The Death of the Pirate
Nathanael and I have been reading The Coral Island, by Scottish writer R. M. Ballantyne. At one point, the hero of the story, Ralph, finds himself alone on a ship with a dying pirate. They have just escaped from the rest of the crew, and they’re talking about how they’ll handle the ship alone and where they’ll go.
“And what will you do,” said he, “if it comes on to blow a storm?”
This question silenced me, while I considered what I should do in such a case. At length I laid my hand on his arm, and said,”Bill, when a man has done all that he can do, he ought to leave the rest to God.”
“O Ralph,” said my companion, in a faint voice, looking anxiously into my face,”I wish that I had the feelin’s about God that you seem to have, at this hour. I’m dyin’, Ralph; yet I, who have braved death a hundred times, am afraid to die. I’m afraid to enter the next world. Something within tells me there will be a reckoning when I go there. But it’s all over with me, Ralph. I feel that there’s no chance o’ my bein’ saved.”
“Don’t say that, Bill,” said I in deep compassion; “don’t say that. I’m quite sure there’s hope even for you, but I can’t remember the words of the Bible that make me think so. Is there not a Bible on board, Bill?”
“No; the last that was in the ship belonged to a poor boy that was taken aboard against his will. He died, poor lad—I think through ill-treatment and fear. After he was gone the captain found his Bible and flung it overboard.”
I now reflected, with great sadness and self-reproach, on the way in which I had neglected my Bible; and it flashed across me that I was actually in the sight of God a greater sinner than this blood-stained pirate; for, thought I, he tells me that he never read the Bible, and was never brought up to care for it; whereas I was carefully taught to read it by my own mother, and had read it daily as long as I possessed one, yet to so little purpose that I could not now call to mind a single text that would meet this poor man’s case, and afford him the consolation he so much required. I was much distressed, and taxed my memory for a long time. At last a text did flash into my mind, and I wondered much that I had not thought of it before.
“Bill,” said I in a low voice, “‘Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.'”
“Ay, Ralph, I’ve heard the missionaries say that before now, but what good can it do me? It’s not for me, that; it’s not for the likes o’ me.”
I knew not now what to say, for although I felt sure that that word was for him as well as for me, I could not remember any other word whereby I could prove it.
After a short pause, Bill raised his eyes to mine and said, “Ralph, I’ve led a terrible life. I’ve been a sailor since I was a boy, and I’ve gone from bad to worse ever since I left my father’s roof. I’ve been a pirate three years now. It is true I did not choose the trade, but I was inveigled aboard this schooner and kept here by force till I became reckless and at last joined them. Since that time my hand has been steeped in human blood again and again. Your young heart would grow cold if I—But why should I go on? ‘Tis of no use, Ralph; my doom is fixed.”
“Bill,” said I, “‘Though your sins be red like crimson, they shall be white as snow.’ Only believe.”
“Only believe!” cried Bill, starting up on his elbow. “I’ve heard men talk o’ believing as if it was easy. Ha! ’tis easy enough for a man to point to a rope and my, ‘I believe that would bear my weight;’ but ’tis another thing for a man to catch hold o’ that rope and swing himself by it over the edge of a precipice!”
…
A few seconds afterwards he said, “Ralph, let me hear those two texts again.”
I repeated them.
“Are ye sure, lad, ye saw them in the Bible?”
“Quite sure,” I replied.
Almost before the words had left my lips the wind burst upon us, and the spray dashed over our decks.
…
My first care, the instant I could quit the helm, was to raise Bill from the deck and place him on the couch. I then ran below for the brandy bottle, and rubbed his face and hands with it, and endeavoured to pour a little down his throat. But my efforts, although I continued them long and assiduously, were of no avail; as I let go the hand which I had been chafing, it fell heavily on the deck. I laid my hand over his heart, and sat for some time quite motionless; but there was no flutter there—the pirate was dead!
Would we have known what to say?
