Sighs through the groves of tufted trees;
Or the rough breakers’ distant roar,
Is echoed by the watery shore.
Whilst gazing on the lovely view,
How grating sounds the word “adieu!”
What tongue⸺
Aye, what tongue indeed? In an instant the demon fled, as our crew, in the last stage of roaring intoxication, scaled the side of what we were about poetically to designate our “bark.” A few minutes’ consideration convinced us that energetic measures must be adopted if we wished to restore order or quiet. In vain were the efforts of our eloquence; equally useless some slight preliminary exertions of toe and talon. At last, exasperated by the failure, and perhaps irritated by thinking of the beautiful lines we might have indited but for the inopportune interruption, we ventured to administer a rapid succession of small double raps to the Tindal’s shaven and cocoanut-like pericranium. The wretch ceased his roaring, rose from off his hams, and after regarding us for a minute with a look of intense drunken ferocity, precipitated himself into the water. Finding the tide too strong for him he began to shriek like a dying pig; his crew shouted because he shouted, sympathetically yelled the sailors in the neighbouring boats, and the sentinels on shore began to give the alarm. Never, perhaps, has there been such confusion at Goa since the Maharatta rode round her walls. Up rushed the harbour master, the collector of customs, the military, and the police—even his Excellency the Governor General of all the Indies, did not deem it beneath his dignity to quit the palace for the purpose of ascertaining what had caused the turmoil. The half-drowned wretch, when hurried into the high presence, declared, in extenuation of his conduct, that he had imprudently shipped on board the San Ignacio, an Inglez or Englishman, who had deliberately commenced murdering the crew the moment they came on board. The Governor, however, seeing the truth of things, ordered him immediately to be placed in the nearest quarter guard till midnight, at which time it was calculated that, by virtue of the ducking, he might be sober enough to set sail.
As we rapidly glided by the Castle of Agoada, all our crew stood up, and with hands reverentially upraised, said their prayers. They did not, however, pay much respect to the patron saint of the boat, whose image, a little painted doll, in a wooden box, occupied a conspicuous position in the “cuddy.” A pot of oil with a lighted wick was, it is true, regularly placed before him every night to warn the vermin against molesting so holy a personage: the measure, however, failed in success, as the very first evening we came on board, a huge rat took his station upon the saint’s back and glared at us, stretching his long sharp snout over the unconscious San Ignacio’s head. One evening, as the weather appeared likely to be squally, we observed that the usual compliment was not offered to the patron, and had the curiosity to inquire why.
“Why?” vociferated the Tindal indignantly, “if that chap can’t keep the sky clear, he shall have neither oil nor wick from me, d—n him!”