Then the blue water waxed green, greenish, and brown, like
to liquid mud. The gulls became tamer and more numerous, and jetsam and
flotsam drifted past us. We sighted land very early. As we were running
in the pilot came alongside, and called up to the captain, "Have you any
sickness on board?" The answer was, "Yes." "Then," said the pilot, "run
up the yellow flag. I will keep alongside in a boat, and you make for
Butcher's Island" (a horrible quarantine station). I was standing on the
bridge, and, seeing the yellow flag hoisted, and hearing the orders, felt
convinced that there was a mistake. So I made a trumpet with my hands,
and holloaed down to the pilot, "Why have you run up that flag? We have
got no disease." "Oh yes you have; either cholera or small-pox or yellow
jack." "We have nothing of the sort," I answered. "Then why did the
captain answer 'Yes'?" he replied. "Because it is the only English word
he knows," I cried. Then he asked me for particulars, and said he would
go off for the doctor, and we were to stand at a reasonable distance from
Bombay. This took place in a spacious bay, surrounded by mountains,
a poor imitation of the Bay of Rio. Presently the doctor arrived.
Richard explained, and we were allowed to land. I shall never forget
the thankfulness of the pilgrims, or the rush they made for the shore.
They swarmed like rats down the ropes, hardly waiting for the boats.
They gave Richard and me a sort of cheer, as they attributed their
escape from quarantine to our intervention.
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