In the meantime the pumps were exhausting the lake which had been formed
in the hold of the “Great Eastern,” like a lagoon in the middle of an
island; powerfully and rapidly worked by steam they speedily restored to
the Atlantic that which belonged to it. The rain had ceased and the wind
freshened again, but the sky, swept by the tempest, was clear. I stayed
several hours after dark walking on deck. Great floods of light poured
from the half-opened hatchways of the saloons, and at the stern
stretched a phosphorescent light as far as the eye could reach, streaked
here and there by the luminous crests of the waves. The stars reflected
in the lactescent water appeared and disappeared, as though peering
through rapidly driving clouds. Night had spread her sombre covering far
and near; forward roared the thunder of the wheels, whilst beneath me I
heard the clanking of the rudder-chains.
Going back to the saloon door I was surprised to see there a compact
crowd of spectators, and to hear vociferous applauses, for, in spite of
the day’s disasters, the entertainment was taking place as usual. Not a
thought of the wounded and, perhaps, dying sailor. The assembly seemed
highly animated, and loud hurrahs hailed the appearance of a troop of
minstrels on board the “Great Eastern.” The niggers—black, or blackened,
according to their origin—were no others than sailors in disguise. They
were dressed in cast-off trumpery, ornamented with sea-biscuits for
buttons; the opera-glasses which they sported were composed of two
bottles fastened together, and their jew’s-harps consisted of catgut
stretched on cork. These merry-andrews were amusing enough upon the
whole; they sang comic songs, and improvised a mixture of puns and
cock-and-bull stories. The uproarious cheers with which their
performances were greeted only made them increase their contortions and
grimaces, until one of them, as nimble as a monkey, finished the
performance by dancing the sailor’s hornpipe.
[Illustration: A TROOP OF MINSTRELS.]
However amusing the minstrels may have been, they had not succeeded in
attracting all the passengers. Numbers of them had flocked to their
usual haunt, the “smoking-room,” and were eagerly pressing round the
gaming-tables, where enormous stakes were being made, some defending
their acquisitions during the voyage, others trying to conquer fate by
making rash wagers at the last moment. The room was in a violent uproar,
one could hear the voice of the money agent crying the stakes, the oaths
of the losers, the clinking of gold, and the rustling of dollar-papers;
then there was a sudden lull, the uproar was silenced by a bold stake,
but as soon as the result was known the noise was redoubled.
I very seldom entered the smoking-room, for I have a horror of gambling.
It is always a vulgar and often an unhealthy pastime, and it is a vice
which does not go alone; the man who gambles will find himself capable
of any evil. Here reigned Harry Drake in the midst of his parasites,
here also flourished those adventurers who were going to seek their
fortunes in America. I always avoided a meeting with these boisterous
men, so this evening I passed the door without going in, when my
attention was arrested by a violent outburst of cries and curses. I
listened, and, after a moment’s silence, to my great astonishment I
thought I could distinguish Fabian’s voice. What could he be doing in
this place? Had he come here to look for his enemy, and thus the
catastrophe, until now avoided, been brought about?
I quickly pushed the door open: at this moment the uproar was at its
height. In the midst of the crowd of gamblers I saw Fabian standing
facing Harry Drake. I hurried towards him, Harry Drake had undoubtedly
grossly insulted him, for Fabian was aiming a blow with his fist at him,
and if it did not reach the place it was intended for, it was only
because Corsican suddenly appeared and stopped him with a quick gesture.
But, addressing himself to his enemy, Fabian said, in a cold, sarcastic
tone,—
“Do you accept that blow?”
“Yes,” replied Drake, “and here is my card!”
Thus, in spite of our efforts, an inevitable fatality had brought these
two deadly enemies together. It was too late to separate them now,
events must take their course. Captain Corsican looked at me, and I was
surprised to see sadness rather than annoyance in his eyes.
[Illustration: “DO YOU ACCEPT THAT BLOW?”]
In the meantime Fabian picked up the card which Harry Drake had thrown
on the table. He held it between the tips of his fingers as if loath to
touch it. Corsican was pale, and my heart beat wildly. At last Fabian
looked at the card, and read the name on it, then with a voice stifled
by passion he cried,—
“Harry Drake! you! you! you!”
“The same, Captain Mac Elwin,” quietly replied Fabian’s rival.
We were not deceived, if Fabian was ignorant until now of Drake’s name,
the latter was only too well aware of Fabian’s presence on the “Great
Eastern.”