Above the town again were the mighty Tanks, formed out of clefts in the
mountains, and built in the times when the Phoenicians made Aden a great
mart, the richest spot in all Arabia.
Over to the left, on the opposite side of the harbour, were wide
bungalows shining in the sun, and flanking the side of the ancient
aqueduct, the gigantic tomb of an Arab sheikh. In the harbour were the
men-of-war of all nations, and Arab dhows sailed slowly in, laden with
pilgrims for Mecca--masses of picturesque sloth and dirt--and disease
also; for more than one vessel flew the yellow flag. As we looked, a
British man-of-war entered the gates of the harbour in the rosy light. It
was bringing back the disabled and wounded from a battle, in which a
handful of British soldiers were set to punish thirty times their number
in an unknown country. But there was another man-of-war in port with
which we were familiar. We passed it far out on the Indian Ocean. It
again passed us, and reached Aden before we did. The 'Porcupine' lay not
far from the 'Fulvia', and as I leaned over the bulwarks, idly looking at
her, a boat shot away from her side, and came towards us.
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