FORSAKEN.
_"I acknowledged my sin unto Thee, and mine iniquity have I not hid.
I said, I will confess my transgressions unto the Lord and Thou forgavest
the iniquity of my sin."_—Psalm xxxii. 5.
"Up with you, English cur!" were the words, uttered in a harsh guttural
tone of command, which awoke David Aspinall from his short sweet dream,
and roused him in a moment to a sense of the pain fill realities around
him. "Up with you, English cur!" repeated the Boer, laying a stress on
the word English so as to convey an insult in the sound. "Kick that
fellow Pollux; these Totties * are always eating or sleeping! We must
in-span and be off before the sun grows hot."
* Abbreviation for Hottentot.
David sprang to his feet, but could hardly keep down an exclamation of
pain as he did so, for so sharp was the pang which shot through his
injured ankle. He, however, awoke Pollux, and with the help of the
lazy Hottentot, at once set about the labour of yoking the unwilling
oxen. Hans, seated on the fore-part of the waggon, eating his breakfast
meanwhile, and then smoking his pipe at ease, as he watched the efforts
of his servants, which he tried to quicken now and then with an oath or
a threat.
"How I hate and despise that man! How I should like to serve him out!"
Such had often been the thought of the English youth, and had sometimes
been conveyed to its object in looks, if not in words. But on this
morning there was something in the heart of David which softened the
bitterness of his feelings even towards his tyrant.
The labour of in-spanning was rendered very severe by the pain which
David suffered, and the toil-drops stood on his brow. He felt how
impossible it would be for him to follow the waggon on foot, and when
all was ready for a start, he limped up to his master,—
"Sir, you see how my ankle is swelled; I doubt whether I could walk a
mile to save my life."
"Swelled,—I should think it was!" exclaimed the Boer. "Why, you'll be
no more use for the next month than a lame dog in hunting, or a lame ox
in the yoke! What am I to make of you all that time, for you'll eat if
you won't work?"
"I hope, sir, you'll let me sit on the waggon,—you see that I cannot
walk."
"Sit on my waggon, when those wretched beasts can hardly drag the
load over the sand!" exclaimed the large heavy Boer, who had himself
little intention of walking. "No, no, if you can't follow on foot,
you may stay behind!" And the Dutchman put again into his mouth the
pipe which he had taken out in order to speak, and puffed away in calm
content, after uttering what was to his poor young servant almost like
a sentence of death.
Commanding his voice and temper as well as he could, David made reply
to his master, "You can hardly mean to leave me here, sir, in the midst
of a desert, thirty miles from water, to perish by thirst, if not by
wild beasts!"
"Pollux, lash the oxen, and let us be off!" shouted the Boer.
"To leave me thus would be murder!" exclaimed David with indignation.
"You'll find your legs, I warrant you, and follow the spoor (track) of
the waggon," observed Hans, as he resumed his pipe.
"At least—at least you will give me water—and a musket to defend myself
from attacks of beasts, and to procure food—"
"Can't spare a musket—have but three; you may have that!" said the
Boer, throwing down from the waggon a short spear of native make, on
which he set little value, and which was likely to be of little use.
"As for water," added the Boer, "I've just emptied the last drop from
the cask."
So frightful was the fate to which the unfortunate youth was likely to
be left, that limping painfully by the waggon, which was now in motion,
he attempted by entreaty to move the heart of his cruel master. David
knew well that Hans had but to sacrifice a little of his property, to
cast out of the waggon some of the heavy goods within it, or go on foot
himself, to enable him easily to give that help on which a life might
depend. But Hans seemed as insensible to feelings either of honour or
pity as the oxen which dragged him. And David, unable to keep up with
the waggon, and in severe pain from the attempt to do so, was soon
forced to fall behind.
He threw himself on the ground, and for some moments a feeling of
sullen despair stole over the deserted youth, as he listened to the
creaking sound of the wheels, and the crack of the whip, and the
shouting of Pollux growing fainter in the distance.
"My God—O my God!" he murmured. "Am I to perish thus?"
