Then Juniper thought that Watchnight Percy-- The one who spoke of the Lord's great mercy-- Though his heart was right, yet, on the whole, Was over-anxious for Jerry's soul. Was Jerry's chance, like that of the thief, Merely the miracle of belief, That in the final midnight hour Springs from the Lord Almighty's power And heavenly grace? Juniper could Not argue this point for want of light So left the question as it stood, To deal with the claim of Christopher Wright.
Much that was spoken by Christopher Had a measure of truth, said Juniper. It was true that Jerry, with his mind So bent on worldly things, might find Beyond those gates of pearl and gold, Within those heavenly pavilions, Where white-robed angels by the millions Bask in the glory of the fold, No angel who would undertake To wean his thoughts from earthly things, And fit him up with a pair of wings; Or--still more hopeless job--to make Him change his manners and his speech, So that those lordly potentates Might not be shocked, as Jerry's mates Were often shocked upon the beach. All this, he said, and more beside May yet be true of the man that died-- (Jerry, who swore when the mood was on. And worried the soul of Solomon; Jerry, the most consistent liar That ever told a fish-yarn when, On a wintry night, a crew of men Were gathered around a tamarack fire!) "I do not care," said Juniper, Looking direct at Christopher, "What Gabriel may think of Jerry, Or (turning around to stare at Joe) What the sins were that Doran might know: Or whether he laughed in his sleep and was merry In the hour of death, as Jake, his son, Who lay beside him in the bed Reported the news to Solomon Of what the dying man had said."
Thus Juniper spoke, his eyes a-glow, His bony fingers pointing at Rowe.
Then we felt a deep hush fall Upon the room, as Juniper Hall Spoke to the dead man under the sheet, Just as a common man might greet A living friend. "Well, Jerry, old mate, They may talk as they like--now that you're cold-- Of those who enter the Father's fold, Through mercy and grace. They may talk of the fate Of your soul. They may shake their heads and groan For fear God's mercy was not shown To you before you died. I know Nothing of what the angels do, Or where the souls of dead men go; But I'll take my chance in saying that you, Who always did your day's work well, Had far too good a soul for hell. I do not know the kind of luck That came to Christopher and Joe And saved from the fire the soul of Rowe, Nor how the balances are struck At death; but I'd like to state If things like contra accounts are stored On the shelves of the upper Courts of the Lord. Who judges the hearts of men, that your slate, Jerry, should tell by a clean score How you were head of a life-boat crew, With no one as good at the stern oar, And always on hand when a storm blew; And tell how you pulled young Davie Cole, (Who sits on that bench) out of a hole In the slob ice one bitter night In March when Davey was frozen through, And lugged him ashore with his face as white As the lip of a ghost, and brought him to, With no one around to lend you a hand. Yes, Jerry, old mate, if you never reach For want of faith the angels' land, Without a sea, without a beach, Maybe the Lord in His good grace, May find close to the boundary Of heaven and the outer place, A strip of shoreline by a sea, Where the winds blow and where you, As skipper of a life-boat crew, May throw a line across the deck Of many a crowded, foundering wreck. And on fine days when not aboard Your skiff, but lying up, the Lord May find odd jobs, perhaps a sail To mend, that in a Galilean gale Was torn, or one or two old punts That He and Simon Peter once Used on the lake; or say, 'Here's bark And oakum, oil and pitch, all that You need; go--caulk that leaky ark That went aground on Ararat.' And when you call your gang together, Some night in raw December weather (The gang made up of your lifeboat crew, And other spotted saints of God, Exiled to that shore with you Because, while on the earth, they trod On both the broad and narrow ways) To tell your yarns before a blaze Of balsam piled on tamarack-- That night, I swear, I will come back (As stoker from the outer land On special leave from Lucifer) To start your fire with my brand; I swear it now," said Juniper.