The Young Trawler by R. M. Ballantyne (i read books txt) 📖

simple as it was straightforward and short, after which a chapter was read, and another hymn sung. Then came the discourse, founded on the words, “Whosoever will.”

“There you have it, lads—clear as the sun at noonday—free as the rolling sea. The worst drunkard and swearer in the Short Blue comes under that ‘whosoever’—ay, the worst man in the world, for Jesus is able and willing to save to the uttermost.” (“Praise God!” ejaculated one of the earnest listeners fervently.)

But fear not, reader, we have no intention of treating you to a semi-nautical sermon. Whether you be Christian or not, our desire is simply to paint for you a true picture of life on the North Sea as we have seen it, and, as it were unwise to omit the deepest shadows from a picture, so would it be inexcusable to leave out the highest lights—even although you should fail to recognise them as such.

The discourse was not long, but the earnestness of the preacher was very real. The effect on his audience was varied. Most of them sympathised deeply, and seemed to listen as much with eyes as ears. A few, who had not come there for religious purposes, wore somewhat cynical, even scornful, expressions at first, but these were partially subdued by the manner of the speaker as he reasoned of spiritual things and the world to come.

On deck, Gunter and those who had stayed with him became curious to know what the “preachin’ skipper” was saying, and drew near to the fore-hatch, up which the tones of his strong voice travelled. Gradually they bent their heads down and lay at full-length on the deck listening intently to every word. They noted, also, the frequent ejaculations of assent, and the aspirations of hope that escaped from the audience.

Not one, but two or three hymns were sung after the discourse was over, and one after another of the fishermen prayed. They were very loath to break up, but, a breeze having arisen, it became necessary that they should depart, so they came on deck at last, and an animated scene of receiving and exchanging books, magazines, tracts, and pamphlets ensued. Then, also, Gunter got some salve for his shins, Ned Spivin had his cut hand dressed and plastered. Cuffs were supplied to those whose wrists had been damaged, and gratuitous advice was given generally to all to give up drink.

“An’ don’t let the moderate drinkers deceive you lads,” said the skipper, “as they’re apt to do—an’ no wonder, for they deceive themselves. Moderate drinkin’ may be good, for all I know, for old folk an’ sick folk, but it’s not good for young and healthy men. They don’t need stimulants, an’ if they take what they don’t need they’re sure to suffer for it. There’s a terrible line in drinkin’, an’ if you once cross that line, your case is all but hopeless. I once knew a man who crossed it, and when that man began to drink he used to say that he did it in ‘moderation,’ an’ he went on in ‘moderation,’ an’ the evil was so slow in workin’ that he never yet knew when he crossed the line, an’ he died at last of what he called moderate drinkin’. They all begin in moderation, but some of ’em go on to the ruin of body, soul, an’ spirit, rather than give up their moderation! Come now, lads, I want one or two o’ you young fellows to sign the temperance pledge. It can’t cost you much to do it just now, but if you grow up drinkers you may reach a point—I don’t know where that point lies—to come back from which will cost you something like the tearing of your souls out o’ your bodies. You’ll come, won’t you?”

“Yes, I’ll go,” said a bright young fisherman with a frame like Hercules and a face almost as soft as that of a girl.

“That’s right! Come down.”

“And I’ve brought two o’ my boys,” said a burly man with a cast-iron sort of face, who had been himself an abstainer for many years.

While the master of the mission smack was producing the materials for signing the pledge in the cabin, he took occasion to explain that the signing was only a help towards the great end of temperance; that nothing but conversion to God, and constant trust in the living Saviour, could make man or woman safe.

“It’s not hard to understand,” he said, looking the youths earnestly in the eyes. “See here, suppose an unbeliever determines to get the better of his besettin’ sin. He’s man enough to strive well for a time. At last he begins to grow a little weary o’ the battle—it is so awful hard. Better almost to die an’ be done with it, he sometimes thinks. Then comes a day when his temptation is ten times more than he is able to bear. He throws up the sponge; he has done his best an’ failed, so away he goes like the sow that was washed to his wallowing in the mire. But he has not done his best. He has not gone to his Maker; an’ surely the maker of a machine is the best judge o’ how to mend it. Now, when a believer in Jesus comes to the same point o’ temptation he falls on his knees an’ cries for help; an’ he gets it too, for faithful is He that has promised to help those who call upon Him in trouble. Many a man has fallen on his knees as weak as a baby, and risen up as strong as a giant.”

“Here,” said a voice close to the speaker’s elbow, “here, hand me the pen, an’ I’ll sign the pledge.”

“What, you, Billy Bright!” said the missionary, smiling at the precocious manliness of the little fellow. “Does your father want you to do it?”

“Oh! you never mind what my father wants. He leaves me pretty much to do as I please—except smoke, and as he won’t let me do that. I mean to spite him by refusin’ to drink when he wants me to.”

“But I’m afraid, Billy,” returned the missionary, laughing, “that that’s not quite the spirit in which to sign the pledge.”

“Did I say it was, old boy!” retorted Billy, seizing the pen, dabbing it into the ink, and signing his name in a wild straggling sort of way, ending with a huge round blot.

“There, that’ll do instead of a full stop,” he said, thrusting his little hands into his pockets as he swaggered out of the cabin and went on deck.

“He’ll make a rare good man, or an awful bad ’un, that,” said the missionary skipper, casting a kindly look after the boy.

Soon afterwards the boats left the mission smack, and her crew began to bustle about, making preparation to let down the gear whenever the Admiral should give the signal.

“We carry two sorts of trawl-nets, Andrew,” said the captain to his mate, who was like-minded in all respects, “and I think we have caught some men to-day with one of ’em—praise the Lord!”

“Yes, praise the Lord!” said the mate, and apparently deeming this, as it was, a sufficient reply, he went about his work in silence.

The breeze freshened. The shades of night gathered; the Admiral gave his signal; the nets were shot and the Short Blue fleet sailed away into the deepening darkness of the wild North Sea.

Note. Since that day additional vessels have been attached to the Mission-fleet, which now, 1886, consists of five smacks—and will probably, ere long, number many more—all earning their own maintenance while serving the Mission cause. But these do by no means meet the requirements of the various North Sea fleets. There are still in those fleets thousands of men and boys who derive no benefit from the Mission vessels already sent out, because they belong to fleets to which Mission-ships have not yet been attached; and it is the earnest prayer of those engaged in the good work that liberal-minded Christians may send funds to enable them not only to carry on, but to extend, their operations in this interesting field of labour.