David had never felt death so near, and he now tried to prepare his
soul to look it calmly in the face. He might soon have to stand before
his offended Maker—how should he appear? What plea could he offer for
mercy? What hope had he that heaven would be his portion when he should
lay down the weary burden of the flesh? David felt that his life was
probably now to be counted by days, if not by hours; for on that most
lonesome track, it was highly improbable that any human being would
come to his succour. Time was precious indeed. Had David yet made his
peace with God?
The first clear duty before the youth was to make humble confession
of sin before God. As David lay on the sand, leaning his brow on his
clasped hands, he went over in thought the events of his past life,
trying his own conduct by the standard of God's commands. Had he loved
the Lord his God with all his heart, his soul, and his strength? Nay,
he had forgotten his Maker in the days of his youth—had broken His
laws—had profaned His day—mocked at His people—slighted His word—even
taken His name in vain! Had David done his duty towards his neighbour?
Nay, he had treated with ingratitude and disobedience even the parents
whom he loved; he had spoken many a word of anger; he had harboured
thoughts of revenge; he had not indeed defrauded others of their
due, for he had scorned dishonesty, but by his evil example, he had
encouraged others in sin. He had "not" kept his heart pure; he had
"not" kept his lips clean; he had done what he ought not to have done,
and left undone what he ought to have done, and from the depths of his
soul the poor sinner confessed that there was no health in him.
The act of confession was in itself painful, and yet it brought a
feeling of sweet relief. David had told God all—even as a child who has
done wrong comes and confesses to a parent, feeling that any punishment
is more tolerable than concealment would be. David had the blessed
hope that his punishment, as regarded suffering for sin "after" death,
had "already" been borne, that it had all been endured by the blessed
Saviour when He hung on the awful cross.
"There is no condemnation for them that are in Christ Jesus."
Sin might indeed bring—had already brought—affliction in this present
life. The psalmist was forgiven, yet tasted to the end of his days the
bitter consequences of his sin. But very different is the correcting
rod of a loving Father, who will make "all things to work for good" to
His penitent child, from the crushing wrath of the Almighty descending
upon a rebel who will not repent!
After pouring out his heart in confession and prayer, David felt more
calm, more resigned. He now raised himself a little and looked around.
The prospect was indeed most desolate and dreary, and very painful was
the reflected heat of the sun from the barren sands. There was scarcely
a breath of air stirring, and what came seemed to have passed through
a furnace. David's mouth was parched and dry from thirst. He could see
some wild creatures, probably zebras, galloping in the distance. But
there was not the slightest chance of his being able to reach them,
even had he possessed a musket, they would have been beyond its range.
The only other object that in the least varied the dreary sameness
of the prospect, was a patch of what seemed to be scarcely worthy of
the name of vegetation, a few hundred yards to the left of the youth,
and almost hidden from view by a little rising. This patch looked so
parched up and dry, that under other circumstances, David would not
have cared to go near enough to see what plants had found root in such
a desolate place. Now, however, the shelter of even the smallest bush
was not to be despised, and David, using the spear as a staff, slowly
made his way over the rising ground towards the low clump.
He was rewarded for the effort by a joyful surprise. With a delight
which only those who have suffered from severe thirst can understand,
David beheld a water-melon, large and juicy, lying on the ground—that
plant which grows in African wastes, as if expressly designed by a
gracious Providence to supply the want of water in a dry and parched
up land. David seized the fruit with feverish haste, cut it open with
a large clasp-knife which he carried about him, and partook with keen
enjoyment of its melting contents, which are said to relieve thirst
even better than water.
Nor was this all. David had not been for months in the Damara land
without learning the value of what, to a stranger's eye, might have
looked nothing but a few bare twigs. There was a treasure lying below,
and David soon dug up with his spear a large juicy root, wholesome and
most refreshing, which is often eaten by the natives. These plants,
growing in the wilderness, not only supplied the poor Wanderer's
present need, but spoke a lesson of hope to his heart, like that which
a little moss once taught the traveller Bruce. Here they grew in the
lonely waste, living proofs of the care of Providence, that in some way
unseen, supplied their roots with nourishment, and made them live and
spread where scarcely a blade of grass would grow.