IT was in the summer, of 1886, at Chirat, a small hill-station in India, that I met George C—, the subject of the following narrative. Not long converted myself, it was my joy to seek to lead others to that blessed Saviour, whom I can always commend with the greatest confidence to the vilest sinner or the weakest saint, for
“The chief of sinners He receives,
His saints He loves and never leaves.”
As Chirst was a kind of invalid station for Peshawar, the hospital there was usually full of soldiers of various regiments, suffering from enteric fever or other serious diseases. Hence I found it a good field for sowing the precious seed of the Word of God, and so spent much of my spare time there in the evenings.
One morning, after dismounting guard, I felt distinctly impelled to go at once to the hospital. In vain did I reason within myself that it was the worst time to pay a visit there, as the doctor would be going his rounds just then, and the native dressers and orderlies would be tending the patients afterward. I simply had to go.
I had almost gone through the whole hospital, and was about to pass out of the door with the humiliating sense of my visit having been a failure, when my eyes fell upon a young corporal of the 2nd Wilts Regiment lying on a bed in the corner. The fact that he was in uniform indicated that he had only just been admitted to hospital; yet his face betokened an illness of a very serious nature. Our eyes met for a few moments, and then perhaps the fact that I also was a corporal led him to speak.
“Good morning, corporal,” said he. I returned his salutation, and went to his side.
“Were you at the corporals’ ‘turn-out’ yesterday?” he asked.
It was the custom for the regiments in India to play friendly cricket matches with one another. In this case the corporals of his regiment played the corporals of mine. Alas! these matches usually finished up with drinking and song-singing till late at night, to the ruin of many a noble young fellow.
On telling him that I was not, he replied: “Ah! you ought to have been there. Why, I got out of hospital specially for it. I had been in with enteric for some time, but I made the doctor believe that I was quite fit for going out; and he let me out, but said I was to take great care of myself, and that I was to report myself to him every morning at the hospital for a while. I didn’t take much care of myself, for I got so drunk that I could not get back to the camp, so I had to sleep out in the open air all night on the polo ground; and didn’t I wake up with a shiver this morning? so when the doctor saw me just now he ordered me back into hospital at once.”
“I should think so, indeed,” was my remark. “Why, you have evidently got a relapse.”
“Oh, no,” said he. “It is only a bit of a cold. I will soon be all right again. And my time is expired. I am going home in the first troopship in October.”
“I am afraid you are worse than you think. Now let me ask you a question. Supposing you never reached home. Supposing you were to die. What about your soul?”
“Oh, I am not going to die. I am going to get better soon, and then of home to England. And just as you were coming down the ward I was thinking that when I got home I would turn over a new leaf altogether, and become a Christian like my father and mother.”
“But,” I urged, “you may never get better. Would it not be much better and safer to turn to God NOW?”
He got annoyed as I pressed such questions home, and, leaning forward on his left elbow, he pointed with his right finger to the door, and said, “You see that door, corporal?”
“Yes,” was my reply.
“Well, go out of it, and don’t ever dare to speak to me of these things again. If you do, I will report you to the doctor, and then you will be stopped from coming here altogether.”
Feeling that such would be the result of any such complaint, as I really had no permission to visit the hospital for such purposes, I sorrowfully answered, “Well, I will go; but there is one thing you cannot prevent me from doing.”
“What is that?” he asked, leaning more forward still, as though determined to stop that if he could.
“Well, if you will prevent me from speaking to you about God, you can’t prevent me from speaking to God about you. I will pray for you.”
“Oh, you can please yourself about that,” he replied, as he sank back, evidently relieved that, in his estimation, it was no worse. Ah! little did he know the wonderful power of prayer, or the wonderful blessing “the God of all grace” had in store for him, and, I doubt not, as the result of prayer.
So I left him, and as I wended my way back to camp I felt that perhaps after all my first morning visit to that hospital had not been in vain.
That night, in a little tent where a few simple Christians of various regiments usually met, George C― was the subject of earnest, united prayer; and as we parted we all agreed to remember him individually before God.
A day or two afterward I again visited the hospital. As I approached the corner where George C― was I could see the havoc that the disease had made with him during the short time that had elapsed since my last visit. Remembering his last words, I did not speak, but stood with my left foot on the threshold of the door, and my face turned towards his. Our eyes met once more. If mine expressed my feelings they expressed the deepest sorrow and pity for him, while his undoubtedly expressed heartfelt sorrow for the past. Still remembering his last words, I did not speak. At last, in a weak voice, weaker still with emotion, he said, “Corporal, come here.” Gladly I went to his side.
With tears in his eyes, he said, “Will you forgive me for what I said to you the other morning?”
“Forgive you, George? Think no more of it. How do you feel now?”
“Very bad indeed: In fact I fear I am going to die. And, oh, I am not ready to meet God. Do pray for me.”
