Dean Pitferge left me

A Floating City and The Blockade Runners by Jules Verne, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here. Chapter XXXII

CHAPTER XXXII.

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.

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.

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.

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This book is part of the public domain. Jules Verne (2022). A Floating City and The Blockade Runners. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/files/67829/67829-h/67829-h.htm

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