Chapter Chapter 11 · IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG SECURES A CURIOUS MEANS OF CONVEYANCE AT A

IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG SECURES A CURIOUS MEANS OF CONVEYANCE AT A

FABULOUS PRICE

The train had started punctually. Among the passengers were a number of

officers, Government officials, and opium and indigo merchants, whose

business called them to the eastern coast. Passepartout rode in the

same carriage with his master, and a third passenger occupied a seat

opposite to them. This was Sir Francis Cromarty, one of Mr. Fogg’s

whist partners on the “Mongolia,” now on his way to join his corps at

Benares. Sir Francis was a tall, fair man of fifty, who had greatly

distinguished himself in the last Sepoy revolt. He made India his home,

only paying brief visits to England at rare intervals; and was almost

as familiar as a native with the customs, history, and character of

India and its people. But Phileas Fogg, who was not travelling, but

only describing a circumference, took no pains to inquire into these

subjects; he was a solid body, traversing an orbit around the

terrestrial globe, according to the laws of rational mechanics. He was

at this moment calculating in his mind the number of hours spent since

his departure from London, and, had it been in his nature to make a

useless demonstration, would have rubbed his hands for satisfaction.

Sir Francis Cromarty had observed the oddity of his travelling

companion—although the only opportunity he had for studying him had

been while he was dealing the cards, and between two rubbers—and

questioned himself whether a human heart really beat beneath this cold

exterior, and whether Phileas Fogg had any sense of the beauties of

nature. The brigadier-general was free to mentally confess that, of all

the eccentric persons he had ever met, none was comparable to this

product of the exact sciences.

Phileas Fogg had not concealed from Sir Francis his design of going

round the world, nor the circumstances under which he set out; and the

general only saw in the wager a useless eccentricity and a lack of

sound common sense. In the way this strange gentleman was going on, he

would leave the world without having done any good to himself or

anybody else.

An hour after leaving Bombay the train had passed the viaducts and the

Island of Salcette, and had got into the open country. At Callyan they

reached the junction of the branch line which descends towards

south-eastern India by Kandallah and Pounah; and, passing Pauwell, they

entered the defiles of the mountains, with their basalt bases, and

their summits crowned with thick and verdant forests. Phileas Fogg and

Sir Francis Cromarty exchanged a few words from time to time, and now

Sir Francis, reviving the conversation, observed, “Some years ago, Mr.

Fogg, you would have met with a delay at this point which would

probably have lost you your wager.”

“How so, Sir Francis?”

“Because the railway stopped at the base of these mountains, which the

passengers were obliged to cross in palanquins or on ponies to

Kandallah, on the other side.”

“Such a delay would not have deranged my plans in the least,” said Mr.

Fogg. “I have constantly foreseen the likelihood of certain obstacles.”

“But, Mr. Fogg,” pursued Sir Francis, “you run the risk of having some

difficulty about this worthy fellow’s adventure at the pagoda.”

Passepartout, his feet comfortably wrapped in his travelling-blanket,

was sound asleep and did not dream that anybody was talking about him.

“The Government is very severe upon that kind of offence. It takes

particular care that the religious customs of the Indians should be

respected, and if your servant were caught—”

“Very well, Sir Francis,” replied Mr. Fogg; “if he had been caught he

would have been condemned and punished, and then would have quietly

returned to Europe. I don’t see how this affair could have delayed his

master.”

The conversation fell again. During the night the train left the

mountains behind, and passed Nassik, and the next day proceeded over

the flat, well-cultivated country of the Khandeish, with its straggling

villages, above which rose the minarets of the pagodas. This fertile

territory is watered by numerous small rivers and limpid streams,

mostly tributaries of the Godavery.

Passepartout, on waking and looking out, could not realise that he was

actually crossing India in a railway train. The locomotive, guided by

an English engineer and fed with English coal, threw out its smoke upon

cotton, coffee, nutmeg, clove, and pepper plantations, while the steam

curled in spirals around groups of palm-trees, in the midst of which

were seen picturesque bungalows, viharis (sort of abandoned

monasteries), and marvellous temples enriched by the exhaustless

ornamentation of Indian architecture. Then they came upon vast tracts

extending to the horizon, with jungles inhabited by snakes and tigers,

which fled at the noise of the train; succeeded by forests penetrated

by the railway, and still haunted by elephants which, with pensive

eyes, gazed at the train as it passed. The travellers crossed, beyond

Milligaum, the fatal country so often stained with blood by the

sectaries of the goddess Kali. Not far off rose Ellora, with its

graceful pagodas, and the famous Aurungabad, capital of the ferocious

Aureng-Zeb, now the chief town of one of the detached provinces of the

kingdom of the Nizam. It was thereabouts that Feringhea, the Thuggee

chief, king of the stranglers, held his sway. These ruffians, united by

a secret bond, strangled victims of every age in honour of the goddess

Death, without ever shedding blood; there was a period when this part

of the country could scarcely be travelled over without corpses being

found in every direction. The English Government has succeeded in

greatly diminishing these murders, though the Thuggees still exist, and

pursue the exercise of their horrible rites.

