Kabanata Kabanata 21 · IN WHICH THE MASTER OF THE “TANKADERE” RUNS GREAT RISK OF LOSING A

IN WHICH THE MASTER OF THE “TANKADERE” RUNS GREAT RISK OF LOSING A

REWARD OF TWO HUNDRED POUNDS

This voyage of eight hundred miles was a perilous venture on a craft of

twenty tons, and at that season of the year. The Chinese seas are

usually boisterous, subject to terrible gales of wind, and especially

during the equinoxes; and it was now early November.

It would clearly have been to the master’s advantage to carry his

passengers to Yokohama, since he was paid a certain sum per day; but he

would have been rash to attempt such a voyage, and it was imprudent

even to attempt to reach Shanghai. But John Bunsby believed in the

“Tankadere,” which rode on the waves like a seagull; and perhaps he was

not wrong.

Late in the day they passed through the capricious channels of Hong

Kong, and the “Tankadere,” impelled by favourable winds, conducted

herself admirably.

“I do not need, pilot,” said Phileas Fogg, when they got into the open

sea, “to advise you to use all possible speed.”

“Trust me, your honour. We are carrying all the sail the wind will let

us. The poles would add nothing, and are only used when we are going

into port.”

“It’s your trade, not mine, pilot, and I confide in you.”

Phileas Fogg, with body erect and legs wide apart, standing like a

sailor, gazed without staggering at the swelling waters. The young

woman, who was seated aft, was profoundly affected as she looked out

upon the ocean, darkening now with the twilight, on which she had

ventured in so frail a vessel. Above her head rustled the white sails,

which seemed like great white wings. The boat, carried forward by the

wind, seemed to be flying in the air.

Night came. The moon was entering her first quarter, and her

insufficient light would soon die out in the mist on the horizon.

Clouds were rising from the east, and already overcast a part of the

heavens.

The pilot had hung out his lights, which was very necessary in these

seas crowded with vessels bound landward; for collisions are not

uncommon occurrences, and, at the speed she was going, the least shock

would shatter the gallant little craft.

Fix, seated in the bow, gave himself up to meditation. He kept apart

from his fellow-travellers, knowing Mr. Fogg’s taciturn tastes;

besides, he did not quite like to talk to the man whose favours he had

accepted. He was thinking, too, of the future. It seemed certain that

Fogg would not stop at Yokohama, but would at once take the boat for

San Francisco; and the vast extent of America would ensure him impunity

and safety. Fogg’s plan appeared to him the simplest in the world.

Instead of sailing directly from England to the United States, like a

common villain, he had traversed three quarters of the globe, so as to

gain the American continent more surely; and there, after throwing the

police off his track, he would quietly enjoy himself with the fortune

stolen from the bank. But, once in the United States, what should he,

Fix, do? Should he abandon this man? No, a hundred times no! Until he

had secured his extradition, he would not lose sight of him for an

hour. It was his duty, and he would fulfil it to the end. At all

events, there was one thing to be thankful for; Passepartout was not

with his master; and it was above all important, after the confidences

Fix had imparted to him, that the servant should never have speech with

his master.

Phileas Fogg was also thinking of Passepartout, who had so strangely

disappeared. Looking at the matter from every point of view, it did not

seem to him impossible that, by some mistake, the man might have

embarked on the “Carnatic” at the last moment; and this was also

Aouda’s opinion, who regretted very much the loss of the worthy fellow

to whom she owed so much. They might then find him at Yokohama; for, if

the “Carnatic” was carrying him thither, it would be easy to ascertain

if he had been on board.

A brisk breeze arose about ten o’clock; but, though it might have been

prudent to take in a reef, the pilot, after carefully examining the

heavens, let the craft remain rigged as before. The “Tankadere” bore

sail admirably, as she drew a great deal of water, and everything was

prepared for high speed in case of a gale.

Mr. Fogg and Aouda descended into the cabin at midnight, having been

already preceded by Fix, who had lain down on one of the cots. The

pilot and crew remained on deck all night.

At sunrise the next day, which was 8th November, the boat had made more

than one hundred miles. The log indicated a mean speed of between eight

and nine miles. The “Tankadere” still carried all sail, and was

accomplishing her greatest capacity of speed. If the wind held as it

was, the chances would be in her favour. During the day she kept along

the coast, where the currents were favourable; the coast, irregular in

profile, and visible sometimes across the clearings, was at most five

miles distant. The sea was less boisterous, since the wind came off

land—a fortunate circumstance for the boat, which would suffer, owing

to its small tonnage, by a heavy surge on the sea.

