he quit the sea and come here to live. He got his left foot hurt--an' that's what's killin' him now--he's got gangarene, sir."

"Goin' to be a dirty night, boss, by the looks o' things," the dying tar broke in with pitiful bravado; "the wind's risin', ain't it--better shorten sail, eh?"

I put my face close to his. "Do you want a pilot, my friend?" I asked him low.

"Don't call me that," he retorted gruffly; "call me mate--I was mate on the _Dolphin_ when that dam crowbar fell on my foot."

"Don't you want a pilot, mate?" I asked again.

"Where to take me?" looking far through the window into the dark.

"To the harbour," I answered softly.

"I don't know where it is."

"He knows."

"Say," and the eyes were now fixed very intently on me; "I'm goin' to ask ye a question. An' I want an answer straight--no tackin' or manoeuvrin'--d'ye think I'm dyin', Cap'n?"

"Yes," I answered; "yes, you're dying, sir."

"Then get him in," broke out poor Tim with a piteous wail as he presented himself in front of me and looked up into my face; "please get him in quick, afore he dies--that's what I fetched you for, sir--oh, please get him in."

I had seen the day when I almost feared to be alone with a dying man. What I had to say, in those days, could be as well said to others as to him. But now, as Tim besought me, and as his father looked up with eyes in which a yearning hope was already to be seen, I felt that no others must be near while I sought to help his soul. So I asked Tim and his mother if they would withdraw to the adjoining room--they should be called, I said, if the summons came apace.

Then I closed the door--for this hour had more than bridal holiness--and I gave myself in love to the dying soul. The mock heroism, the banter, fell off from him like a garment, for I think he saw I believed in God. I need not tell, must not reveal, all he disclosed to me from the dark storehouse of a wasted past. But I met him, and his crimson sins, and his accusing conscience--I met them all, and at every turn, with the Cross of the Lord Jesus and with the all-atoning grace of God. How I gloried in that hour in the great evangel! And how there rolled about me, with tides ample like the ocean's, the thought of the magnitude and infinitude of the love of Christ! And how--oh, blessed memory to my long beleaguered soul--I witnessed the ancient miracle with joy, marvelling anew at the greatness and glory of the Gospel, scorning with high contempt all that would raise its feeble hand against such power as may be seen wherever a sinful soul meets with the pardoning Lord!

Over and over again I read to him from the third of John: "God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten son," its richness growing on my own soul as well as his.

"Let me see that," said the dying mate; "I want to look at it--every cap'n reads the log himself."

I gave him the book and held the lamp above him.

"Ye haven't got another of them, have ye, sir?" he asked wistfully.

"Of what?" said I.

"Of this here book--I want to read it when you're gone; or Tim--Tim could read it to me."

I told him, of course, that I would leave the book.

"Turn down the page--mark the place," he said, handing me the volume. "I'm afeared I'd soon be driftin' again if we lost it."

"I'll mark some other passages too," I suggested, "some almost equally beautiful."

"That there one's enough," he said, sinking back faintly on his pillow.

I sang him a hymn, the one that dying men should always hear; and then I had a little prayer with him. His hands were folded and his eyes were closed. When I rose from my knees he whispered something that I shall treasure while memory lasts. But it needed only a glance to see that the end was near. I opened the door to call his wife and child back to him.

"Did you get him in, sir--did you get my father in?" were the first words that greeted me as little Tim's eyes leaped to mine.

"Yes, my boy--yes, please God, your father will get in," though I could hardly speak for the tears that choked me, so full of elemental power was the pleading of the child.

"Come, Nancy," and the old tar's voice was very tender; "come close up beside me. My foot ain't hurtin', Nancy--an' my heart ain't hurtin'--nothin's hurtin' any more. I've cast anchor."

"What d'ye say, Gus?" his wife asked in a wondering voice.

"I've cast anchor--where the preacher read. You'll leave the book, sir?" his voice swelling for a moment--"an' you're sure ye marked the place?"

"Yes," I said, "I'll leave it--and it's marked."

"Call me mate," the strange impulse prompting him again.

"I marked it, mate--and I turned down the page."

"Then sing me that again--that bit about the gale."

"What gale, mate?"

"That gale--the gale of life--that's how it went before."

I knew now what he meant. Nancy's face was in her hands and little Tim's eyes were fixed lovingly on me as I began. When I came to the lines:

"Hide me, oh my Saviour hide
Till the storm of life is past"

the dying man suddenly interrupted: "That'll do," he said, his voice barely audible, "that's the bit--that's enough--that, an' the place ye marked."

We were soon all standing by his bed. The struggle was quickly over. Suddenly his face assumed an expression of peace so deep that I thought the harbour had been really won. But his eyes opened wide and both hands went feebly out; Nancy took one in hers, the other clasped by little Tim.

"The anchor holds," he murmured; "Nancy, the anchor holds."

A moment later his wife turned from the bed, her apron to her face, groping her way with bitter outcry towards the adjoining room. Tim followed; and through the open door I could hear the boy's shaking voice:

"Don't cry, mammy; oh, mammy, don't cry so hard. Dad got in, mother--the preacher got him in."

* * * * *

I sat up till Gordon got home that night, for I had much to discuss with him. The precious document, with its wizard tidings of mining shares, was still before me as he entered; and I broke out with some word about what Mr. Bradwin had said. But when I looked up and saw the far-off look of peace on Gordon's face, I knew it was sprung from some other source than this.

"You seem so happy, Gordon," I said; "what makes it?"

He told me; but when he spoke about that last scene--he has called it the anchor scene ever since--his voice faltered so he could hardly go on.

"We'll put these away to-night," I said, picking up the papers. "But what do you intend to do with--with the money, Gordon?"

"I hadn't thought of it," he answered calmly. Then, after a pause; "but I think we'll enlarge the chapel. It needs it, you know--and this seems like a glorious chance to do it."

I wonder if my face showed my dissent. At any rate, I took the mighty charter and restored it to the desk. "There's one thing we'll do first, Gordon," I said in a voice that implied finality, "and you won't dispute it, either."

"What is it, Helen?" his words full of wonder.

"We'll pay that--that debt of Harold's," I said, my face averted as I leaned over the desk.

He was silent for long. "Yes, Helen," he answered quietly at length; "yes, we'll do that first--that's as holy as the other. Oh, Harold, my son, my son--I wonder where Harold is to-night," the words ringing with a nameless pain.