We begin by offering him a glass of wine, and he inquires of Salvador, our acting interpreter,—“Why?” Being assured that such is the practice among the barbarous Anglo-Indians, he accepts it with a helpless look, and never attempts to conceal the contortions of countenance produced by the operation of a glass of Parsee sherry, fiery as their own divinity, upon a palate accustomed to tree-toddy and thin red wine. However, he appears perfectly satisfied with the inspection, and after volunteering an introductory epistle to one Ioaõ Thomas—i.e. John Thomas, a cicerone of Goanese celebrity—which we accept without the slightest intention of delivering, he kindly gives us permission to proceed, shakes our hand with a cold and clammy palm, which feels uncommonly like a snake, and with many polite bows to our servants, disappears over the side, followed by his suite. Whilst the anchor is being re-weighed, before we forget the appearance of the pair, we will commit them to the custody of the sketch-book.
The old lateen creeps creaking crankily up the mast once more, and the Durrya Prashad recommences to perambulate the waters as unlike a thing of life as can be imagined. Half an hour more will take us in. Perched upon the topmast angle of our penthouse, we strain our eyes in search of the tall buildings and crowded ways that denote a capital: we can see nought but a forest of lanky cocoa-nut trees, whose stems are apparently growing out of a multitude of small hovels.
Can this be Goa?
Rendered rabid by the query our patriotic domestic, sneering as much as he safely can, informs us that this is the village of Verim, that St. Agnes, and proceeds to display his store of topographical lore by naming or christening every dirty little mass of hut and white-washed spire that meets the eye.
Bus, Bus,—enough in the name of topography! We will admire the view to-morrow morning when our minds are a little easier about John Thomas, a house, &c.
We turn the last corner which concealed from view the town of Panjim, or as others call it, the city of New Goa, and are at last satisfied that we are coming to something like a place. Suddenly the Tindal, and all his men, begin to chatter like a wilderness of provoked baboons; they are debating as to what part of the narrow creek which runs parallel with the town should be selected for anchor ground. Not with an eye to our comfort in landing, observe, but solely bearing in mind that they are to take in cargo to-morrow.
At length our apology for an anchor once more slides down the old side of the Durrya Prashad, and she swings lazily round with the ebb tide, like an elephant indulging in a solitary roll. It is dark, we can see nothing but a broken line of dim oil-lamps upon the quay, and hear nought save the unharmonious confusion of native music with native confabulation. Besides the wind that pours down the creek feels damp and chilly, teeming with unpleasant reminiscences of fever and ague. So after warning our domestics, that instant dismissal from the service will follow any attempt to land to-night, a necessary precaution if we wish to land to-morrow, we retire to pass the last of three long nights in slapping our face in the desperate hope of crushing mosquitos, dreaming of De Gama and Albuquerque, starting up every two hours with jaws glowing like those of a dark age dragon, scratching our legs and feet, preferring positive excoriation to the exquisite titillation produced by the perpetual perambulation, and occasional morsication (with many other -ations left to the reader’s discrimination) of our nocturnal visitations, and in uttering emphatic ejaculations concerning the man with the rhinoceros hide and front of brass who invented and recommended to his kind the pattimar abomination.