As they approached the stairway, alarmed cries suddenly arose from the sentinels stationed on stone platforms flanking either side of the steps. In moments a crowd collected along the river, with turbaned men shouting in a language Hawksworth could not place and gesturing the pinnace away from the dock. What could they want, he asked himself? Who are they? They're not armed. They don't look hostile. Just upset.
"Permission to land." Hawksworth shouted to them in Turkish, his voice slicing through the din and throwing a sudden silence over the crowd.
"The customs house does not open until two hours before midday," a tall, bearded man shouted back. Then he squinted toward the pinnace. "Who are you? Portuguese?"
"No, we're English." So that's it, Hawksworth thought. They assumed we were Portugals with a boatload of booty. Here for a bit of private trade.
The man examined the pinnace in confusion. Then he shouted again over the waters.
"You are not Portuguese?"
"I told you we're English."
"Only Portuguese topiwallahs are allowed to trade." The man was now scrutinizing the pinnace in open perplexity.
"We've no goods for trade. Only samples." Hawksworth tried to think of a way to confound the bureaucratic mind. "We only want food and drink."
"You cannot land at this hour."