“CAP’N LEVI,” began the pastor in a voice that faltered a little in spite of him, “there’s― there’s something that I think you ought to know. I met Dr Wiley just now, and―and―he―”
The gray head on the pillow turned quickly. “What is it, Elder? Does Doc. think I’m a-goin’ t’ die?”
“Yes, Cap’n; he’s afraid that this is your last sickness; and―”
But the upraised hand checked him.
“How long afore—afore—”
“Not long, he thinks; a few days, perhaps; not more than a week at most. I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Cap’n, and how I long to say something to help and comfort you.”
“I know it, Elder, I know it; ‘n’ I thank ye kin’ly. But I hope ye’ll not take offense at an ol’ man, ‘n’ dyin’― ‘n’ dyin’―ef I ask ye not t’ say nuthin f’r a spell. Ye see, it’s a new idee. Hadn’t thought o’ it afore, ‘n’ I must kinder git uster it a leetle. It’s like startin’ on a new course; I’ve jes’ got t’ hol’ her es she is ontil I git my bearin’s. Ye unnerstan’, don’t ye, Elder? “And there was a piteous appeal in both voice and eyes.
“Perfectly, old friend; it’s just what I should want myself I’ll go away now and come back after a while, if you’d like me to.”
“Thet’s it; thet’s what I want. Leave me alone an hour or so, ‘n’ then come back, f’r I’ll want t’ talk with ye ‘bout a good many things afore I―I—go. ‘N’ I wish ye’d pass th’ word forrud es ye go out, not t’ hev nobody come in mere f’r a spell.”
Left alone, the old man faced the Mystery which had suddenly drawn near. How strange it all seemed! He could not realize it. He had faced death a hundred times, but there had always been a fighting chance until now; but now there was no chance. He knew that Dr Wiley never gave a man up so long as there was the least possibility of pulling him through. No, he must just lie here and wait for death. He wondered how it felt to die. He remembered the faces of dead men that he had seen; one in particular came persistently before him, full of frozen horror. Would he look like that when he was dead?
Then his thoughts took another turn. He was a child again, in the old home just up the road; and mother was there, and the boys, and the one wee sister; and father was off at sea, as he usually was. Odd pranks forgotten for half a century came trooping into his mind. He heard his mother’s half-laughing reproof of some of the—-bless her heart! she never could really scold.
And there came to him, too, the recollection of the day when they carried mother away and laid her under the pines in the village cemetery― “buryin’ ground” it was called then. How dark the day seemed, although the sun was shining! And when the funeral was over, and everybody had gone home, he remembered how he went back and stretched himself out beside the new-made grave and threw his arm over it, and sobbed himself to sleep there. Ah, well―and a smile lighted up the wrinkled face―it would not be long before he would do that again; only they would not waken him this time. Mother was there, and father, and Joe, and Jim, and Matt, and Mary, ―all but Sam, who was lost at sea, and himself, the last of all. It wouldn’t be so bad to die, after all; it was only getting the family together again.
But would they all be together again? The Knapps had been pious, God-fearing people―all but the Cap’n. He had never been a “professor”; how often he had said that, and with what pride, comparing his straightforward life with that of some weak and inconsistent church members! How hand he had always been upon those whose living seemed to give the lie to their professions! But where was he now? What had he to depend upon? The inconsistencies of Christians were of no consequence to him now; he saw that clearly enough.
Then Cap’n Levi drew forth a little bit of experience that he had kept carefully hidden from the sight of everybody, the existence of which he had hardly dared confess even to himself; just the merest glimmer of a hope and a faith that needed always to say, “I believe; help Thou my unbelief!” But as he turned these over in his mind and pondered them, lo! that hope grew strong enough to draw the other world of life and glory near, so that all fear of death was lost; and that faith groping in the darkness grasped and dung fast to a strong Hand; and the old man’s heart was comforted, and he turned his head on the pillow and dropped off to sleep like a tired child.
When he awoke, Elder Doane sat by his bedside. “Waal, I d’clare fr’t! This ain’t very hospitable, me a-sleepin’ here when I’ve got comp’ny. Why didn’t ye wake me up? “he asked.
“That’s all right,” protested the minister.” I am glad you can sleep; it will do you good. Besides, it shows that you’re not greatly troubled about what we were speaking of before I left. How is it, Cap’n; are you afraid to die?”