The breeze subsided a little towards noon, and set in from the

south-west. The pilot put up his poles, but took them down again within

two hours, as the wind freshened up anew.

Mr. Fogg and Aouda, happily unaffected by the roughness of the sea, ate

with a good appetite, Fix being invited to share their repast, which he

accepted with secret chagrin. To travel at this man’s expense and live

upon his provisions was not palatable to him. Still, he was obliged to

eat, and so he ate.

When the meal was over, he took Mr. Fogg apart, and said, “sir”—this

“sir” scorched his lips, and he had to control himself to avoid

collaring this “gentleman”—“sir, you have been very kind to give me a

passage on this boat. But, though my means will not admit of my

expending them as freely as you, I must ask to pay my share—”

“Let us not speak of that, sir,” replied Mr. Fogg.

“But, if I insist—”

“No, sir,” repeated Mr. Fogg, in a tone which did not admit of a reply.

“This enters into my general expenses.”

Fix, as he bowed, had a stifled feeling, and, going forward, where he

ensconced himself, did not open his mouth for the rest of the day.

Meanwhile they were progressing famously, and John Bunsby was in high

hope. He several times assured Mr. Fogg that they would reach Shanghai

in time; to which that gentleman responded that he counted upon it. The

crew set to work in good earnest, inspired by the reward to be gained.

There was not a sheet which was not tightened, not a sail which was not

vigorously hoisted; not a lurch could be charged to the man at the

helm. They worked as desperately as if they were contesting in a Royal

yacht regatta.

By evening, the log showed that two hundred and twenty miles had been

accomplished from Hong Kong, and Mr. Fogg might hope that he would be

able to reach Yokohama without recording any delay in his journal; in

which case, the many misadventures which had overtaken him since he

left London would not seriously affect his journey.

The “Tankadere” entered the Straits of Fo-Kien, which separate the

island of Formosa from the Chinese coast, in the small hours of the

night, and crossed the Tropic of Cancer. The sea was very rough in the

straits, full of eddies formed by the counter-currents, and the

chopping waves broke her course, whilst it became very difficult to

stand on deck.

At daybreak the wind began to blow hard again, and the heavens seemed

to predict a gale. The barometer announced a speedy change, the mercury

rising and falling capriciously; the sea also, in the south-east,

raised long surges which indicated a tempest. The sun had set the

evening before in a red mist, in the midst of the phosphorescent

scintillations of the ocean.

John Bunsby long examined the threatening aspect of the heavens,

muttering indistinctly between his teeth. At last he said in a low

voice to Mr. Fogg, “Shall I speak out to your honour?”

“Of course.”

“Well, we are going to have a squall.”

“Is the wind north or south?” asked Mr. Fogg quietly.

“South. Look! a typhoon is coming up.”

“Glad it’s a typhoon from the south, for it will carry us forward.”

“Oh, if you take it that way,” said John Bunsby, “I’ve nothing more to

say.” John Bunsby’s suspicions were confirmed. At a less advanced

season of the year the typhoon, according to a famous meteorologist,

would have passed away like a luminous cascade of electric flame; but

in the winter equinox it was to be feared that it would burst upon them

with great violence.

The pilot took his precautions in advance. He reefed all sail, the

pole-masts were dispensed with; all hands went forward to the bows. A

single triangular sail, of strong canvas, was hoisted as a storm-jib,

so as to hold the wind from behind. Then they waited.

John Bunsby had requested his passengers to go below; but this

imprisonment in so narrow a space, with little air, and the boat

bouncing in the gale, was far from pleasant. Neither Mr. Fogg, Fix, nor

Aouda consented to leave the deck.

The storm of rain and wind descended upon them towards eight o’clock.

With but its bit of sail, the “Tankadere” was lifted like a feather by

a wind, an idea of whose violence can scarcely be given. To compare her

speed to four times that of a locomotive going on full steam would be

below the truth.

