Hudson taylor, god’s venturer

Chapter 7

For days the sails of the little ship had been hanging limply from the masts, with scarcely a breeze to stir them. On more than one occasion she had progressed only seven miles in 24 hours, and in spite of the interest of seeing palm-fringed islands on the horizons, or watching tropical fish that darted through the waters, the voyage was growing tedious. It was nearly five months since he had come on board at Liverpool, and Hudson knew every rope and every plank on the deck of the Dumfries. Heartily glad would he be to set foot on dry land again!

One Sunday morning, as he was conducting service on deck, he noticed that his good friend, the captain, looked worried. He paid less attention to the service than usual, and every now and then walked over to the rails, looking out across the smooth waters. There was not the slightest breeze and when a little later, the crew had dispersed, and Hudson was standing alone with the captain, he learned the reason for his anxiety. The ship was being carried along by a strong current toward some sunken reefs and without a wind to fill the sails, there was no way of resisting the power of the waters.

“We are so near the reefs already, and I doubt whether we shall get through the afternoon in safety,” the captain told him. At sunset a breeze usually sprang up, but by that time the ship would probably be floundering hopelessly on the jagged, hidden rocks. The only possible hope lay in lowering one of the boats, and endeavoring to tow the ship out of danger. All the efforts of the men, rowing furiously, were in vain, however. The current was too strong, and they could not so much as turn the ship’s head.

The captain stood beside Hudson in silence, and then said in as matter-of-fact a voice as he could:

“Well, we’ve done everything that can be done. We can only wait now...”

Quite suddenly, Hudson thought of something. If only the breeze that usually blew up at sunset blear up now, they would be saved. And although they had no power at all over winds and breezes—God had—God could make the breeze blow earlier.

“There is one thing left that we haven’t done,” he said quietly.

“Oh? What is that?” queried the captain.

They had not prayed. That was the one thing left the remained undone. The captain was silent, and Hudson continued. There were four or five of them on board, out of all the crew, who believed in God and believed that He heard prayer. “Let each one of us go to our cabins, and let us all agree to pray that God will send a breeze now. He can send it just as easily now as this evening...”

The captain was a little surprised at the suggestion, but after a momentary hesitation he agreed. Very well, he said, they would do that. He would go to his cabin and pray, and Hudson could find the mate, the steward, and the Swedish carpenter, and suggest that they do likewise. They, of all the members of the crew, were known to be God-fearing men. Let them do the one thing left that could save the ship.

Hudson had been in his cabin praying but a short while, when he felt so certain that God was going to send a breeze that he got up from his knees, went on deck, and suggested to the first officer that he let down the corners of the mainsail.

“What would be the good of that?” asked the first officer scornfully. Not unreasonably, he felt he knew more about to let down the sails than the young “landlubber” before him!

“We have been asking God to send a wind,” explained Hudson, “and it’s coming immediately!”

The first officer fairly snorted.

“I’d rather see a wind than hear about it,” he retorted. But instinctively he glanced up toward the sails, and Hudson, following his gaze, saw the corner of the topmost sail flutter.

“Look at the royal!” he exclaimed excitedly. “The wind is coming!”

“It’s only a puff!” said the officer unbelievingly. He shouted an order, nevertheless, and within a minute barefooted seamen were thudding across the deck, and up into the rigging. The sound of the sudden activity brought the captain up from his cabin to see what was happening. And there were the sails, billowing in the breeze, while the ship turned slowly and steadily from the reef to cruise away at six or seven knots! And there was young Hudson Taylor, his eyes gleaming with joy and his heart brimming over with thankfulness, quietly rejoicing in His God, who answered prayer.

It was less than a month later that the Dumfries anchored at Gutzlaff Island to await the coming of the pilot who was to guide them up the estuary to Shanghai. The sunny skies and blue waters of warmer climes were left behind now. Instead, as he stood by the rails, Hudson saw nothing but a thick fog and the dull waters of the mighty Yandtze, the river that carves its relentless way from the mysterious tableland of Tibet through the fertile, populous plains of China to empty itself at last in the turbulent China Seas.
Hudson peered around him, straining his eyes for a glimpse of the land to which he had come. The fog was too thick to afford him a view of the long, low-lying shore yet, but as he leaned over the rails he discerned the dim outlines of other vessels, strange-looking craft with one enormous sail hanging from the mast, and with curved, curiously painted hulls. There was no mistaking them for anything else but the Chinese junks whose pictures he had studied so often in the illustrated book on China in the old home in Barnsley! Now he was seeing them with his own eyes, and as he watched, one drew near enough for him to see the men on board. Loose-fitting blue home-spun jackets and trousers, skin the color of old parchment, dark, enigmatic eyes, long thin hair plaited in a pigtail—Chinese! For the first time Hudson looked into the faces of members of the great race to which God had sent him, and among whom he expected to spend his life. He could not understand a word of their language, and their strangely inexpressive faces betrayed nothing of their feelings. How could he set about learning to speak, he wondered. Where would he go to live when he went ashore on this unknown land? How, indeed, would he even get anything to eat, since he had no idea what to ask for! He paced the deck, muffled in his warmest clothes, with these and other questions in his mind until his reverie was interrupted by the sudden activity on deck.

