Robert Michael Ballantyne - The Crew of the Water Wagtail

“Well, as I was going to say, the missionary was a hoary old man when he preached the sermon that turned my grandfather from darkness to light. My grandfather was just fifteen years old at that time. Ten years later the same missionary came to grandfather’s house, worn out with years and labours, and died there, leaving all his treasure to his host. That treasure was a small portion of the New Testament in English, copied from Wycliffe’s own translation. You may be sure that my grandfather valued the legacy very highly. When he died he left it to my mother. About that time my mother married and went to live on the banks of the Severn. Not far from our farm there dwelt a family of the name of Hutchins. The father had changed his name and taken refuge there during the recent civil wars. This family possessed a Latin Bible, and the head of it was well acquainted with its contents. It was through him that my mother became well acquainted with the Old as well as the New Testament, and thus it was that I also came in course of time to know about Methuselah, and a good many more characters about whom I may perhaps tell you one of these days.”

“So, then, this is the manuscript the old missionary carried about, is it?” said Trench, fingering the fragment tenderly.

“Ay, and a good translation it is, I have been told by one whom most people would think too young to be a judge. You must know that this Mr Hutchins has a son named William, who is considerably younger than I am, but he is such a clever, precocious fellow, that before he left home for college I used to find him a most interesting companion. Indeed, I owe to him much of what little I have learned, for he is a wonderful linguist, being able to read Hebrew and Greek about as easily as Latin or English. He is at Oxford now—at least he was there when I last heard of him. Moreover, it was through the Hutchins’ family, in a roundabout way, that your mother, Olly, came to learn to write such letters as you have got so carefully stowed away there in your breast-pocket.”

“Good luck to the Hutchins’ family then, say I,” returned Olly, “for I’m glad to be able to read, though, on account of the scarcity and dearness of manuscripts, I don’t have the chance of makin’ much use of my knowledge. But you puzzle me, Paul. It was poor Lucy Wentworth who used to live with us, and who died only last year, that taught me to read, and I never heard her mention the name of Hutchins. Did you, father?”

“No, I never did, Olly. She said she had lived with a family named Tyndale before she came to us, poor thing! She was an amazin’ clever girl to teach, and made your mother good at it in a wonderful short time. She tried me too, but it was of no use, I was too tough an’ old!”

“Just so, Master Trench,” rejoined Paul. “Hutchins’ real name was Tyndale, and he had resumed the name before Lucy Wentworth went to live with the family. So, you see, Olly, you are indebted, in a roundabout way, as I said, to the Tyndales for your mother’s letter. William will make his mark pretty deeply on the generation, I think, if God spares him.”

Little did Paul Burns think, when he made this prophetic speech by the camp-fire on that distant isle of the sea, that, even while he spoke William Tyndale was laying the foundation of that minute knowledge of the Greek and Hebrew languages, which afterwards enabled him to give the Bible to England in her own tongue, and that so ably translated, that, after numerous revisions by the most capable of scholars, large portions of his work remain unaltered at the present day.

The night was far spent, and the other members of the camp had been long buried in slumber before Paul and Trench and Oliver could tear themselves away from the manuscript Gospel of John. The latter two, who knew comparatively little of its contents, were at first impressed chiefly with the fact that they were examining that rare and costly article—a book, and a forbidden book, too, for the reading of which many a man and woman had been burned to death in times past—but they became still more deeply impressed as Paul went on reading and commenting and pointing out the value of the Book as God’s own “Word” to fallen man.

“Here is a promise to rest upon,” said Paul, as he finally closed the book and repeated the verse from memory, “Jesus said, If ye continue in my word, then are ye my disciples indeed; and ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”

“Ay, that’s it, Paul— free ! We’re all slaves, more or less, to something or other. What we all want is to be free ,” said Master Trench, as he drew his blanket round him, pillowed his head on his cloak, and went to sleep.

Silently Paul and Oliver followed his example, the fires died out, and in a few minutes the slumbering camp was shrouded in the mantle of night.

Energetic action was the order of the next day, for those shipwrecked mariners knew well enough that nothing but hard and steady labour could enable them to live on an apparently desolate island.

By daybreak most of the crew had scattered themselves along the shores, or over the interior, to spy out the land. About two hours later they began to drop into camp as hungry as hawks, each carrying the result of his researches in his arms or on his shoulders.

“Well done, Squill!” said Paul, who chanced to be first back in camp, with a huge sail bundled up on his shoulder, and who, just then, was busy blowing up his fire; “got another barrel of pork, eh?”

“It’s myself as doesn’t know, sur,” answered Squill, “and it wasn’t me as found it, but Jim Heron there. I only helped to sling it on the pole, and shoulder an end. It’s aither pork or gunpowther, so if it ain’t good for a blow out it’ll be good for a blow up, anyhow.”

“Did you see little Oliver anywhere?” asked Paul.

“Ay, sur, I saw him on the shore, bringing up what seemed to me the ship’s bowsprit—anyhow, a spar o’ some sort, about as big as he could haul along.”

“Just so,” returned Paul, with a laugh, “a ridge-pole for our tent. He’s a smart boy, little Olly.”

“Sure he’s all that, sur, and more. Here he comes, blowin’ like a porpoise.”

Sure enough, Oliver appeared at the moment, dragging a heavy spar behind him. Several of the men appeared at the same time, staggering through the bushes, with various loads of wreckage, which they flung down, and noisily began discussing their experiences as they lighted the fires and prepared breakfast.

“Here comes Little Stubbs,” cried Jim Heron. “What fortune, comrade?”

“Good fortune, though my load is the lightest yet brought in.”

He flung down a small piece of wood with an air of satisfaction.

“Why, it’s only a boat’s rudder!” said Oliver.

“Ay, so it is, and the boat lies where I picked it up, but it was too heavy to bring into camp without your assistance, boy. And the best of it is that it’s not much damaged. Very little repair will make her fit for sea again.”

This was indeed a find of immense importance, and the assembled party discussed the event in all its bearings till their mouths were partially stopped by pork and pancakes.

In the midst of this they were interrupted by the arrival of Big Swinton, George Blazer, and Grummidge with another find, which afterwards cost them much trouble and regret—namely, a couple of young lads, natives, whom they led into camp with their wrists tightly bound behind their backs.

The youths who had been captured were simple savages, with very little clothing, and with an expression of considerable alarm on their faces. As was afterwards learned, they had been coasting along the shore of the large neighbouring island in a canoe; had observed the strange fires in the night-time, and had crossed over the channel to see what could be the cause thereof. On reaching the highest part of the island they discovered some of the sailors, and turned to fly to their canoe, but Blazer had observed them, their retreat was cut off, and they were captured—not without a severe struggle, however, in which they were very roughly handled.