To the Ends of the Earth (19 page)

How next to impossible is the exercise of virtue! It requires a constant watchfulness, constant guard—oh my dear sister, how much must you and I and every Christian soul rely at every moment on the operation of Grace! There has been an altercation! It was not, as you might expect, among the poor people in the front of the ship but here among the gentlemen, nay, among the very officers themselves!

It was thus. I was sitting at my writing-flap and
recutting
a quill when I heard a scuffle outside in the lobby, then voices, soft at first but raised later.

“You dog, Deverel! I saw you come from the cabin!”

“What are you about then, Cumbershum, for your part, you rogue!”

“Give it to me, sir! By G—I will have it!”

“And unopened at either end—You sly dog,
Cumbershum
, I'll read it, I swear I will!”

The scuffle became noisy. I was in shirt and breeches, my shoes under the bunk, my stockings hung over it, my wig on a convenient nail. The language became so much more blasphemous and filthy that I could not let the occasion pass. Not thinking of my appearance I got up quickly and rushed out of the cabin, to find the two officers struggling violently for possession of a missive. I cried out.

“Gentlemen! Gentlemen!”

I seized the nearest to me by the shoulder. They stopped the fight and turned to me.

“Who the devil is this, Cumbershum?”

“It's the parson, I think. Be off, sir, about your own business!”

“I am about my business, my friends, and exhort you in a spirit of Christian Charity to cease this unseemly
behaviour
, this unseemly language, and make up your quarrel!”

Lieutenant Deverel stood looking down at me with his mouth open.

“Well by thunder!”

The gentleman addressed as Cumbershum—another lieutenant—stuck his forefinger so violently towards my face that had I not recoiled, it would have entered my eye.

“Who in the name of all that's wonderful gave you
permission
to preach in this ship?”

“Yes, Cumbershum, you have a point.”

“Leave this to me, Deverel. Now, parson, if that's what you are, show us your authority.”

“Authority?”

“D—n it man, I mean your commission!”

“Commission!”

“Licence they call it, Cumbershum, old fellow, licence to preach. Right parson—show us your licence!”

I was taken aback, nay, confounded. The truth is, and I record it here for you to pass to any young clergyman about to embark on such a voyage, I had deposited the licence from my Lord Bishop with other private papers—not, as I supposed, needed on the voyage—in my trunk, which had been lowered somewhere into the bowels of the vessel. I attempted to explain this briefly to the officers but Mr Deverel interrupted me.

“Be off with you, sir, or I shall take you before the captain!”

I must confess that this threat sent me hurrying back into my cabin with some considerable trepidation. For a moment or two I wondered whether I had not after all succeeded in abating their mutual wrath, for I heard them both laughing loudly as they walked away. But I
concluded
that such heedless—I will not call them more—such heedless spirits were far more likely to be laughing at the
sartorial
mistake I had made and the result of the interview with which they had threatened me. It was clear that I had been at fault in allowing myself a public appearance less
explicit
than that sanctioned by custom and required by decorum. I began hurriedly to dress, not forgetting my bands, though my throat in the heat felt them as an unfortunate constriction. I regretted that my gown and hood were packed or, should I say,
stowed
away with my other impedimenta. At length, then, clothed in at least some of the visible marks of the dignity and authority of my calling, I issued forth from my cabin. But of course the two lieutenants were nowhere to be seen.

But already, in this equatorial part of the globe, after being fully dressed for no more than a moment or two I was bathed in perspiration. I walked out into the waist but
felt no relief from the heat. I returned to the lobby and my cabin determined to be more comfortable yet not knowing what to do. I could be, without the sartorial adornment of my calling, mistaken for an emigrant! I was debarred from intercourse with the ladies and gentlemen and had been given no opportunity other than that first one of
addressing
the common people. Yet to endure the heat and
moisture
in a garb appropriate to the English countryside seemed impossible. On an impulse derived, I fear, less from Christian practice than from my reading of the
classical
authors, I opened the Sacred Book and before I was well aware of what I was doing I had employed the moment in a kind of
Sortes Virgilianae
, or consultation of the oracle, a process I had always thought to be
questionable
even when employed by the holiest servants of the Lord. The words my eyes fell on were II Chronicles viii. 7–8. “The Hittites, and the Amorites, and the Perizzites, and the Hivites, and the Jebusites which were not of Israel”—words which in the next moment I had applied to Captain Anderson and Lieutenants Deverel and Cumbershum, then flung myself on my knees and implored forgiveness!

I record this trivial offence merely to show the oddities of behaviour, the perplexities of the understanding, in a word, the
strangeness
of this life in this strange part of the world among strange people and in this strange
construction
of English oak which both transports and imprisons me! (I am aware, of course, of the amusing “paranomasia” in the word “transport” and hope the perusal of it will afford you some entertainment!)