The boat scudded thus northward during the whole day, borne on by

monstrous waves, preserving always, fortunately, a speed equal to

theirs. Twenty times she seemed almost to be submerged by these

mountains of water which rose behind her; but the adroit management of

the pilot saved her. The passengers were often bathed in spray, but

they submitted to it philosophically. Fix cursed it, no doubt; but

Aouda, with her eyes fastened upon her protector, whose coolness amazed

her, showed herself worthy of him, and bravely weathered the storm. As

for Phileas Fogg, it seemed just as if the typhoon were a part of his

programme.

Up to this time the “Tankadere” had always held her course to the

north; but towards evening the wind, veering three quarters, bore down

from the north-west. The boat, now lying in the trough of the waves,

shook and rolled terribly; the sea struck her with fearful violence. At

night the tempest increased in violence. John Bunsby saw the approach

of darkness and the rising of the storm with dark misgivings. He

thought awhile, and then asked his crew if it was not time to slacken

speed. After a consultation he approached Mr. Fogg, and said, “I think,

your honour, that we should do well to make for one of the ports on the

coast.”

“I think so too.”

“Ah!” said the pilot. “But which one?”

“I know of but one,” returned Mr. Fogg tranquilly.

“And that is—”

“Shanghai.”

The pilot, at first, did not seem to comprehend; he could scarcely

realise so much determination and tenacity. Then he cried, “Well—yes!

Your honour is right. To Shanghai!”

So the “Tankadere” kept steadily on her northward track.

The night was really terrible; it would be a miracle if the craft did

not founder. Twice it could have been all over with her if the crew had

not been constantly on the watch. Aouda was exhausted, but did not

utter a complaint. More than once Mr. Fogg rushed to protect her from

the violence of the waves.

Day reappeared. The tempest still raged with undiminished fury; but the

wind now returned to the south-east. It was a favourable change, and

the “Tankadere” again bounded forward on this mountainous sea, though

the waves crossed each other, and imparted shocks and counter-shocks

which would have crushed a craft less solidly built. From time to time

the coast was visible through the broken mist, but no vessel was in

sight. The “Tankadere” was alone upon the sea.

There were some signs of a calm at noon, and these became more distinct

as the sun descended toward the horizon. The tempest had been as brief

as terrific. The passengers, thoroughly exhausted, could now eat a

little, and take some repose.

The night was comparatively quiet. Some of the sails were again

hoisted, and the speed of the boat was very good. The next morning at

dawn they espied the coast, and John Bunsby was able to assert that

they were not one hundred miles from Shanghai. A hundred miles, and

only one day to traverse them! That very evening Mr. Fogg was due at

Shanghai, if he did not wish to miss the steamer to Yokohama. Had there

been no storm, during which several hours were lost, they would be at

this moment within thirty miles of their destination.

The wind grew decidedly calmer, and happily the sea fell with it. All

sails were now hoisted, and at noon the “Tankadere” was within

forty-five miles of Shanghai. There remained yet six hours in which to

accomplish that distance. All on board feared that it could not be

done, and every one—Phileas Fogg, no doubt, excepted—felt his heart

beat with impatience. The boat must keep up an average of nine miles an

hour, and the wind was becoming calmer every moment! It was a

capricious breeze, coming from the coast, and after it passed the sea

became smooth. Still, the “Tankadere” was so light, and her fine sails

caught the fickle zephyrs so well, that, with the aid of the currents

John Bunsby found himself at six o’clock not more than ten miles from

the mouth of Shanghai River. Shanghai itself is situated at least

twelve miles up the stream. At seven they were still three miles from

Shanghai. The pilot swore an angry oath; the reward of two hundred

pounds was evidently on the point of escaping him. He looked at Mr.

Fogg. Mr. Fogg was perfectly tranquil; and yet his whole fortune was at

this moment at stake.

At this moment, also, a long black funnel, crowned with wreaths of

smoke, appeared on the edge of the waters. It was the American steamer,

leaving for Yokohama at the appointed time.

“Confound her!” cried John Bunsby, pushing back the rudder with a

desperate jerk.

“Signal her!” said Phileas Fogg quietly.

A small brass cannon stood on the forward deck of the “Tankadere,” for

making signals in the fogs. It was loaded to the muzzle; but just as

the pilot was about to apply a red-hot coal to the touchhole, Mr. Fogg

said, “Hoist your flag!”

The flag was run up at half-mast, and, this being the signal of

distress, it was hoped that the American steamer, perceiving it, would

change her course a little, so as to succour the pilot-boat.

“Fire!” said Mr. Fogg. And the booming of the little cannon resounded

in the air.