For some days Mrs. Mayo kept up, despite the terrific strain to which she had been subjected, and Mrs. Lewis was free to throw herself into the work of the Mission, which she did with keenest interest. Difficult palavers taxed her patience and her wisdom. Inquirers were seen, medicine given out, and on the Sunday, eight days after her arrival, the diary records:—
“I took the women’s meeting; a crowd; and they all seemed pleased to see me.”
Mrs. Mayo (now Mrs. Kirkland)—to whom I am indebted for many of the facts embodied in the remainder of this chapter, and for some already recorded—informs me that this women’s meeting was quite a memorable gathering. The demonstrations of respect and affection on the part of the audience were most touching. These black women clung about their friend and former teacher, and received her words with enthusiasm and with meekness. And the meekness was as great a tribute as the enthusiasm. For Mrs. Lewis had heard that some of them were not “walking worthily,” and though she spoke the truth to them in love, she spoke the truth unsparingly, giving them a sound and wholesome lecture. On the same day the thing foreseen happened, and Mrs. Mayo went down with fever. For several days Mrs. Lewis was occupied in nursing her friend. Then Mrs. Wooding became ill and there was more nursing.
It was early apparent to Mrs. Lewis that Mrs. Mayo ought to start for England without delay, and, as other escort was not available, she determined herself to take her to Matadi. The caravan was loaded, and on Monday, May 16th, the two ladies started for the coast. On the second day out they met Diamanama with mails, who said that the Lunda river, which lay immediately before them, was impassable for carriers.
That evening their plight was pitiable. Lodged in a hut just big enough to accommodate their two camp-beds, Mrs. Mayo weak from fever, Mrs. Lewis aware that her turn was coming, heavy rain blown into their miserable shelter by a wild wind, a flooded river awaiting them on the morrow, too dispirited for conversation, they sat down each on her camp-bed, and “had a good long cry.” Though the pity of God, Who knoweth our frame, was not withheld from them, the sky gave no hint of it; for with the night came a fierce tropical thunderstorm. When at last they got to sleep they were attacked by driver ants, and had to make a hasty midnight flitting. Another poor shelter was procured, and in the morning they went down to see the Lunda. In truth they did not see it. The river had overflowed its banks, and before they had got through the long grass, to its normal margin, they were in deepening water. A colloquy with the head-carrier ensued. Mrs. Lewis stoutly said, “We will go across.” The laconic and conclusive answer was: “But your boxes will not.” Human will is a mystic and incalculable force, and often achieves miracles; but when its immediate organ is the frail body of an exhausted woman, it cannot lift the dead weight of a passively resistant caravan. There was but one thing to be done. They retraced their steps to San Salvador.
I give the record of Mrs. Lewis’s diary for several days:—
“Thursday, May 19th.—Arrived back at San Salvador this evening awfully tired.
“Friday, 20th.—Feeling very queer.
“Saturday, 21st.—In bed with fever, bad.