It was a voyage of horror. I shall
never forget their unwashed bodies, their sea-sickness, their sores, the
dead and the dying, their rags, and last, but not least, their cookery.
Except to cook or fetch water or kneel in prayer, none of them moved
out of the small space or position which they assumed at the beginning
of the voyage. Those who died did not die of disease so much as of
privation and fatigue, hunger, thirst, and opium. They died of vermin
and misery. I shall never forget the expression of dumb, mute, patient
pain which most of them wore. I cannot eat my dinner if I see a dog
looking wistfully at it. I therefore spent the whole day staggering
about our rolling ship with sherbet and food and medicines, treating
dysentery and fever. During my short snatches of sleep I dreamt of
these horrors too. But it was terribly disheartening work, owing to
their fanaticism. Many of them listened to me with more faith about
food and medicines because I knew something of the Koran, and could
recite their Bismillah and their call to prayer.
At last we arrived at Aden, where a troop of Somali lads came on board,
with their bawling voices and their necklaces and their mop-heads of
mutton wool, now and then plastered with lime. They sell water,
firewood, fowls, eggs, and so forth. We landed at Aden for a few hours.
It is a wild, desolate spot; the dark basalt mountains give it a sombre
look. Richard and I spent some hours with the wife of the Governor, or
Station Commandant, at her house.
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