“The pilot! The pilot’s coming aboard!” What excitement! For the first time in five and a half months here was someone who would give them news of the outside world! For the first time in five and a half months, here was another Englishman mounting the gangway! It seemed that everybody on board came on deck to see him. And what news he had to give them! In the five and a half months in which they had been sailing the oceans, cut off entirely from the outside world, troubles had arisen in Europe which were leading to war. In China itself was war already—civil war, with great rebel forces sweeping up from the south against the imperialist armies that poured down from the north. And what affected Hudson most vitally was that Shanghai itself was right in the thick of the fighting! Rebels held the city, which was besieged by an imperialist army about fifty thousand men. Food was already at famine prices, and the rate of exchange was rising. An English pound, which would previously buy five Chinese dollars, would now only purchase three!

Little wonder that the next day it was with very mixed feelings he stepped ashore, and followed his guide through swarms of vociferating, shouting Chinese coolies, to the British Consulate. He was China at last! That was thrilling. But as he picked his way across the mud, he could not but be aware of the difficulties that confronted him. No one was expecting him, he had not one friend in the whole of Shanghai, and he had very little money. He had three letters of introduction to people living in Shanghai, however, which he planned to present as soon as possible. Apart from that, he had no idea what he ought to do, now he had arrived at last! The dangers of the sea voyage suddenly seemed insignificant compared with the extreme sense of loneliness that now assailed him. And on arrival at the Consulate, the replies to his inquiries after the men to whom his letters of introduction were addressed only served on intensify his distress.

The first man, he learned, had died of fever a month or two previously. The second had already returned to America. Only the third was known still to be in Shanghai. The letter of introduction to him had been given Hudson by a comparative stranger! It was with a sinking heart he set off to the compound of the London Missionary Society.

He walked for over a mile through streets which got narrower and narrower as he left the European quarter. Curved roofs, overhanging balconies, tiny, dark little shops with ornate, swinging signs, all seem so strange to the Yorkshire lad. Everywhere he was surrounded by crowds of dark-eyed, enigmatic, unsmiling Chinese. Coolies swung along with baskets dangling from both ends of the poles slung across their shoulders, gasping out sing-song warnings as they wound their way through the throng. Pig tailed men lounged in the open-front shops and restaurants that lined the narrow streets. Vendors of steaming, savory foods stood by their little portable stalls, ready to provide a meal at a moment’s notice. Every now and then the crowds pressed back to make room for a sedan chair carried by running coolies, only to swarm into the street again when it had passed. Hudson was to become so accustomed to such scenes in the years that lay ahead that they became as familiar as the market square at home; but on this, his first day in China, it all seemed unreal, almost fantastic. It was with a sense of relief, mingled with some apprehension, that he arrived at last at the large double gates of the Mission Compound.

A Chinese doorkeeper, hands tucked in his sleeves bowed to the young Westerner.

“Master wantee who?”

Hudson produced his letter of introduction and asked to see Dr. Medhurst.

“Doctor not at home. Doctor gone away.” The gatekeeper, respectful but remote, bowed apologetically.

“Where has he gone?” asked Hudson. But the gatekeeper, had exhausted his stock of English. He just did not understand.

Here was a predicament indeed! It was already evening, and before it would be dark. Alone in a strange city, unable to speak a word of Chines, what was he to do? He tried again to make the gatekeeper understand, but without success, and he was on the verge of giving up when, to his relief, he saw a young man who was obviously a European walking across the compound. Hudson lost no time in introducing himself.

“My name is Edkins,” said the young man pleasantly. “Dr. Medhurst is not here, but his colleague is, and I am sure he will be glad to help you. Please come in and sit down, while I go and fetch him...”

That night, when Hudson eventually went to bed, it was neither in the bunk in his little cabin on the Dumfries, nor in some Chinese inn among people whose language he could not understand, but in a comfortable, clean bed in a large, airy room on the Missionary Society Compound.