At half-past twelve the train stopped at Burhampoor where Passepartout

was able to purchase some Indian slippers, ornamented with false

pearls, in which, with evident vanity, he proceeded to encase his feet.

The travellers made a hasty breakfast and started off for Assurghur,

after skirting for a little the banks of the small river Tapty, which

empties into the Gulf of Cambray, near Surat.

Passepartout was now plunged into absorbing reverie. Up to his arrival

at Bombay, he had entertained hopes that their journey would end there;

but, now that they were plainly whirling across India at full speed, a

sudden change had come over the spirit of his dreams. His old vagabond

nature returned to him; the fantastic ideas of his youth once more took

possession of him. He came to regard his master’s project as intended

in good earnest, believed in the reality of the bet, and therefore in

the tour of the world and the necessity of making it without fail

within the designated period. Already he began to worry about possible

delays, and accidents which might happen on the way. He recognised

himself as being personally interested in the wager, and trembled at

the thought that he might have been the means of losing it by his

unpardonable folly of the night before. Being much less cool-headed

than Mr. Fogg, he was much more restless, counting and recounting the

days passed over, uttering maledictions when the train stopped, and

accusing it of sluggishness, and mentally blaming Mr. Fogg for not

having bribed the engineer. The worthy fellow was ignorant that, while

it was possible by such means to hasten the rate of a steamer, it could

not be done on the railway.

The train entered the defiles of the Sutpour Mountains, which separate

the Khandeish from Bundelcund, towards evening. The next day Sir

Francis Cromarty asked Passepartout what time it was; to which, on

consulting his watch, he replied that it was three in the morning. This

famous timepiece, always regulated on the Greenwich meridian, which was

now some seventy-seven degrees westward, was at least four hours slow.

Sir Francis corrected Passepartout’s time, whereupon the latter made

the same remark that he had done to Fix; and upon the general insisting

that the watch should be regulated in each new meridian, since he was

constantly going eastward, that is in the face of the sun, and

therefore the days were shorter by four minutes for each degree gone

over, Passepartout obstinately refused to alter his watch, which he

kept at London time. It was an innocent delusion which could harm no

one.

The train stopped, at eight o’clock, in the midst of a glade some

fifteen miles beyond Rothal, where there were several bungalows, and

workmen’s cabins. The conductor, passing along the carriages, shouted,

“Passengers will get out here!”

Phileas Fogg looked at Sir Francis Cromarty for an explanation; but the

general could not tell what meant a halt in the midst of this forest of

dates and acacias.

Passepartout, not less surprised, rushed out and speedily returned,

crying: “Monsieur, no more railway!”

“What do you mean?” asked Sir Francis.

“I mean to say that the train isn’t going on.”

The general at once stepped out, while Phileas Fogg calmly followed

him, and they proceeded together to the conductor.

“Where are we?” asked Sir Francis.

“At the hamlet of Kholby.”

“Do we stop here?”

“Certainly. The railway isn’t finished.”

“What! not finished?”

“No. There’s still a matter of fifty miles to be laid from here to

Allahabad, where the line begins again.”

“But the papers announced the opening of the railway throughout.”

“What would you have, officer? The papers were mistaken.”

“Yet you sell tickets from Bombay to Calcutta,” retorted Sir Francis,

who was growing warm.

“No doubt,” replied the conductor; “but the passengers know that they

must provide means of transportation for themselves from Kholby to

Allahabad.”

Sir Francis was furious. Passepartout would willingly have knocked the

conductor down, and did not dare to look at his master.

“Sir Francis,” said Mr. Fogg quietly, “we will, if you please, look

about for some means of conveyance to Allahabad.”

“Mr. Fogg, this is a delay greatly to your disadvantage.”

“No, Sir Francis; it was foreseen.”

