It was noon, however, before the tedious journey commenced, and in consequence we had little hopes of arriving at Suez before nightfall.
The bos'n had overhauled the wire hawsers, and had cleared away one of the bow anchors, and had carried the kedge aft, so as to bring the yacht to a standstill in the event of a mishap. The awnings were rigged to mitigate the effects of the blazing sun, and a square of damp canvas was placed over the motor-case to prevent the gritty sand and dust from playing havoc with the engine.
The very monotony of the Canal made the hours drag slowly. Occasionally we passed a steamer, sometimes having to "tie up" to the bank to permit her to pass, but for the best part of the day there was nothing to be seen but a dreary bank of sand on either hand, and a long thread of sluggish water ahead. The heat, too, was terrific, and when, as frequently happened, a sudden squall swept down from the desert, the air was filled with particles of fine sand that made our eyes smart in a most painful manner.
One of these squalls occurred just as a large tramp steamer, high in ballast, was passing us. The "Fortuna," being protected to a certain extent by the bank, escaped with a shower of sand, but the steamer, her high sides offering an enormous surface to the blast, was blown broadside on to the lee shore, where she stopped dead against the bank, her propeller throwing up columns of sand and water till the engines could be stopped, and as long as she remained in sight we could see that the tramp was still aground.
A few miles farther we passed a "gare," or widening of the Canal, where two large vessels could pass, and barely had we gone another mile than there was an ominous dragging of the propeller. The man stationed at the motor immediately stopped the engine, and the anchor was let go. Something had fouled the propeller, and, reversing being futile, we were hung up in a helpless condition.
"It's a case, sir, I'm afraid," said the bos'n. "I think we had better tow her back to the siding and get help."
My father consented; the gig was lowered, and ten men rowed for the bank, paying out a stout hempen hawser as they went. Then, in the broiling sun, the party laid hold of the rope and marched slowly along the bank, their feet sinking deep in the loose, drifting sand.