This life on the river, however solitary, is to me very agreeable; and I would proceed beyond Agra to Delhi, but that I should think there cannot be water enough for the pinnace; with a fair wind there is much to enjoy in the changing scene, but tracking against a contrary one is tiresome work.
3rd.—A most unpleasant day; we were aground many times, contending against the stream and a powerful wind. The new goon broke, and we were at last fixed most firmly and unpleasantly on a bank of sand; in that position, finding it impossible to extricate the pinnace, we remained all night.
4th.—We were obliged to cut our way through the sandbank to the opposite shore, a distance of about a quarter of a mile; this took twelve hours to accomplish; the anchor was carried to a distance with a chain cable, and there dropped; and the pinnace was pulled by main force through the sand, where there was not water enough to float her. When out of it, we came upon a stream that ran like a torrent, aided by a most powerful and contrary wind. To remain where we were was dangerous; the men carried a thick cable in the dinghee to the shore, made it fast, and were pulling the vessel across; when half-way, just as we thought ourselves in safety, the cable broke, the pinnace whirled round and round like a bubble on the waters, and was carried with fearful velocity down the stream. The sarang lost all power over the vessel, but, at last, her progress was stopped by being brought up fast on a sandbank. By dint of hard work we once more got the cable fastened to the opposite shore, and carried her safely to the other side; where, to my great delight, we anchored, to await the decrease of the wind, that howled through the ropes as though it would tear them from the masts.
Thinking the vessel must have received a violent strain under all the force she had endured, we opened the hold, and found she had sprung a leak, that bubbled up at a frightful rate; the leak was under planks it was impossible to remove, unless by sawing off two feet from three large planks, if we could procure a saw; such a thing could not be found. I thought of a razor, the orthodox weapon wherewith to saw through six-inch boards, and get out of prison; no one would bring forward a razor. At length I remembered the very small fine saw I make use of for cutting the soap-stone, and, by very tender and gentle usage, we at length cut off the ends of the planks, and laid open the head of the leak, under the rudder, below water-mark. Here the rats and white ants had been very busy, and had worked away undisturbed at a principal beam, so that you could run your fingers some inches into it. With a very gentle hand the tow was stuffed in, but as we stopped the leak in one part, it sprang up in another; all day long we worked incessantly, and at night, in despair, filled it up with stiff clay. I went to rest, but my sleep was disturbed by dreams of water hissing in mine ears, and that we were going down stern foremost. During the night I called up the men three times to bale the vessel; she gave up quantities of water. We anchored off Mulgong.
5th.—Detained by the strong and contrary wind; the leak still gave up water, but in a less quantity; and it was agreed to leave it in its present condition until we could get to Etaweh. I was not quite comfortable, knowing the state of the rotten wood, and the holes the rats had made, through which the water had bubbled up so fast. The next day, not one drop of water came from the leak, and the vessel being quite right afterwards, I determined not to have her examined until our arrival at Agra, and could never understand why she did not leak.
9th.—Ever since the 4th we have had the most violent and contrary winds all day; obliged generally to anchor for two hours at noon, it being impossible to stem the stream, and struggle against the wind; most disagreeable work; I am quite tired and sick of it. Thus far I have borne all with the patience of a Hindoo, the wish to behold the Tāj carrying me on. It is so cold, my hand shakes, I can scarcely guide my pen; the thermometer 50° at 10 A.M., with this bitter and strong wind. I dare not light a fire, as I take cold quitting it to go on deck; all the glass windows are closed,—I have on a pair of Indian shawls, snow boots, and a velvet cap,—still my face and head throb with rheumatism. When on deck, at mid-day, I wear a sola topī, to defend me from the sun.
This river is very picturesque; high cliffs, well covered with wood, rising abruptly from the water: here and there a Hindoo temple, with a great peepul-tree spreading its fine green branches around it: a ruined native fort: clusters of native huts: beautiful stone ghāts jutting into the river: the effect greatly increased by the native women, in their picturesque drapery, carrying their vessels for water up and down the cliffs, poised on their heads. Fishermen are seen with their large nets; and droves of goats and small cows, buffaloes, and peacocks come to the river-side to feed. But the most picturesque of all are the different sorts of native vessels; I am quite charmed with the boats. Oh that I were a painter, who could do justice to the scenery! My pinnace, a beautiful vessel, so unlike any thing else here, must add beauty to the river, especially when under sail.
Aground on a sandbank again! with such a wind and stream it is not pleasant—hardly safe. What a noise! attempting to force her off the bank; it is terribly hard work; the men, up to their waists in water, are shoving the vessel with their backs, whilst the wind and stream throw her back again. Some call on Allah for aid, some on Gunga, some on Jumna-jee, every man shouting at the height of his voice. What a squall! the vessel lies over frightfully. I wish the wind would abate! forced sideways down on the sandbank by the wind and stream, it is not pleasant. There! there is a howl that ought to succeed in forcing her off, in spite of the tufān; such clouds of fine sand blowing about in every direction! Now the vessel rocks, now we are off once more,—back we are again! I fancy the wind and stream will have their own way. Patience, mem sāhiba, you are only eight miles from Etaweh: when you may get over those eight miles may be a difficult calculation. The men are fagging, up to their breasts in the river; I must go on deck, and make a speech. What a scene! I may now consider myself really in the wilderness, such watery waists are spread before me!
THE MEM SĀHIBA’S SPEECH.
“Ari! Ari! what a day is this! Ahi Khudā! what a wind is here! Is not this a tufān? Such an ill-starred river never, never did I see! Every moment, every moment, we are on a sandbank. Come, my children, let her remain; it is the will of God,—what can we do? Eat your food, and when the gale lulls we may get off. Perhaps, by the blessing of God, in twelve months’ time we may reach Etaweh.”