“What! You knew that the way—”

“Not at all; but I knew that some obstacle or other would sooner or

later arise on my route. Nothing, therefore, is lost. I have two days,

which I have already gained, to sacrifice. A steamer leaves Calcutta

for Hong Kong at noon, on the 25th. This is the 22nd, and we shall

reach Calcutta in time.”

There was nothing to say to so confident a response.

It was but too true that the railway came to a termination at this

point. The papers were like some watches, which have a way of getting

too fast, and had been premature in their announcement of the

completion of the line. The greater part of the travellers were aware

of this interruption, and, leaving the train, they began to engage such

vehicles as the village could provide four-wheeled palkigharis, waggons

drawn by zebus, carriages that looked like perambulating pagodas,

palanquins, ponies, and what not.

Mr. Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty, after searching the village from end

to end, came back without having found anything.

“I shall go afoot,” said Phileas Fogg.

Passepartout, who had now rejoined his master, made a wry grimace, as

he thought of his magnificent, but too frail Indian shoes. Happily he

too had been looking about him, and, after a moment’s hesitation, said,

“Monsieur, I think I have found a means of conveyance.”

“What?”

“An elephant! An elephant that belongs to an Indian who lives but a

hundred steps from here.”

“Let’s go and see the elephant,” replied Mr. Fogg.

They soon reached a small hut, near which, enclosed within some high

palings, was the animal in question. An Indian came out of the hut,

and, at their request, conducted them within the enclosure. The

elephant, which its owner had reared, not for a beast of burden, but

for warlike purposes, was half domesticated. The Indian had begun

already, by often irritating him, and feeding him every three months on

sugar and butter, to impart to him a ferocity not in his nature, this

method being often employed by those who train the Indian elephants for

battle. Happily, however, for Mr. Fogg, the animal’s instruction in

this direction had not gone far, and the elephant still preserved his

natural gentleness. Kiouni—this was the name of the beast—could

doubtless travel rapidly for a long time, and, in default of any other

means of conveyance, Mr. Fogg resolved to hire him. But elephants are

far from cheap in India, where they are becoming scarce, the males,

which alone are suitable for circus shows, are much sought, especially

as but few of them are domesticated. When therefore Mr. Fogg proposed

to the Indian to hire Kiouni, he refused point-blank. Mr. Fogg

persisted, offering the excessive sum of ten pounds an hour for the

loan of the beast to Allahabad. Refused. Twenty pounds? Refused also.

Forty pounds? Still refused. Passepartout jumped at each advance; but

the Indian declined to be tempted. Yet the offer was an alluring one,

for, supposing it took the elephant fifteen hours to reach Allahabad,

his owner would receive no less than six hundred pounds sterling.

Phileas Fogg, without getting in the least flurried, then proposed to

purchase the animal outright, and at first offered a thousand pounds

for him. The Indian, perhaps thinking he was going to make a great

bargain, still refused.

Sir Francis Cromarty took Mr. Fogg aside, and begged him to reflect

before he went any further; to which that gentleman replied that he was

not in the habit of acting rashly, that a bet of twenty thousand pounds

was at stake, that the elephant was absolutely necessary to him, and

that he would secure him if he had to pay twenty times his value.

Returning to the Indian, whose small, sharp eyes, glistening with

avarice, betrayed that with him it was only a question of how great a

price he could obtain. Mr. Fogg offered first twelve hundred, then

fifteen hundred, eighteen hundred, two thousand pounds. Passepartout,

usually so rubicund, was fairly white with suspense.

At two thousand pounds the Indian yielded.

“What a price, good heavens!” cried Passepartout, “for an elephant.”

It only remained now to find a guide, which was comparatively easy. A

young Parsee, with an intelligent face, offered his services, which Mr.

Fogg accepted, promising so generous a reward as to materially

stimulate his zeal. The elephant was led out and equipped. The Parsee,

who was an accomplished elephant driver, covered his back with a sort

of saddle-cloth, and attached to each of his flanks some curiously

uncomfortable howdahs. Phileas Fogg paid the Indian with some banknotes

which he extracted from the famous carpet-bag, a proceeding that seemed

to deprive poor Passepartout of his vitals. Then he offered to carry

Sir Francis to Allahabad, which the brigadier gratefully accepted, as

one traveller the more would not be likely to fatigue the gigantic

beast. Provisions were purchased at Kholby, and, while Sir Francis and

Mr. Fogg took the howdahs on either side, Passepartout got astride the

saddle-cloth between them. The Parsee perched himself on the elephant’s

neck, and at nine o’clock they set out from the village, the animal

marching off through the dense forest of palms by the shortest cut.