A steersman posted up on the grand saloon door

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 XI

CHAPTER XI.

This day, at half-past twelve, a steersman posted up on the grand saloon door the following observation:—

Lat.	51° 15´ N.
Long.	18° 13´ W.
Dist.:	Fastenet, 323 miles.

This signified that at noon we were three hundred and twenty-three miles from the Fastenet lighthouse, the last which we had passed on the Irish coast, and at 51° 15´ north latitude, and 18° 13´ west longitude, from the meridian of Greenwich. It was the ship’s bearing, which the captain thus made known to the passengers every day. By consulting this bearing, and referring it to a chart, the course of the “Great Eastern” might be followed. Up to this time she had only made three hundred and twenty miles in thirty-six hours, it was not satisfactory, for a steamer at its ordinary speed does not go less than three hundred miles in twenty-four hours.

After having left the Doctor, I spent the rest of the day with Fabian; we had gone to the stern, which Pitferge called “walking in the country.” There alone, and leaning over the taffrail, we surveyed the great expanse of water, while around us rose the briny vapours distilled from the spray; small rainbows, formed by the refraction of the sun’s rays, spanned the foaming waves. Below us, at a distance of forty feet, the screw was beating the water with a tremendous force, making its copper gleam in the midst of what appeared to be a vast conglomeration of liquefied emeralds, the fleecy track extending as far as the eye could reach, mingled in a milky path the foam from the screw, and the paddle engines, whilst the white and black fringed plumage of the sea-gulls flying above, cast rapid shadows over the sea.

Fabian was looking at the magic of the waves without speaking. What did he see in this liquid mirror, which gave scope to the most capricious flights of imagination? Was some vanished face passing before his eyes, and bidding him a last farewell? Did he see a drowning shadow in these eddying waters? He seemed to me sadder than usual, and I dared not ask him the cause of his grief.

After the long separation which had estranged us from each other, it was for him to confide in me, and for me to await his confidences. He had told me as much of his past life as he wished me to know; his life in the Indian garrison, his hunting, and adventures; but not a word had he said of the emotions which swelled in his heart, or the cause of the sighs which heaved his breast; undoubtedly Fabian was not one who tried to lessen his grief by speaking of it, and therefore he suffered the more.

Thus we remained leaning over the sea, and as I turned my head I saw the great paddles emerging under the regular action of the engine.

Once Fabian said to me, “This track is indeed magnificent. One would think that the waves were amusing themselves with tracing letters! Look at the ‘l’s’ and ‘e’s’. Am I deceived? No, they are indeed always the same letters.”

Fabian’s excited imagination saw in these eddyings that which it wished to see. But what could these letters signify? What remembrance did they call forth in Fabian’s mind? The latter had resumed his silent contemplation, when suddenly he said to me,—

“Come to me, come; that gulf will draw me in!”

“What is the matter with you, Fabian,” said I, taking him by both hands; “what is the matter, my friend?”

“I have here,” said he, pressing his hand on his heart, “I have here a disease which will kill me.”

“A disease?” said I to him, “a disease with no hope of cure?”

“No hope.”

And without another word Fabian went to the saloon, and then on to his cabin.

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