Dean Pitferge left me, but I remained on deck, watching the storm rise.
Corsican was still closeted with Fabian, who was undoubtedly making some
arrangements in case of misfortune. I then remembered that he had a
sister in New York, and I shuddered at the thought that perhaps we
should have to carry to her the news of her brother’s death. I should
like to have seen Fabian, but I thought it better not to disturb either
him or Captain Corsican.
[Illustration: I REMAINED ON DECK WATCHING THE STORM RISE.]
At four o’clock we came in sight of land stretching before Long Island.
It was Fire Island. In the centre rose a lighthouse, which shone over
the surrounding land. The passengers again invaded the upper decks and
bridges. All eyes were strained towards the coast, distant about six
miles. They were waiting for the moment when the arrival of the pilot
should settle the great pool business. It may be thought that those who
had night quarters, and I was of the number, had given up all
pretensions, and that those with the day quarters, except those included
between four and six o’clock, had no longer any chance. Before night the
pilot would come on board and settle this affair, so that all the
interest was now concentrated in the seven or eight persons to whom fate
had attributed the next quarters. The latter were taking advantage of
their good luck—selling, buying, and reselling their chances, bartering
with such energy one might almost have fancied oneself in the Royal
Exchange.
At sixteen minutes past four a small schooner, bearing towards the
steam-ship, was signalled to starboard. There was no longer any possible
doubt of its being the pilot’s boat, and he would be on board in
fourteen or fifteen minutes at the most. The struggle was now between
the possessors of the second and third quarters from four to five
o’clock. Demands and offers were made with renewed vivacity. Then absurd
wagers were laid even on the pilot’s person, the tenor of which I have
faithfully given.
“Ten dollars that the pilot is married.”
“Twenty that he is a widower.”
“Thirty dollars that he has a moustache.”
“Sixty that he has a wart on his nose.”
“A hundred dollars that he will step on board with his right foot
first.”
“He will smoke.”
“He will have a pipe in his mouth.”
“No! a cigar.”
“No!” “Yes!” “No!”
And twenty other wagers quite as ridiculous, which found those more
absurd still to accept them.
[Illustration: A SMALL SCHOONER WAS SIGNALLED TO STARBOARD.]
In the meanwhile the little schooner was sensibly approaching the
steam-ship, and we could distinguish her graceful proportions. These
charming little pilot-boats, of about fifty or sixty tons, are good
sea-boats, skimming over the water like sea-gulls. The schooner,
gracefully inclined, was bearing windward in spite of the breeze, which
had begun to freshen. Her mast and foresails stood out clearly against
the dark background of clouds, and the sea foamed beneath her bows. When
at two cables’ length from the “Great Eastern,” she suddenly veered and
launched a shore-boat. Captain Anderson gave orders to heave-to, and for
the first time during a fortnight the wheels of the screw were
motionless. A man got into the boat, which four sailors quickly pulled
to the steam-ship. A rope-ladder was thrown over the side of the giant
down to the pilot in his little nutshell, which the latter caught, and,
skilfully climbing, sprang on deck.
He was received with joyous cries by the winners, and exclamations of
disappointment from the losers. The pool was regulated by the following
statements:—
“The pilot was married.”
“He had no wart on his nose.”
“He had a light moustache.”
“He had jumped on board with both feet.”
“Lastly, it was thirty-six minutes past four o’clock when he set foot on
the deck of the ‘Great Eastern.’”
The possessor of the thirty-third quarter thus gained the ninety-six
dollars, and it was Captain Corsican, who had hardly thought of the
unexpected gain. It was not long before he appeared on deck, and when
the pool was presented to him, he begged Captain Anderson to keep it for
the widow of the young sailor whose death had been caused by the inroad
of the sea. The Captain shook his hand without saying a word, but a
moment afterwards a sailor came up to Corsican, and, bowing awkwardly,
“Sir,” said he, “my mates have sent me to say that you are a very kind
gentleman, and they all thank you in the name of poor Wilson, who cannot
thank you for himself.”
The Captain, moved by the rough sailor’s speech, silently pressed his
hand.
As for the pilot, he was a man of short stature, with not much of the
sailor-look about him. He wore a glazed hat, black trousers, a brown
overcoat lined with red, and carried an umbrella. He was master on board
now.
In springing on deck, before he went to the bridge, he had thrown a
bundle of papers among the passengers, who eagerly pounced on them. They
were European and American journals—the political and civil bonds which
again united the “Great Eastern” to the two continents.