The flats, after so much wet weather, were under water, and the lower down the road dropped, the deeper the country grew. Our mules struggled along at a slow walk, and we constantly diverged off the track, circling to this side or the other whenever a field looked an improvement upon our muddy quagmire, generally to find that it was very little better and sometimes worse.
About half-way we met our luggage and messenger. The pock-marked boy had taken our effects to the shore, had found no steamer, waited a short time, then calculated that he would be late getting back to the city, and ran risks of robbers, to say nothing of ginns (spirits) lurking in the wells by the road, so turned his face homewards.
We were in total ignorance, and so of course was he, all this time as to the movements of the steamer: once out of the city, the level of the road is such that nothing can be seen of the sea until a couple of hours' riding, lands people right on the beach itself. With every hope that she still lay at anchor, we turned our "pock-mark" round, and the poor mule faced the bad road down to Martine for the second time that day.
Madunnah handed over the bracket to crown our baggage, and plodded bravely on, often well up to his bare knees in mud and water. A brace of duck forged across the sky above our heads; some plover called and called again mournfully, wheeling above the irresponsive marshes and brown fallows; a string of mules moved like mites over a cheese in the sandy distance. We passed the Wad-el-Martine in heavy flood, its yellow yeasty depths swirling between the soft red banks.
At last a couple of stone bridges came into sight, isolated in a waste of water, remnants of the old Portuguese road, and in normal times affording a dry path over two dykes. We plunged through unseen holes and among stony pitfalls up to the lonely landmarks and dry ground for a few yards; then more floods; but after that the last mile or two became easy enough, the land rose, and dry sandy dunes, with tough bents flattened in the wind, conduced towards a jog, almost a canter. Goats, picking up a bare living, scattered as we hurried along, past the white Customs House and an old wharf on the river, away to the beach. Behind us the mountains were black and purple, heavy rain-clouds were gathering, and directly we topped the crest of the sandy shore a strong east wind met us full in the teeth straight off the sea. But there as large as life lay the steamer, a long way out, on account of the bar and the wind, with a choppy sea running between.
A cargo-boat was vainly trying to cross the bar, towed by a long green boat which six Moors were rowing. She made no headway, shipped water which deluged the cargo, and seemed half aground on the bar. No other boat or boatmen seemed to be available: the steamer was not within hail. Certainly there were three more cargo-boats lying in shelter in a corner of the river-estuary a little way off the land, but some men in one of them seemed half asleep—at any rate, they were out of our reach, and deaf to our shouts and gesticulations to the effect that we wanted to be rowed on board the steamer.
We waited and waited; Madunnah yelled himself hoarse; but the cargo-boat still rolled on the bar, lashed by the waves, and the men still strained at their oars and paid no heed to our cries. Twice we thought they meant coming to our signals, but each time they were only trying fresh manœuvres.
Rain came on, a sharp easterly scud; the pock-marked boy drew his jellab over his head; the mules turned their backs to the squall; but Madunnah still stood at the edge of the waves, gesticulating wildly with our sticks and umbrellas at the impassive rowers. Sunset was upon us. At a fire of driftwood on the beach a short distance off R. and I tried to warm ourselves.
Suddenly the long green boat left the cargo and pulled towards us: the sea was rising, and looked anything but encouraging; breakers were showing their white teeth on the bar; but the green boat drew nearer and came in at last, or nearly so—for she stopped short off the shore, and, half aground, lost her rudder. Still none of the crew paid the faintest attention as we hailed them in Arabic, English, and Spanish across the few yards of water which put them just out of our reach. They had something else to do except attend to three mad Britishers—let them rave.
The cargo-boat, deserted by the long green boat, had stuck worse than ever: darkness was coming on, and she was in a bad case. The men in the "long green" roused the half-sleeping Moors in the companion boat, and it was evident that both meant going out together to tow the belated cargo in.