His Fingerprints Upon My Soul
The warship took a sudden turnabout
Gun smoke and sea spray clouded vision
Cries of the wounded drowned out by cannon fire
Far below decks a small wooden box held fast, with metal hinges and latch
It carried a sailor’s simple treasures
Amongst the cache, a pair of illegal dice, his mother’s rosary, a spare pair of shoes, his dish, spoon, and a thimble
This pewter thimble worked its way to the bottom of the sea chest
The sailor had to search for it every time he needed to mend a tear in his jerkin, shirt or cap.
He was so proud the day he was commission aboard The Mary Rose, the second most powerful ship in King Henry’s navy
Now he lay on deck, lead shot searing his flesh, hot in his shoulder
The Barber – surgeon who bent over him, packed salt and linen into the wound trying to staunch the flow of blood
During the heat of battle this practitioner worked frantically to get the wounded back to their stations as quickly as possible
It was a bloody affair working with torn flesh and broken bone
He preferred quieter moments
When the men came with more mundane matters
Just this morning the cabin boy had tapped gently on his door
A splinter in the boy’s foot needed attention
The captain had ordered he seek treatment, the child would never venture to the fearful Barber-surgeon on his own
The boy submitted as the shaft of wood was pulled from the his toe
With a steady, gentle hand, the man wiped a greasy salve along the wound easing the soreness
By the end of that same day in 1545
French fire would leave the vessel a floundering wreck, so close to home
The men and equipment kept on board were destined to sink
Left buried in the cold clinging mud of The Solent for 437 years, before being salvaged
By then the sailor, the Barber-surgeon and cabin boy were long gone
But the sea chest, its contents along with many other articles were found, conserved and treasured
Each one revealed a great deal about Tudor life
So fascinated by this discovery, I determined to visit the exhibition of The Mary Rose when it came to the Far Side of the World
I was not disappointed
I bought a replica of a thimble found amongst the wreckage
I love it and use it regularly
When I do I cannot help but think of the ship wreck and the original thimble that went down with it
But I know nothing of the man who owned and used that thimble
I look closely at it and find the tooling to be rough almost primitive compared to the machine thimbles I own
Back in Tudor times a craftsman proud of his accomplishments would have worked hot metal by hand to create a practical and workable thimble
He even decorated it with emblems of the King
Even though a replica, the one I own works very well
The exhibition and all it revealed was fascinating
However it was a small jar of salve that captivated me
This jar of ointment still held a fingerprint of the man who used it
The Barber-surgeon would have done a difficult job, in trying circumstances
To find something, so personal as his finger print, is stunning
I think of canon, clothing, shoes, dishes, coins and a little pot of salve settling with the timbers of that hefty ship, far below the waves
Ages passed
Storms and tides swept around it all
So many wars raged overhead
I, with my family, sailed over it one calm summer’s day
Without knowing
And that finger print remained
My prayer is that God’s Fingerprint has been left upon my soul
In spite of all that happens to me or around me
Somehow in ages yet to come
This Fingerprint of the Almighty Creator will still remain
Identifying to whom I belong
That He knows me full well
That I am His
Words and Pictures © Denise Stanford 2010
wonderful blog. I join you in your prayer
Thanks Tom may you hear God whispers, even now