“I have prayed for you, George; a good many of us have been praying for you, and God will surely answer our prayers.”
I stayed with him some time, and endeavored to show him the way of salvation by quoting passages of Scripture which had been helpful to myself and others, but all without effect. Every spare moment found me at his bedside afterward, and I did all I could to help him in his soul, but all seemed in vain. His remorse at his rude treatment of me that first morning seemed to trouble him most, though I did all I could to show him that it was forgiven and forgotten.
At last one morning (my morning visits were quite frequent now) I was delighted as I got near him to find his face beaming with joy. There was no mistaking it―it was the joy of a soul at peace with God.
“Why George, what has happened?” I asked. “You seem quite happy.”
“Yes, I am happy,” he replied. “Why, I am saved, and I know it.”
“Oh, I am very glad to hear it. But how did it happen?”
“Well, I dreamed last night that I was looking up into the skies, when right across the heavens there appeared in letters of fire and gold the words, ‘BELIEVE ON THE LORD JESUS CHRIST, AND THOU SHALT BE SAVED.’
The words seemed to burn right from the heavens into my very soul. As I looked, an angel came to my side and said, George, do you believe that? ‘I do,’ I replied, ‘I believe that Jesus died for me.’ ‘Then you ARE saved,’ said he. ‘Yes,’ continued George with exultation, ‘I AM saved, and I know it.’”
Those who seek in any measure to work for the Lord can well imagine with what joy I hastened back to the camp, to tell my fellow-Christians the joyful news. There was joy in heaven and joy on earth. How we praised God too that night in that little tent! Prayer gave place to PRAISE.
I am aware that some of my fellow-Christians are very dubious about dreams, visions, and angels, in the work of the soul’s salvation; but that God in His sovereign grace does use such means is clear from Scripture. Specially so was it in this case where there was no one at hand “to expound the way of God more perfectly.” I was not twelve months converted at the time, and was painfully conscious of how little I could help souls. There was no clergyman resident at the station, the chaplain and the deacon of the Church of England at Peshawar taking it in turns each week-end to come up to Christ to perform Divine service for the troops. I remember imploring the deacon to speak to George; but alas he first excused himself by saying that he did not care much for speaking to soldiers, as he was not much at home with them: and when at length he did speak to him, he touched on subjects that were of no possible use to a dying, anxious soul.
Well, George had another dream, and in this I can see that God not only begins the work of salvation, but deepens and completes it to His own satisfaction. For though George’s joy may not have appeared so full as after the first dream, yet his peace was unspeakably deeper. Let me tell his second dream as far as possible in his own words.
“I dreamed I came to the gates of heaven and wanted to go in. The man at the gate asked me for my defaulter sheets. (The defaulter sheets in the army contain the records of every offense, great or small, for which the soldier has been punished.) I told him that I had not got them. ‘Oh,’ said he, ‘you must get them, for no one is allowed in here without first presenting their defaulter sheets for inspection.’ So I went to the color-sergeant (who usually kept them) and got them from him. But when I looked at them I was horrified. I thought I had only two or three company entries (minor offenses) and no regimental entries (more serious offenses), but I found sheets full of both. So my heart sank within me as I went back and handed my sheets to the man at the gate. He shook his head solemnly as he looked at them, and said, ‘You cannot get in here with these! Why, even ONE company entry closes this gate against you forever.’
“I went away very sad, especially as I felt that after all I must have been very much worse than I ever thought I was. But somebody shouted out to me from the top of the wall, George, why don’t you come in? ‘I can’t,’ I replied; ‘my defaulter sheets are too black. They are dead against me.’ ‘But,’ said he, did you not say that you believe in JESUS, God’s Son, whose” blood cleanses from ALL sin?”’ ‘Yes,’ I replied; ‘I do believe in Him.’ ‘Then look at your defaulter sheets again,’ he said. I looked once more, and there was not one entry on them; they were all gone. And as I presented them once more to the man at the gate, he shouted out, ‘CLEAN EVERY WHIT,’ and I passed in.
From this point George began to long to depart and be with Christ. He had not long to wait. One morning, soon after, I found the cot in the corner empty. “George gone?” I asked the orderly, a comrade of his who kindly volunteered to see to him in his closing days. “Yes,” replied the orderly; “he passed away about one o’clock in the morning.”
“How did he die?”
“Most peaceful and happy. Just before he died he clasped his hands together, looked up, and said in Hindustani, ‘Never mind; it’s all right,’ and he was gone.”
“Yes, George,” thought I; “it is all right. You are with Christ, which is far better. And it WAS all right, though at first it seemed all wrong. God, who works all things after the counsel of His own will, used what was no doubt the most foolish act of your life to be the means of everlasting blessing to your soul!”
By the next mail I wrote to George’s father, who lived at Broad’s Green, near Calne, in Wiltshire, just telling him that his son had departed to be with Christ, and promised another letter by the next mail giving fuller details. This I also sent, giving practically what is related above, and promising that I would call and see them, if anywhere near them on my return to England.
