My legs dropped powerless in the
water. I could but just keep my nose or mouth above it. My
legs sank, and my feet - touched bottom.
'In an instant, as if from an electric shock, a flush of
energy suffused my brain and limbs. I stood upright in an
almost tranquil pool. An eddy had lodged me on a sandbank.
Between it and the land was scarcely twenty yards. Through
this gap the stream ran strong as ever. I did not want to
rest; I did not pause to think. In I dashed; and a single
spurt carried me to the shore. I fell on my knees, and with
a grateful heart poured out gratitude for my deliverance.
. . . . . . .
'I was on the wrong side, the side from which we started.
The river was yet to cross. I had not tasted food since our
early meal. How long I had been swimming I know not, but it
was dark now, starlight at least. The nights were bitterly
cold, and my only clothing a wet flannel shirt. And oh! the
craving for companionship, someone to talk to - even Samson.
This was a stronger need than warmth, or food, or clothing;
so strong that it impelled me to try again.
'The poor sandy soil grew nothing but briars and small
cactuses. In the dark I kept treading on the little prickly
plants, but I hurried on till I came in sight of Samson's
fire. I could see his huge form as it intercepted the
comfortable blaze. I pictured him making his tea, broiling
some of William's trout, and spreading his things before the
fire to dry. I could see the animals moving around the glow.
It was my home. How I yearned for it! How should I reach
it, if ever? In this frame of mind the attempt was
irresistible. I started as near as I could from opposite the
two islands. As on horseback, I got pretty easily to the
first island. Beyond this I was taken off my feet by the
stream; and only with difficulty did I once more regain the
land.
My next object was to communicate with Samson. By putting
both hands to my mouth and shouting with all my force I made
him hear. I could see him get up and come to the water's
edge; though he could not see me, his stentorian voice
reached me plainly. His first words were:
'"Is that you, William? Coke is drowned."
'I corrected him, and thus replied:
'"Do you remember a bend near some willows, where you wanted
to cross yesterday?"
'"Yes."
'"About two hours higher up the river?"
'"I remember."
'"Would you know the place again?"
'"Yes."
'"Are you sure?
'"Yes, yes."
'"You will see me by daylight in the morning. When I start,
you will take my mare, my clothes, and some food; make for
that place and wait till I come. I will cross there."
'"All right."
'"Keep me in sight as long as you can. Don't forget the
food."
'It will be gathered from my words that definite instructions
were deemed necessary; and the inference - at least it was
mine - will follow, that if a mistake were possible Samson
would avail himself of it. The night was before me. The
river had yet to be crossed. But, strange as it now seems to
me, I had no misgivings! My heart never failed me. My
prayer had been heard. I had been saved. How, I knew not.
But this I knew, my trust was complete. I record this as a
curious psychological occurrence; for it supported me with
unfailing energy through the severe trial which I had yet to
undergo.'
CHAPTER XXVI
OUR experiences are little worth unless they teach us to
reflect. Let us then pause to consider this hourly
experience of human beings - this remarkable efficacy of
prayer. There can hardly be a contemplative mind to which,
with all its difficulties, the inquiry is not familiar.
To begin with, 'To pray is to expect a miracle.' 'Prayer in
its very essence,' says a thoughtful writer, 'implies a
belief in the possible intervention of a power which is above
nature.' How was it in my case? What was the essence of my
belief? Nothing less than this: that God would have
permitted the laws of nature, ordained by His infinite wisdom
to fulfil His omniscient designs and pursue their natural
course in accordance with His will, had not my request
persuaded Him to suspend those laws in my favour.
The very belief in His omniscience and omnipotence subverts
the spirit of such a prayer. It is on the perfection of God
that Malebranche bases his argument that 'Dieu n'agit pas par
des volontes particulieres.' Yet every prayer affects to
interfere with the divine purposes.
It may here be urged that the divine purposes are beyond our
comprehension. God's purposes may, in spite of the
inconceivability, admit the efficacy of prayer as a link in
the chain of causation; or, as Dr. Mozely holds, it may be
that 'a miracle is not an anomaly or irregularity, but part
of the system of the universe.' We will not entangle
ourselves in the abstruse metaphysical problem which such
hypotheses involve, but turn for our answer to what we do
know - to the history of this world, to the daily life of
man. If the sun rises on the evil as well as on the good, if
the wicked 'become old, yea, are mighty in power,' still, the
lightning, the plague, the falling chimney-pot, smite the
good as well as the evil. Even the dumb animal is not
spared. 'If,' says Huxley, 'our ears were sharp enough to
hear all the cries of pain that are uttered in the earth by
man and beasts we should be deafened by one continuous
scream.' 'If there are any marks at all of special design in
creation,' writes John Stuart Mill, 'one of the things most
evidently designed is that a large proportion of all animals
should pass their existence in tormenting and devouring other
animals.
