It was no
surprise, therefore, after days of fine-weather sailing, to be met by a
storm, which so happened as to drive us into the indifferent anchorage
of St. Paulo, thirty miles from Bahia, where we remained two days for
shelter.
Time, three days from Caravellas; distance sailed, 270 miles.
A few fishermen lounged about the place, living, apparently, in wretched
poverty, spending their time between waiting for the tide to go out,
when it was in, and waiting for it to come in, when it was out, to float
a canoe or bring fish to their shiftless nets. This, indeed, seemed
their only concern in life; while their ill-thatched houses, forsaken of
the adobe that once clung to the wicker walls, stood grinning in rows,
like emblems of our mortality.
We found at this St. Paulo anything but saints. The wretched place
should be avoided by strangers, unless driven there for shelter, as we
ourselves were, by stress of weather. We left the place on the first
lull of the wind, having been threatened by an attack from a gang of
rough, half-drunken fellows, who rudely came on board, jostling about,
and jabbering in a dialect which, however, I happened to understand.
Pages:
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118