To resume. After a period at my devotions I considered what I had better do in order to avoid any future mistake as to my
sanctified
identity. I divested myself once more of all but shirt and breeches, and thus divested, I employed the small mirror which I have for use when shaving to
examine my appearance. This was a process of some
difficulty
. Do you remember the knothole in the barn through which in our childish way we were wont to keep watch for Jonathan or our poor, sainted mother, or his lordship's bailiff, Mr Jolly? Do you remember, moreover, how, when we were tired of waiting, we would see by moving our heads how much of the exterior world we could spy through the knot? Then we would pretend to be seized of all we saw, from Seven Acre right up to the top of the hill? In such a manner did I contort myself before the mirror and the mirror before me! But here I am—if indeed this letter should ever be sent—instructing a member of the Fair Sex in the employment of a mirror and the art of, dare I call it, “Self-admiration”? In my own case, of course, I use the word in its original sense of surprise and wonder rather than self-satisfaction! There was much to wonder at in what I saw but little to approve. I had not fully understood before how harshly the sun can deal with the male countenance that is exposed to its more nearly vertical rays.

My hair, as you know, is of a light but indeterminate hue. I now saw that your cropping of it on the day before our parting—due surely to our mutual distress—had been sadly uneven. This unevenness seems to have been
accentuated
rather than diminished by the passage of time so that my head presented an appearance not unlike a patch of ill-reaped stubble. Since I had not been able to shave during my first
nausea
(the word indeed derives from the Greek word for a ship!) and had feared to do so in the later period when the ship was in violent motion—and at last have been dilatory, fearing the pain I should inflict on my sun-scorched skin, the lower part of my face was covered with bristles. They were not long, since my beard is of slow growth—but of varying hue. Between these two
crop-yielding areas
, as I may call them, of scalp and beard,
king Sol had exerted his full sway. What is sometimes called a widow's peak of rosy skin delineated the exact extent to which my wig had covered my forehead. Below that line the forehead was plum-coloured and in one place burst with the heat. Below that again, my nose and cheeks appeared red as on fire! I saw at once that I had deceived myself entirely if I supposed that appearing in shirt and breeches and in this
guise
I should exert the authority inhering in my profession. Nay—are these not of all
people
those who judge a man by his uniform? My “
uniform
”, as I must in all humility call it, must be sober black with the pure whiteness of bleached linen and bleached hair, the adornments of the Spiritual Man. To the officers and people of this ship, a clergyman without his bands and wig would be of no more account than a beggar.

True, it was the sudden sound of an altercation and the desire to do good that had drawn me forth from my
seclusion
, but I was to blame. I drew in my breath with
something
like fear as I envisaged the appearance I must have presented to them—with a bare head, unshaven,
sun
blotched
, unclothed! It was with confusion and shame that I remembered the words addressed to me
individually
at my ordination—words I must ever hold sacred because of the occasion and the saintly divine who spake them—“Avoid scrupulosity, Colley, and always present a decent appearance.” Was
this
that I now saw in the mirror of my imagination the figure of a labourer in that country where “the fields are white to harvest”? Among those with whom I now dwell, a respectable appearance is not merely a
desideratum
but a
sine qua non
. (I mean, my dear, not merely desirable but necessary.) I determined at once to take more care. When I walked in what I had thought of as my kingdom, I would not only be a man of
GOD
—I would be
seen
to be a man of
GOD
!

Things are a little better. Lieutenant Summers came
and begged the favour of a word with me. I answered him through the door, begging him not to enter as I was not yet prepared in clothes or visage for an interview. He assented, but in a low voice as if afraid that others would hear. He asked my pardon for the fact that there had been no more services in the passenger saloon. He had
repeatedly
sounded
the passengers and had met with
indifference
. I asked him if he had asked Mr Talbot and he replied after a pause that Mr Talbot had been much
occupied
with his own affairs. But he, Mr Summers, thought that there might be a chance of what he called a
small gathering
on the next Sabbath. I found myself declaring through the door with a passion quite unlike my usual even temper—

“This is a Godless vessel!”

Mr Summers made no reply so I made a further remark.

“It is the influence of a certain person!”

At this I heard Mr Summers change his position
outside
the door as if he had suddenly looked round him. Then he whispered to me.

“Do not, I beg you, Mr Colley, entertain such thoughts! A small gathering, sir—a hymn or two, a
reading
and a benediction—”

I took the opportunity to point out that a morning service in the waist would be far more appropriate; but Lieutenant Summers replied with what I believe to be a degree of embarrassment that
it could not be
. He then withdrew. However, it is a small victory for religion. Nay—who knows when that heart of awful flint may be brought to yield as yield at last it must?

I have discovered the name of my Young Hero. He is one Billy Rogers, a sad scamp, I fear, whose boyish heart has not yet been touched with Grace. I shall try to make an opportunity of speaking with him.

I have passed the last hour in
shaving
! It was indeed painful and I cannot say that the result justifies the labour. However, it is done.

I heard an unwonted noise and went into the lobby. As I did so, I felt the deck tilt under me—though very slightly—but alas! The few days of almost total calm have unfitted me for the motion and I have lost the “sea legs” I thought I had acquired! I was forced to retire
precipitately
to my cabin and bunk. There I was better placed and could feel that we have some wind, favourable, light and easy. We are moving on our way again; and though I did not at once care to trust to my legs I felt that elevation of the spirits which must come to any traveller when after some let or hindrance he discovers himself to be on the move towards his destination.