“N―o―o,” replied the veteran slowly; “I don’t think that I am afeard t’ die. I can’t say that I’ve got it all straightened out in my min’ yet; seems kinder cur’us, ‘n’ I don’t seem t’ take it in. Never died afore, ye know,” with a humorous twinkle in his eye; “but es f’r bein’ afeard―no, Elder, I ain’t skeered. It’s all right.”
“But how do you know? What makes you so sure?” persisted the minister.
“Why, ye sea, it’s jes’ like this. I’ve put into many a bad harbor in my time, full of rocks ‘n’ shoals, ‘n’ I couldn’t ‘ve foun’ my way in no more’n nuthin’ at all. But when the pilot come aboard I jes’ give ev’rything right up t’ hitas ‘n’ didn’t bother my head no more ‘bout it. It was his bizness to bring me in, ‘n’ he allus done it. Thet’s ‘bout the way I feel now.”
“But has the Pilot come on board?”
“Yessir, He’s aboard; ‘n’, Elder, He’s bin aboard a long spell, although ye didn’t know nuthin “bout it, ‘n’ I wasn’t allus plumb sure of it myself. But, lyin’ here ‘n’ thinkin’ it over, I’m dead sartin of it. Yessir, the Pilot’s aboard, ‘n’ I ain’t afeard weth Him at the wheel.”
“Tell me about it, Cap’n.”
“Waal, there ain’t much t’ tell. Only one mornin’ a spell ago you was prayin’ in church f’r sailors thet they might all chip weth the Great Cap’n; ‘n’ it come over me all of a suddent thet thet was what I wanted more’n anything else in the world; ‘n’ right then ‘n’
there I signed articles weth Him.”
The pastor’s, head was bowed upon his clasped hands, and the tears were streaming down his cheeks. “Thank God! Thank God!” he murmured. It was all that he could say.
“Ther’s jes’ one thing thet’s troublin’ me,” said the Cap’n, “‘n’ thet is thet I hain’t come out ‘n’ set folks know ‘bout it. Seems t’ me ‘tain’t quite squarc not put on the uniform ‘u’ line up weth His crew.
I’d like t’ git well ‘nough t’ go t’ church once more ‘n’ h’ist His flag up t’ the peak so thet ev’rybody’d know I was sailin’ under Him. But it’s too late f’r thet now.”
“Let me do it for you, Cap’n,” said Mr Doane eagerly. “Let me tell the people tomorrow from the pulpit what you have just told me!”
“Will ye do it, Elder?” asked the old man as eagerly; “ will ye do it? Waal, thet takes the last load off o’ my min’. I couldn’t bear the idee of slippin’ away wethout throwin’ up my hat f’1 The Cap’n at least onct. Yes, I know I orter done it afore, but I kep’ a-puttin’ it off. I hadn’t, now. But I’m gittin’ a leetle tired, I guess. S’pose ye jes’ give me a bit ‘f the Bible t’ think over, ‘n’ I’ll go off t’ sleep ag’in.”
The pastor began that wonderful psalm of trust and triumph: “The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me—”
But the wasted hand was lifted.
“I hope ye won’t think I mean anything wrong,” said the Cap’n hesitatingly. “Them’s fine words, but—somehow—they don’t seem t’ hit me jes’ right.
Ye see I wa’n’t much of a farmer, ‘n’ I don’t know nuthin’ ‘bout sheep ‘n’ their ways; never hed much to do weth ‘em ontil they was cooked. Ain’t there suthin’ f’r sailors? Suthin’ bout an anchor Seems t’ me I ric’lect suthin’ f thet sort thet my mother uster say.”
“Is this it: Which hope we have as an anchor of the soul, both sure and steadfast, and which entereth hito that within the veil’?”
“Thet’s it “he cried in delight.” Thet hits my case to a T. An anchor; thet’s what I need, sure ‘nough. Enterin’ into thet within th’ veil; goin’ out ‘f sight, ‘n’ ketchin’ hol’ on suthin’ n’ holdin’ on. Yes, thet’ll do; couldn’t be nuthin’ better. Which hope—an anchor—sure—” he murmured drowsily. And so he drifted out upon the sea of sleep, carrying his anchor with him.
