One Man's Calling : One Man's Calling, Ch 36 by Wayne Fowler |
In the last part Ben learned a little about sailing from his friend Hans, and accepted Jimmy’s apology for taking his whipping. “What’s happening?” Ben asked, immediately wishing he hadn’t. “Storm, you stupid bloke,” came a response from across the sleeping quarters of hammocks stacked four deep throughout the room, barely enough room to stand between them. It was every man on deck. Most were already awake, merely awaiting the call. Ben scrambled to the fore deck. It was like running on the backs of buffalo – with hundred-mile-an-hour winds trying to throw you under their stampeding hooves. Ben finally reached Hans where he was already securing the boom. He then went about untangling the brails, or lines used to furl the sail. “One of us has to go up,” Hans shouted. “The fore sail rigging is hanging up the fore-mast main sail. Take this knife. Cut it if you have to. They have to douse the main sails!” It was a wonder Ben was able to understand the discourse with the wind howling, the straight sideways rain pelting, and the waves crashing the men and the ship. The seas were only about twenty-foot swells and breakers, but with the ship sitting higher in the water than a schooner or a full rigged ship, it was more susceptible to capsizing. Ben had a hundred questions, but they could all wait. The Superbia was tossing violently. Shouts of “Man overboard” went unheeded, every man that was still on deck frantically about his task. Fighting the fierce winds, Ben clawed his way to the ratlines used to climb up to the extended sail rigging. To Ben, the rolling of the ship was beyond frightful. He imagined, though, that he would be hearing some real tales of terror before the day was out. Looking down, Ben saw that at the leeward tilt, he was looking directly down into the sea. He looked back up, only a few more feet to the problem. After trying only a second or two, he cut the line away. One of his feet pushed completely through the ratline, missing the horizontal stay. Ben considered hanging upside down until the storm subsided when sailors could hoist him down for a second whipping, this time for clumsy stupidity. He finally freed himself and made it down, but not until he stuck the back of the knife in his mouth, as might a pirate, in order to use both hands more safely. Ben hoped Hans didn’t see the spectacle. “Why were the sails rigged at night?” Ben asked when he and Hans had a moment. “Tried to outrun the storm,” Hans shouted back. “Never works. If you can’t outrun it in daylight, best to make everything fast and tie yourself down. Night time is just crazy.” “What now?” “They have the rudder tied to run with the current. We wait orders. Fix lines. Catch one another.” “The one overboard?” Hans knew that Ben was asking about the man overboard shout of nearly an hour past. “Gone. In this kind of sea …” He shook his head. Dawn was breaking, but there was no discerning the sunrise, as dark as the clouds were, just a general slight lightening of the sky. Word came that half the crew at a time could go to mess for a breakfast of cold gruel and stale bread. Ben was grateful for the sustenance nevertheless. After mess, half the crew at a time could go below decks for a couple hour’s rest. Though in the pitching sea, there was no sleep, and little rest. After only a few minutes in the rack – what passed for a sleeping hammock – Ben made his way back to the fore deck. “Good work up there,” the boatswain said as he passed by during an inspection. “For an Oss,” he added with a dismissing wave. “I’m an arse, am I?” Ben asked Hans. “An OS,” Hans said, “an Ordinary Sailor. Me, I’m an Able Body Sailor. Just means you get to climb.” Hans grinned. “’Specially when it’s storming.” Hans bellowed a laugh then. The seas had calmed some, but not a great deal. It continued to bear careful movement to avoid being washed overboard by a strong wave. The dread, Hans explained, was a rogue wave that could lift the ship a hundred feet up, causing it to then dive headlong into the ocean, the bow digging in too deep to recover. Or if it came from the side and instantly heeling. She can’t recover from that, Hans had said, adding, “but at least you might have time to launch a lifeboat.” Before Hans went below to take his turn at trying to rest, Ben heard another newly shanghaied man ask why the sails were set during the night, was that a safe practice? “Captain’s orders, I hear. Best not repeat that, mind ye. Thought he could outrun the storm. Hah!” +++ Ben began to pray in earnest. “Lord, what is my mission here? Was it my prayer last night that kept us afloat? (He didn’t think so. He felt no spiritual affirmation.) Is there a work to do on this boat, or is my mission on land? A single person, or am I Jonah, sent to Nineveh? I was happy to help Jimmy. Was that it, Lord? “Lord, you know me. I don’t need any