A CORRESPONDENT of the W. C. Advocate relates an affecting story of a young sailor who died on board a whale-ship in the South Atlantic. James du Boice had been carefully reared, but impelled by a strong love of adventure, and an ardent desire to see the world, had gone to sea. The ship had made a prosperous voyage, and was on her way home.
Of all the men in the ship, none were more elated than James. He had been on shore at the Azores, and got a few more curiosities; he had been ashore at Rio and Cape de Verdes, and clambered up the rocky sides of one of the Falkland Islands; and he felt already his mother’s kiss, and heard the cordial welcome of friends at home, and saw their look of wonder, and heard their words of astonishment, while he showed his shells and related his adventures to them. He spent the whole of the middle watch in painting, with enthusiastic words, the anticipated meeting and the scenes which would occur at home. Poor fellow! it was only a waking dream with him. He never saw his mother again in this world!
The next day we went to work at stowing down the oil. It was a rough sea, and the ship pitched heavily, so as to make it hard and dangerous work to handle the casks of oil. The last cask was stowed and filled, and in ten minutes more the hatches would be down. Du Boice stood on the cask in the main hatchway, and was passing a few sticks of wood down amongst the water casks, when the vessel rolled deeply to the leeward, a cask of water broke from the lashings at the weather rail, and rolled into the hatchway where he stood, and in one instant both his legs above his knees were literally jammed to pieces—the bones were broken into shivers.
We took him into the steerage, and did the best we could to bind up his broken limbs, and made him comfortable; but we knew and he knew that his days were numbered—he must die. That night, as I sat by his berth and watched with him, he was constantly calling, “Mother, mother!” Oh, it was heartrending to hear him, in his piteous ravings, calling “Mother! mother!” and then he would weep like a child because she came not.
In the morning watch he grew calm, and spoke rationally again. After giving me the address of his parents and a message for them, he slept a little while. When he awoke, he bade me go to the forecastle and open his chest, and under the till I should find his Bible. I brought it to him, and he opened it at the blank leaf, and looked long and eagerly at the name there. His mother had given it to him when he left home, and on the flyleaf was written by her hand, “Presented to James du Boice, by his mother, Sarah du Boice.” “Now read to me,” said he handing me the book.
“Where shall I read?”
“Where it tells us how to get ready for heaven.”
I opened the book and my eye fell on Psalm 51, and I read to him from that Psalm till I came to the 10th verse, “Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me!”
“Hold there! That is just what I want,” said he. “Now, how shall I get it?”
“Pray God to give it you, for Jesus’ sake,” I suggested.
“Oh, yes; Jesus is the Saviour! Shipmate, it is an awful thing to die— and I have got to go! Oh, if mother were here to tell me how to get ready!” and he trembled with earnestness.
After a short pause, during which he seemed in deep thought, he said,
“Do you know of any place where it is said that such sinners as I can be saved?” I quoted 1 Tim. 1:15:
“This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.”
“Oh, shipmate,” said he, “that is good. Can you think of anymore?”
“That’s plain. Now, if I only knew how to come to God!”
“Come like a child to its father,” I suggested.
“How’s that?”
“As the child believes that his father can help him in danger, so you are to look to God to help you now; and, as the child trusts his father by fleeing to him, so you must trust Jesus by casting yourself upon Him!”
He lay a little time engaged in earnest pleadings with God, as was evident from the few words I overheard. Then the tears began to run down his face, his eyes opened, and a bright smile played like a sunbeam over his features; he then said, “He died for me; He forgives me, and I shall be saved! ‘He is able to save to the uttermost!’”
The day dawned; then the sun arose in regal splendor on the ocean. I held his hand in mine, and felt the death thrill; then he murmured, “He’s come! He’s come!”
“Who has come?” said I.
“Jesus,” he whispered, and he fell asleep.
ML 03/16/1902