It was well advertised through the medium of the store that the Elder would have a message from Cap’n Levi at the service on Sunday morning, and all the village was there to hear it. Everything went on as usual through “the preliminaries” and the sermon, until the last hymn had been sung. Then, bidding the congregation, Mark Doane told of the life that was ebbing away, of its calm confidence in the face of death, and of its reason therefor. Then he spoke of the Cap’n’s one deep regret―that he had seemed ashamed of his faith―that he “hadn’t h’isted the flag ‘f Jesus,”―and of his desire to do so now, and in this way. The speaker’s voice broke here with a great longing, not for the dying man, but for the living men before him.
“O men!” he cried; “this message from your comrade comes straight to you. You must soon launch out on your last cruise as Cap’n Levi is doing. You need the Pilot who is sailing with him. Why not Cake Him aboard now? You must have the anchor that will hold why not ship it today? Perhaps some of you are secretly trusting in the Lord, but are not willing to make it known. Come out openly for Him. Who will run up Christ’s flag to the peak here and now?”
It sounded like a direct challenge; and in the breathless silence that followed, men could almost hear the beating of their own hearts. Then Bill Dunnett slowly rose to his feet, with the tears running down his bronzed face.
“Elder,” he said, brokenly, “I dunno ef it’s th’ proper thing to speak out in meetin’ this a-way, but ‘pears to me I can’t help it. Me ‘n’ Cap’n Levi’s bin shipmates ‘n’ frien’s f’1 many a year, ‘n’ we ain’t a-going to be separated now, not ef I c’n belp it. ‘N’
I want ye sh’d tell him next time ye see him thet Bill Dunnett’s shipped weth Jesus same’s him, ‘n’ thet he’ll meet him in the harbor ‘f heav’n bimeby.”
“Me too! “cried Sam Gallup.” An’ me! “ came from two or three others. Then silence again, brokers linally by the pastor’s voice:
“Men, this is a solemn moment! It seems as though Cap’n Levi were right here among us, shipping a crew for the Lord. How glad he’ll be to hear of these who have taken service! But there are others of you who ought to be with him. Come along and sign the articles! If you will take Jesus as your Captain, stand up!”
And one after another, slowly, soberly, without excitement, but with the flash of a high purpose on their weather-beaten faces, they stood on their feet―a dozen of them, Cap’n Levi’s old-time mates and cronies. With a few words of fervent prayer the service closed.
Cap’n Levi’s face lighted up with a great joy when the Elder, hurrying to his room, told him the news.
It seemed too good to be true, and it had to be repeated again and again before he could really take it in.
“Waal! waal!” he said finally; “ef thet don’t jes’ beat all creation! Bill Dunnett! ‘n’ Hy Stacey! ‘n’ Jim Webster! ‘n’ the hull caboodle ‘f ‘em t Jes’ think it! Why, Elder, I’m fair skeered! It seems too wunnerful. Here I’ve bin mournin’ b’cause I’d got t’ go alone, wethut any one thet I’d helped t’ fin’ the Lord, ‘n’ He’s give me a hull crew! An’— ‘n’—Elder, I’m ‘shamed, too. T’ think thet all this time I ain’t bin willin’ t’ fly His flag or show His lights!”
And the old man broke into tears of mingled joy and grief.
It wasn’t long waiting after that. Swiftly the end drew near. By the doctor’s orders no one was allowed to see the sick man-no one, that is, but Elder Doane. To him Cap’n Levi clung with such pathetic earnestness that finally the minister took up his residence in the house, and left it no more until all was over. To the pastor the Cap’n clung, and to his “anchor verse,” as he called it. Much talk the two men had those days concerning things beyond, and much reading of the Word. But always at the end of the talking or reading, when the Cap’n was tired, and would rest or sleep, he would say, “Now let’s hev my anchor verse, Elder.” And although he knew it-by heart, its repetition always seemed to comfort and delight him.
One day Mr. Doane read him Tennyson’s “Crossing the Bar”:
“Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea!”
He listened with interest, but made no comment. To the question “How do you like that, Cap’n?” he answered:
“It’s very purty, but it don’t seem t’ tetach me much. Fust place, it don’t make no difference whether they’s any moanin’ at th’ bar or not. T’ain’t th’ moanin’ thet hurts; it’s th’ bar itself; ‘n’ ef th’ Pilot’s on board ‘Ir’ knows His bizness, they ain’t no call t’ be afraid ‘f thet. Then, ag’in, them last lines ‘bout seein’ th’ Pilot face t’ face when he hes crossed th’ bar―them ain’t right. What we want is t’ know thet th’ Pilot’s there, whether ye see Him or not; ‘n’ ye want t’ know thet while ye’re crossin’ th’ bar, not wait till afterward. But mebbe I’m all wrong. I dunno much ‘bout this poetin’ bizness; I’m lookin’ at it from a sailor man’s p’int ‘f view. Any ways, it ain’t so good t’ me as thet verse ‘bout th’ anchor.
