CHAPTER XXVII.—RETURNING.
WE ARE on deck before sunrise, a film is over the sky and a light breeze blows out our streamer—a bad omen for the passage.
The downward run of the Cataract is always made in the early morning, that being the time when there is least likely to be any wind. And a calm is considered absolutely necessary to the safety of the boat. The north wind, which helps the passage up, would be fatal going down. The boat runs with the current, and any exterior disturbance would whirl her about and cast her upon the rocks.
If we are going this morning, we have no time to lose, for it is easy to see that this breeze, which is now uncertainly dallying with our colors, will before long strengthen. The Cataract people begin to arrive; there is already a blue and white row of them squatting on the bank above us, drawing their cotton robes about them, for the morning is a trifle chilly. They come loitering along the bank and sit down as if they were merely spectators, and had no interest in the performance.
The sun comes, and scatters the cloud-films; as the sun rises we are ready to go; everything has been made snug and fast above and below; and the breeze has subsided entirely. We ought to take instant advantage of the calm; seconds count now. But we wait for the Reis of the Cataract, the head reïs, without whose consent no move can be made. It is the sly old sheykh with whom we have already negociated, and he has his reasons for delaying. By priority of arrival at Philæ our boat is entitled to be first taken down; but the dragoman of another boat has been crossing the palms of the guileless patriarch with gold pieces, and he has agreed to give the other boat the preference. It is not probable that the virtuous sheykh ever intended to do so, but he must make some show of keeping his bargain. He would like to postpone our voyage, and take the chances of another day.
But here he comes, mounted on a donkey, in state, wrapped about the head and neck in his cashmere, and with a train of attendants—the imperturbable, shrewd old man. He halts a moment on the high bank, looks up at our pennant, mutters something about “wind, not good day, no safe,” and is coolly about to ride by.