It was of that misty white colour which signifies that icebergs

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 XVIII

CHAPTER XVIII.

The next day, the 3rd of April, from early dawn the horizon wore that peculiar aspect which the English call “blink.” It was of that misty white colour which signifies that icebergs are not far distant; in fact the “Great Eastern” was ploughing those seas on which float the first blocks of ice detached from the icebergs in Davis’ Straits. A special watch was kept, in order to avoid the rude collision with these enormous blocks.

There was a strong westerly wind blowing; strips of clouds, or rather shreds of vapour, hung over the sea, through which glimpses of blue sky appeared. A dull thudding noise came from the waves tossed by the wind, and drops of water, seemingly pulverized, evaporated in foam.

Neither Fabian, Captain Corsican, nor Doctor Pitferge had yet come on deck, so I went towards the bows, where the junction of the bulwarks formed a comfortable angle, a kind of retreat, in which like a hermit, one could retire from the world. I took my place in this corner, sitting on a skylight, and my feet resting on an enormous pulley; the wind being dead ahead passed over without touching me. This was a good place for reflection. From here I had a view of the whole immensity of the ship; I could see the long slanting ropes of the rigging at the stern. On the first level a top-man, hanging in the mizen-shrouds, held himself up with one hand, whilst with the other he worked with a remarkable dexterity. On the deck below him paced the officer on watch, peering through the mists. On the bridge, at the stern, I caught a glimpse of an officer, his back rounded, and his head muffled in a hood, struggling against the gusts of wind. I could distinguish nothing of the sea, except a bluish horizontal line discernible behind the paddles. Urged on by her powerful engines, the narrow stem of the steam-ship cut the waves, with a hissing sound, like that when the sides of a boiler are heated by a roaring fire. But the colossal ship, with the wind ahead, and borne on three waves, hardly felt the movement of the sea, which would have shaken any other steamer with its pitchings.

At half-past twelve the notice stated that we were in 44° 53´ North lat., and 47° 6´ W. long., and had made two hundred and twenty-seven miles in twenty-four hours only. The young couple must have scolded the wheels which did not turn, and the steam which was not at all strong enough to please them.

About three o’clock the sky, swept by the wind, cleared up; the line of the horizon was once more clearly defined, the wind fell, but for a long while the sea rose in great foam-crested billows. Such a gentle breeze could not cause this swell; one might have said that the Atlantic was still sulky.

At twenty-five minutes to four a three-mast ship was hailed to larboard. She hoisted her name; it was the “Illinois,” an American ship, on her way to England.

At this moment Lieutenant H—— informed me that we were passing Cape Race point. We were now in the rich coasts where are obtained cod-fish, three of which would suffice to supply England and America if all the roe were hatched. The day passed without any remarkable occurrence; no accident had as yet thrown Fabian and Harry Drake together, for the Captain and I never lost sight of them. In the evening the same harmless amusement, the same reading, and songs in the grand saloon called forth, as usual, frantic applauses. As an extraordinary occurrence a lively discussion broke out between a Northerner and a Texian. The latter demanded an Emperor for the Southern States. Happily this political discussion, which threatened to degenerate into a quarrel, was put an end to by the timely arrival of an imaginary despatch, addressed to the “Ocean Times,” and conceived in these terms: “Captain Semmes, Minister of War, has made the South compensate for its ravages in Alabama.”

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