TWENTY YEARS AFTER.
Twenty years after this event I was at some meetings at Quemerford, near Calne. During a conversation I had with one of the Christians who so kindly entertained us, I asked how far away Broad’s Green was, and was informed that it was only three or four miles off. On telling my reason for asking, this brother kindly urged me to remain till the Monday following, promising that he would drive me over to see Mr. and Mrs. C—, who, he told me, were still alive. I gladly remained, and on Saturday afternoon he drove me to Broad’s Green. We pulled up just outside a row of cottages, and my friend said, “There is old Mr. Cworking in his garden.” I alighted, walked up the pathway, and called out, “Are you Mr. C―?”
“Yes,” was his reply, as he came forward to meet me.
“Had you a son named George, who died in India about twenty years ago?”
Without a moment’s hesitation he asked, “Are you Mr. M—?”
“Yes,” was my reply.
“Come in and see the mother,” said he, as he took my hand.
We went into the little cottage, and he called out, “Mother, here’s the gentleman who was with our George when he died in India.”
The old lady came with all haste, and never shall I forget that meeting. Though twenty years had elapsed, yet it revived sad and painful memories for the old couple. I sought to comfort them by reminding them of the fact that George was “all right,” having been “with Christ” for the past twenty years. “Ah,” said they, “if we could only be sure of that it would be a relief to us.”
“Well,” I said, “surely my second letter made that clear to you, beyond a shadow of a doubt.”
To my utter astonishment they told me that they never received my second letter, nor his Testament. Hence for twenty years they had been almost “without hope” as to his soul’s salvation; indeed the only ray of hope they had was in my first short letter. So I leave my reader to imagine the joy with which they heard for the first time the wonderful way in which God had worked, not only to save George, but also to give him the assurance of salvation before he died. I hid nothing from them as to the cause of his relapse, as I felt that it only magnified the grace of God towards him. With this they quite agreed, in fact they told me that George had to go away as he was such a trouble to them, and they were afraid that when he did return home and get amongst his old companions, he might again yield to temptation and cause them sorrow of heart once more. But, as I pointed out to them, God foresaw all that, and so in His wisdom and grace took George home to Himself, where he is beyond even ale sphere of temptation; and where he can neither grieve God nor his parents any more. They wept, and wept, and wept again, and repeatedly said, “Then our George IS saved! Thank God! thank God!!”
So I left them, praising God, not only for the grace that had saved their son, but had given them to know it―AFTER TWENTY YEARS.
Now let me say a word to you, my dear reader, if you are like George C―was before his conversion. You are sowing “wild oats” as they call it. What shall the harvest be? Let Scripture answer― “The end of those things is DEATH.” And what after death? Let Scripture again answer― “After death the JUDGMENT.”
“Ah,” but you say, “I too like George C―hope to be saved before I die.” Yes, just before you die! That is―you intend to live for the devil all your life, except the “fag-end” so to speak, which you will give to Christ, when you cannot serve the devil any longer. How selfish! Not but that He will save you even at the very last moment of your life, if you turn to Him in heart-felt repentance, pleading naught but the value of His precious blood before God. But how do you know when the “fag-end” is coming? You may be cut off quite suddenly by accident, or by some serious disease which may render you unconscious from the outset. It has been said that there was in Scripture ONE dying sinner saved at the last moment, that none might despair. Note, there was BUT ONE, that none might presume. And why not give the best―the whole of the remainder of your life to Jesus? Is He not worthy? Could all heaven answer, its united cry would be, “HE IS WORTHY,” and George C— ‘s voice would be by no means the weakest.
And now just a word to the parents of such as George C—. Has that lad whom you love so well caused you many a wakeful night? Many a bitter tear? “Trust thou in GOD.” George C― was saved. Perhaps the lad whom you loved so dearly died in a far distant land, without, as far as You know, a kind hand to smooth his feverish brow, or a soul to speak to him of Christ―the only Saviour. “Trust thou in GOD.” George C―WAS saved, though his parents did not know it till TWENTY YEARS after. God can do His own work apart from any human instrumentality whatever. “Trust thou in GOD.” Why that second letter was not allowed to reach George C—’s parents we cannot tell, but we do know that “as for God his way is PERFECT.”
A word, too, to my fellow-laborers in Christ. What a blessed Master is ours! He could do all His own work without us, but He loves to use us. Poor things! Of course we are. He knows that, and the more we know it the better He can use us. Make mistakes? Of course we do. Are we to give up serving Him on that account? Not at all. Why, He can use these very mistakes for our ultimate blessing and His own glory. What He doesn’t rule, He can in grace over-rule. Blessed forever be His name!
“Therefore, my beloved brethren, be ye steadfast, unmovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, forasmuch as ye know that your labor is not in vain in the Lord.”
T. C. M.