CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

 

You are the one who rules the oceans. When their waves rise in

fearful storms, you subdue them.

(Psalms 89:9)

 

Then with over half the sea crossed and on the second of June, the winds began to blow mightily and it got fearsome cold. One morning, I awoke to the Master’s whistle summoning the crew to the Round House. I crept to the hatch and listened. I could hear the crew murmuring.

“A storm’s comin’, men,” he shouted. “Be quick. “Tis likely to be rough. We must mark our course well.” He gave everyone their orders. I heard the activity above me, the sailors clewing up and furling the sails against the approaching wind. There would be no steering the ship during the storm. We would drift in the hands of God.

Henry Tibbets, the first mate, opened the hatch and climbed down the ladder. He instructed us all to douse the lanterns. “A single spark could set the ship afire. Secure all that is likely to roll about. The hatch will be covered until the waves calm. Be brave.” That was all—short and sweet. Taking precious time, I covered the large open room with massive steps, checking on my patients. All were resting comfortably. Quickly, I returned to my bunk area, secured our precious belongings, and Agnes and I placed the children into their pallets. When night fell, the winds blew more fiercely. The sea roared enough to make me deaf, and the waves threw water everywhere. The childrens’ pallets became quickly soaked, and Agnes came rushing over to me with her two girls. We all huddled together on my bunk, shivering.

“Oh, Sarah,” Agnes wailed. “What are we to do? I cannot swim—I cannot swim!”

“Hush, Agnes,” I shouted over the roaring of the wind. “You’ll frighten the children. We’ll not sink. This ship has probably weathered many such storms during her lifetime.” We could hear the sailors running to and fro, and the mate shouting orders above the wind.

There were days and nights of fearful dark, and wind, and rain. I thought it would never end. Aside from my encouragements to Agnes, I feared the ship was not sufficient to withstand the onslaught. So I prayed. I reminded the Lord (like He needed to be reminded) how He’d calmed the waves on the Sea of Galilee, and begged Him to do it for us—to save us all from a watery grave.

One day, when the storm seemed less hard, I managed to get Agnes and her brood back to their bunks and tucked in tight. I feared for the other passengers, and for Jeremy, Red, and my sons, Arthur and John. It must be close and rank, with so many unwashed bodies crammed into their small space, I thought to myself. It sure is in here! The odor of sweat as well as vomit from the unseaworthy was overwhelming. Keeping a handkerchief soaked with lavender water pressed to one’s nose helped somewhat, however.

The storm did not relent. One howling day, I noticed water puddling on the floor and informed Captain Jabson. He sent a couple of men down to inspect the hull. Carrying the carpenter’s caulking, mallets, irons and the oakum, one of the crew and a young lad came to fix the leaks. They caulked the leaks and also a few other spots before more could open up. It seemed to take hours. I could see that it was difficult for the lad to hammer true with the ship rocking as she was. Finally, they finished. I re-settled the children and tried to get them to sleep—but they were too afraid to rest. I spent most of my time writing in my journal, but with the rocking to and fro my usual neat handwriting became a scrawl. In later years, I’d re-read the pages and remember the fearsome uncertainty and dark, dampness of the hold.

In a fortnight, the skies began to clear. The ship had settled enough for me to check on my patients. Feeling my way around the dusky cabin, my sleeve was suddenly clasped by Martha Bent.

“Sarah,” she whispered, “is it over? Are we safe? Mrs. Goodenowe had her baby three days ago! I don’t think we can bear any more!”

“Twill be calm now, pray God,” I answered. “Master Jabson should give us leave to be on deck as soon as he’s sure it’s safe.” I patted her arm and continued on. Checking Mrs. Goodenowe, she showed me her baby. The little girl had been named Confidence, after the ship. What a tiny creature to ride out such a storm!

“T'was bad back here in the corners,” she told me. “Some said they’d rather die than suffer through one more day of such rocking. But our prayers were answered.”

“Yes, praise God, they were,” I replied, tousling the infant’s dark hair.