sort of sign. I just don’t want to miss your perfect will. “I love you, Jesus. Thank you for trusting me with a call to do your will wherever I am. I praise you Jesus, I worship you, Father. And thank you, Holy Spirit for your constant hand on my life. Hallelujah.” Normally, Ben did not close his private prayers with the traditional amen; but this time he did. And as soon as he had, Sly approached. “Matie, I heerd jee. You know, lad, about the first day, ye know I had ta do it. For order. Have to have order.” Ben understood perfectly, though it was more along the lines of discipline and control, than order. But he understood and nodded to Sly. “Tamarry bein’ the Lord’s Day, would jee speak a word or two? ‘Bout ten minutes, not no Baptist hour-long sermon, mind jee.” Ben nodded. “Of course, I would.” Sly nodded back. “Captain has a good book; you be wantin’ ta read somethin’ of it.” “No need,” Ben said, thinking that perhaps some time in the future he might ask to borrow it. “Got it right here.” Ben thumped his chest over his heart. “Ite den.” Sly left a grateful Ben alone on the fore deck. +++ Ben prayed and thought about the sermon he would deliver the next day, what to preach. First thing came to his mind, of course, was a salvation message: introduce Christ, offer an invitation. Then he thought of his audience – it might take more than that. Ben thought of a message of comfort for the seven conscripts, the eighth one being the person lost in the storm. Ben considered a message aimed at the captors, starting with the captain, himself. Ben was immediately checked in his spirit. He would never preach at someone. That was not his calling. Preaching Paul’s message of his own shipwreck passed through his mind. But God had not told him that he would save the ship from destruction, or that should anyone follow his direction, they would be saved. Ben thought about Joseph, captured and sold into bondage, falsely accused and imprisoned… No, too self-serving. Preach a message of passive resistance? No, too combative, regardless of how delivered. Finally, Ben let go of his intellect, his conscious and deliberate efforts to think of the perfect sermon for the situation. He directed his mind to that of calm worship and meditation, waiting for the Holy Spirit’s leading. It wasn’t long, laying in his hammock, at least seven, maybe eight other men he could reach out and touch with hardly movement …and love your neighbor as yourself. +++ “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength. And love your neighbor as yourself. There is no commandment greater than these.” “But who is my neighbor? I don’t live here. My heart is in San Francisco. My family is in St Louis, or Boston, or Shanghai. Ben paraphrased the story of the good Samaritan. “Who is your neighbor?” Ben asked, but not just the ones all about you in these tight quarters, or those rubbing elbows at mess, or on these decks, “But also those who come to your aid, though they be another color than you, another race, and other faith, even. Love your neighbor as yourself. “Jesus,” Ben began praying, his hands together as a signal to the men, “thank you for an attentive group of men. Bless them. Amen.” Ben noticed slight smiles and nods of approval among the sailors mixed with the furrowed brows of confusion. Ben was satisfied that he’d spoken God’s words. Sly approached him. “A bit more than yer ten minutes.” His grin belied animus. “The captain would see you. Knock and yell out cher name at ‘is door.” “Well done, lad. Well done. Crisp and to the point. Team building, Camaraderie. Team spirit. I like that. Never took to the malarky myself, confessing, and all that pomp. Heard screaming on a street corner once. Told the driver to run him over. Almost got him. Hah! “You’re our new chaplain. Haven’t had one for years. You’ll be saying the words men want to hear should we have to bury anyone to sea. Usually do, at least one every run. Quartermaster, well, let’s just say he has a public speaking problem. And the boatswain, well, men don’t take well to the one speaking over the dead being the man most responsible for his demise. “No, you’ll do fine. Chaplain. That’s in addition to your regular duties, mind you. And I’ll be the one telling the boatswain. Won’t do to have you out there flaunting any misconceived high and mighty position. No, you’re still an OS.” Despite the sophistication of his diction, the captain’s OS came out arse. Ben grinned behind a straight face, knowing that God was at work. Afterall, he let an actual arse do the talking one time – an ass speaking to Balaam in the scriptures. Ben remembered every moment of the day that he first heard that sermon preached back in Arkansas. Ben praised God for helping him contain his laughter in front of the captain.
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Wayne Fowler
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