“In a week or two after we sailed, we began to have a church in our ship. Two serious New England friends, finding how I was served at Portsmouth, came from thence to Plymouth, to bear me company. We had regular public prayer morning and evening, frequent communion, and days of humiliation and fasting. Being time of war, and sailing out with near a hundred and fifty ships, we had several convoys. Their taking leave of each other, at their several appointed places, was striking. We have often been alarmed; once with the sight of a Dutch fleet, which we took for an enemy; and again at the sight of Admiral Balchen, who rode by us, receiving the obeisance of the surrounding ships as though he were lord of the whole ocean. On another occasion, one of the ships struck her mainsail into our bowsprit. A little after we came up with the convoy, and our captain informed them of what had happened. The answer was, ‘This is your praying, and be damned to you!’ This shocked me more than the striking of the ships. At another time, we were alarmed with the sight of two ships, which our captain took to be enemies. The preparations for an engagement were formidable: guns were mounted, chains put round the masts, everything taken out of the great cabin, and hammocks placed about the sides of the ships. All, except myself, seemed ready for fire and smoke. My wife, after having dressed herself to prepare for all events, set about making cartridges, whilst I wanted to go into the holes of the ship, hearing that was the chaplain’s usual place. I went; but not liking my situation, I crept upon deck, and, for the first time in my life, beat up to arms, by a warm exhortation. The apprehended enemy approached; but, upon a nearer view, we found them to be two ships going under the same convoy as ourselves.” Perhaps it will be thought that Whitefield and his fellow-voyagers were more alarmed than hurt. But the narrative is not ended. When near the port of York, a small fishing smack approached them. Being told that the smack would be in port several hours before the ship, Whitefield and others went on board. It soon grew dark. The pilots missed the inlet, and the smack was tossed about all night. Whitefield’s hunger was such, that, to use his own expression, he “could have gnawed the very boards.” The fishermen had nothing eatable, except a few potatoes. Whitefield eagerly devoured them. About half an hour after his arrival at York, he “was put to bed, racked with a nervous colic, and convulsed from his waist down to his toes.” For four days, his life was in danger. Word was sent to Boston, that he was dying. A friend and a physician came, says he, “either to take care of me, or to attend my funeral; but, to their great surprise, they found me in the pulpit.” The truth is, as soon as Whitefield’s pain abated, the minister at York asked him to preach, and, of course, the temptation was too powerful to be resisted.