IT was a truly terrifying time; one not to be adequately pictured by words.
On the 15th of September 1874, the “Hoogley,” a large East Indian liner, left Rangoon, bound for London, laden with rice.
The 15th of September is the date fixed by Lloyd’s Insurance Clubs for ships leaving India, when it is supposed those terrible whirlwinds―the cyclones―are past and gone.
However, three days later the crew were alarmed. They were becalmed―the Indian Ocean like a glass, and the sun shining with all its Eastern splendor in a cloudless sky. The awful calm―for it could be described by no other word―they were convinced, was but the prelude of a terrible storm. The rigging now became the resting place of hundreds of quails blown, no doubt, of the land by the terrible cyclone.
At three P.M. the barometer was convulsed. A slight wind began to blow and the sky was obscured by the blackest of clouds. At four P.M. the deck was cleared, and everything made tight and taut. No more could be done but trust in God. The breeze had developed into a strong gale, and the sea was now lashed into a storm. The water was breaking over the ship with tremendous force and fury. One tremendous sea carried away the deck house, and broke into the main hatch. The chief officer, seeing the danger, called for volunteers, and at the risk of their lives they succeeded in closing the hatch. They all securely tied themselves by ropes to the ship’s side. All through the black night the storm raged. Food and sleep were out of the question. Any moment might be their last. Every nerve was strained to its utmost tension. The next morning, about eleven A.M., a tremendous sea caused the “Hoogley” to heel over, and turn on one side, her masts lying in the water. Despair seized the crew. Being securely tied to the ship’s side, they were prevented from being swept away. To, add, if possible, to their despair, they saw a tremendous sea or two sweep over a large wooden American ship―the “Aracan,” ―which had left Rangoon with them. She foundered quickly before their eyes, no escape being possible for the unhappy crew.
At this awful juncture an Irish sailor grew boisterous in the face of death, crying out, “If I am going to die, I am going to die happy.” A German rebuked him, saying, “Don’t you fear God?”
Up to this point, the subject of this narrative, Benjamin B―, for five years a sailor, had never thought seriously about eternity. In his own words he said, “Then the fear of God took hold of me, and shook me to my very foundations; I trembled to meet God. My heart went up in earnest prayer (not for myself) to Almighty God, to save my poor old mother the sorrow of losing her son.”
In the presence of such a scene he might well call God the Almighty God. It seems almost too marvelous to relate. God heard his cry. Yet not marvelous. At two P.M. the wind was not so strong. At three o’clock the cyclone was gone, and not a breath of wind. With superhuman exertions the crew cut the topmasts away, got the cargo trimmed, and the ship righted. At last they got some refreshment. Part of the wreckage was washed ashore on, the Andaman Islands, hence they were gazetted as “Lost.” They had lost all, save their lives, and the clothes they had on their backs.
After a six months’ passage they arrived in London in a sad plight, their food being chiefly a large tank of stale, and moldy bread, mixed up with vermin. Benjamin B―proceeded to his house―a Northern watering-place. The exposure and want brought on inflammation of the lungs, and for a long time he hovered between life and death.
Death again was faced by him. Not amid the terror and excitement of a raging storm, but quietly, and face to face, he measured that king of terrors. He was graciously restored. Man’s will is stubborn, and his heart rebellious against God, and our friend, raised from the very gates of death, went in for a life of pleasure. Drinking and gambling filled up his nights. His gains at the gambling table were considerable. But all the time he was unhappy. He tried, again and again, to break the chains the devil had bound him with. But in vain! From the gambling table and the drink he would go home, and by the side of his bed cry to God to keep him from it. Good resolutions were broken as soon as made, and clean pages were quickly blurred and blotted. Man cannot be his own saviour.
Benjamin having married, moved away to a large industrial town. Infidelity was now the quieter of his conscience, or rather the gagger of it.
One Sunday evening a bright, bold, street preacher took his attention. As he moved away, a Christian worker put a booklet into his hand, which contained an invitation to a Gospel meeting. Some weeks after he was on his way to hear one of his infidel lecturers―to bolster up his conceit in what the quondam infidel―Thomas Cooper, calls “that blasting, brutifying thought that the grave must be my end all.’”
As be passed along he was invited to hear the Gospel preached in the very place the notice folded in the little book had mentioned. It was raining very hard. He thought he might as well go in. So in he went.
It happened that a very popular preacher had drawn away nearly the whole of the congregation from this little hall that evening. Benjamin found the audience consisted of some children, two men, and a woman.
A little man preached that night from some part of Paul’s Epistle to Timothy. After the discourse was over, the preacher quickly advanced to the only “raw material” in the room―our friend, Benjamin, and asked him, “Are you saved?”
He answered with a scoff―threatening to knock the questioner down, who reasoned and talked with him, whilst our friend aired his shallow, flippant, infidelity.
All the time Benjamin B―was longing to be assured his sins were forgiven. Whilst the sophistical lies of the infidel were on his tongue, his heart was bursting within him. The gas was turned out, they talked so long. A man will often tell out the secrets of his heart in the dark. See Nicodemus as he came to Jesus by night. Our friend at last came out with the whole truth, that after all, deep down in his heart, he believed the Bible was God’s book, and that he longed for peace.
Now the preacher could get at him. He drew his attention to the third chapter of John’s gospel―that chapter of all chapters, for it contains the 16th verse― “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” A verse of a hymn our friend had often heard the Methodists sing, and which he had often made sport of, came into his mind: ―
“There is life in a look at the crucified One;
There is life at this moment for thee;
Then look, sinner, look, unto Him and be saved―
Unto Him who was nailed to the tree.”
The whole truth flashed into his soul. His wanderings in the dry places of the earth for rest had only brought vanity, vexation, and void. His sins were troubling him. Jesus had died on the cross for sinners. He was one. He would accept Him as his Saviour. He exclaimed, “I see it; I am saved.” The preacher and another friend went on the road home with him through the pelting rain, and parted from him, not believing in the genuineness of his case. But our dear friend now preaches the gospel he once despised, and has testified for some years now by his life and lips of the grace that he has tasted.
This little narrative is sent forth in the hope that it may interest and help souls who are in the same case as Benjamin B―was in. His Saviour can be yours here and now, as you read this paper. “Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved” (Acts 16:3131And they said, Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved, and thy house. (Acts 16:31)).
Religion is played out in this nineteenth century, but Christ is not. Trust Him, then, dear reader, and you will never repent it. A. J. P.