Many a watch was regarded with anxious eyes—for there were many in the train who proposed crossing the Atlantic—but who can tell the agony experienced at this moment by Luis de Hauteroche? I was myself too troubled to speak.
The feeling at length reached its culminating point. The city of New Jersey was in sight: there lay the Cunard steamer at her moorings!
No, she is moving out! See! she has dropped into mid stream! Behold that white puff of smoke! Hark! ’tis the signal gun! She is gone—gone!
No boat may overtake her now—the swiftest would be launched in vain. She will delay for no one—not even for Prince or President. She is the Cunard packet. Her laws are immutable—fixed—inexorable. O God! she is gone!
My friend’s distress exhibited itself in a frantic manner; but there were others, suffering from far less disappointment, who made equal show of their chagrin. This had the effect of drawing away from us that notice we might otherwise have attracted.
Silent and melancholy we both stood upon the now deserted wharf—gazing upon the black hull, that every minute was growing a more insignificant object to the sight. I shall not attempt to depict the feelings of my companion: I could scarcely analyse my own.
We were turning coldly away to seek some hotel; we had even advanced some paces from the landing, when a singular cry, followed by a confused murmur of voices, as of men in dispute, caused us to look back.
A small knot of sea-faring men stood on a projection of the wharf: they appeared to be employés of the Steam Company; who, after performing the duty of getting the vessel afloat, had lingered to see her out of the bay. One of the men held a telescope levelled to his eye, and directed down the bay: as if following the movements of the steamer. We listened to hear what the men were saying.
“Yes!” exclaimed the man with the telescope, “I told you so—something wrong yonder.”