How does it go, Elder?” And the Oder repeated the weli-loved words, and tried him with no more poetry.
Then came one of those bleak, drear nights not uncommon in late November. Al! day the wind had been blowing a half-gale from the south-east, and the sea was running heavy. The booming of the breakers on Heron Ledges sounded like distant thunder, while the Martin’s Reef whistling buoy sobbed and moaned like a spirit in despair. There was a hint of snow in the air, and a cold, clammy mist held the village in uncanny embrace. Altogether, it was a night in which to be thankful for a snug homo and a roaring fire, and for no necessity for leaving either.
Nevertheless the store was full. It had been whispered about that the Cap’n was not likely to live through the night, and sorrow for his going had drawn his old companions together in a kind of death vigil. He was, of course, the one object of thought and conversation. Many a half-forgotten story was told in which he played a part. “Member th’ time―” someone would say; and then would follow the recital of some incident well known to most of diem, but taking on a new significance now that its chief actor was passing on.
As the evening wore ore silence fell upon the group. Nobody felt much like talking; each was occupied with his thoughts. Finally Jim Webster said, “Doc thinks he won’t pull through th’ night, eh?”
Somebody nodded.
“Waar, he’ll go out weth ti’ tide, then. Lessee; low water’s at 1.30. This wind’ll hol’ it back some, but not lunch. Yessir, Cap’n Levi won’t be weth us at two o’clock.”
Nobody questioned the assertion: for it is a tradition of the coast that the souls of those who have loved the sea, and have lived on it or by it, pass from life with the ebbing of the tide.
Up in the little cottage mi the hill Dr Wiley and Mr. Doane were watching by the bedside of the sick man. He had lapsed into semi-unconsciousness in the afternoon, and now lay without sign of life, except a troubled and uneven breathing. But as midnight drew near, he grew restless and uneasy, turning from side to side, picking the quilt, and muttering broken words under his breath. Many things seemed to be passing through his mind.
Now he was a child, at homo again with his brothers. Once he was kneeling at his mother’s knee, for the listeners heard him whisper, “Now I lay me down to sleep.” Then he was at Eph Stiles’s store, playing checkers with his old crony, Cap’n, Bob. But oftenest he was at sea, in stress and storm; and louder rang his voice in question and command.
Presently he was drawing near some harbor, some harbor strange and unknown to him; and the pilot had not come. Anxiety showed in his pinched face, and his hands were tightly clinched. “Where is he?” he muttered; “why don’t he come? He must ‘ve seen th’ signal.” Then loudly,” Forrud, there!” he shouted. “Keep yer eye peeled f’r th’ pilot! Sing out ‘s soon ‘s ye see him! What’s thet ora th’ sta’b’rd bow?” And he raised his gaunt form up in bed, and peered eagerly forward, shading his eyes with his hand. ‘Ah, thet’s him,” he said, sinking back with a sigh of relief. “Glad t’ see ye, sir; was a leetle afraid we ‘d missed ye. Now we’re all right. Lucky ye’ve come, fr I don’t know th’ course ‘t all.”
Then he was silent for a little; but they knew that he was following the windings of the narrow passage, noting its rocks and shoals, but resting with serene confidence on the pilot’s knowledge and skill.
Outside the gale rose higher and shrieked louder.
The dying tide fought fiercely for its life, and flung its billows with thunderous roan on the rocks and ledges. The wailing of the buoy was like the fiendish laughter of demons from the pit. It was half-past one, and the tide was out.
Suddenly the Cap’n sprang up in bed again; it almost seemed as though he would spring from it. A glad light shone in his sunken eyes, and a satisfied smile played over his wasted features. “Forrud, there!” he called; Forrud, there! stan’ by t’ let go th’ anchor!” Silence for a moment. Then, looking up into the fase of Some One, he said quietly, “Anchor’s gone, sir!” and sank back upon his pillow.
Cap’n Levi’s last cruise was ended; his anchor was down in heaven’s peaceful harbor. “So he bringeth them unto their desired haven.”
J. K. W.