第 三十三 章 · IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG SHOWS HIMSELF EQUAL TO THE OCCASION
IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG SHOWS HIMSELF EQUAL TO THE OCCASION
An hour after, the “Henrietta” passed the lighthouse which marks the
entrance of the Hudson, turned the point of Sandy Hook, and put to sea.
During the day she skirted Long Island, passed Fire Island, and
directed her course rapidly eastward.
At noon the next day, a man mounted the bridge to ascertain the
vessel’s position. It might be thought that this was Captain Speedy.
Not the least in the world. It was Phileas Fogg, Esquire. As for
Captain Speedy, he was shut up in his cabin under lock and key, and was
uttering loud cries, which signified an anger at once pardonable and
excessive.
What had happened was very simple. Phileas Fogg wished to go to
Liverpool, but the captain would not carry him there. Then Phileas Fogg
had taken passage for Bordeaux, and, during the thirty hours he had
been on board, had so shrewdly managed with his banknotes that the
sailors and stokers, who were only an occasional crew, and were not on
the best terms with the captain, went over to him in a body. This was
why Phileas Fogg was in command instead of Captain Speedy; why the
captain was a prisoner in his cabin; and why, in short, the “Henrietta”
was directing her course towards Liverpool. It was very clear, to see
Mr. Fogg manage the craft, that he had been a sailor.
How the adventure ended will be seen anon. Aouda was anxious, though
she said nothing. As for Passepartout, he thought Mr. Fogg’s manœuvre
simply glorious. The captain had said “between eleven and twelve
knots,” and the “Henrietta” confirmed his prediction.
If, then—for there were “ifs” still—the sea did not become too
boisterous, if the wind did not veer round to the east, if no accident
happened to the boat or its machinery, the “Henrietta” might cross the
three thousand miles from New York to Liverpool in the nine days,
between the 12th and the 21st of December. It is true that, once
arrived, the affair on board the “Henrietta,” added to that of the Bank
of England, might create more difficulties for Mr. Fogg than he
imagined or could desire.
During the first days, they went along smoothly enough. The sea was not
very unpropitious, the wind seemed stationary in the north-east, the
sails were hoisted, and the “Henrietta” ploughed across the waves like
a real transatlantic steamer.
Passepartout was delighted. His master’s last exploit, the consequences
of which he ignored, enchanted him. Never had the crew seen so jolly
and dexterous a fellow. He formed warm friendships with the sailors,
and amazed them with his acrobatic feats. He thought they managed the
vessel like gentlemen, and that the stokers fired up like heroes. His
loquacious good-humour infected everyone. He had forgotten the past,
its vexations and delays. He only thought of the end, so nearly
accomplished; and sometimes he boiled over with impatience, as if
heated by the furnaces of the “Henrietta.” Often, also, the worthy
fellow revolved around Fix, looking at him with a keen, distrustful
eye; but he did not speak to him, for their old intimacy no longer
existed.
Fix, it must be confessed, understood nothing of what was going on. The
conquest of the “Henrietta,” the bribery of the crew, Fogg managing the
boat like a skilled seaman, amazed and confused him. He did not know
what to think. For, after all, a man who began by stealing fifty-five
thousand pounds might end by stealing a vessel; and Fix was not
unnaturally inclined to conclude that the “Henrietta” under Fogg’s
command, was not going to Liverpool at all, but to some part of the
world where the robber, turned into a pirate, would quietly put himself
in safety. The conjecture was at least a plausible one, and the
detective began to seriously regret that he had embarked on the affair.
As for Captain Speedy, he continued to howl and growl in his cabin; and
Passepartout, whose duty it was to carry him his meals, courageous as
he was, took the greatest precautions. Mr. Fogg did not seem even to
know that there was a captain on board.
On the 13th they passed the edge of the Banks of Newfoundland, a
dangerous locality; during the winter, especially, there are frequent
fogs and heavy gales of wind. Ever since the evening before the
barometer, suddenly falling, had indicated an approaching change in the
atmosphere; and during the night the temperature varied, the cold
became sharper, and the wind veered to the south-east.
This was a misfortune. Mr. Fogg, in order not to deviate from his
course, furled his sails and increased the force of the steam; but the
vessel’s speed slackened, owing to the state of the sea, the long waves
of which broke against the stern. She pitched violently, and this
retarded her progress. The breeze little by little swelled into a
tempest, and it was to be feared that the “Henrietta” might not be able
to maintain herself upright on the waves.
Passepartout’s visage darkened with the skies, and for two days the
poor fellow experienced constant fright. But Phileas Fogg was a bold
mariner, and knew how to maintain headway against the sea; and he kept
on his course, without even decreasing his steam. The “Henrietta,” when
she could not rise upon the waves, crossed them, swamping her deck, but
passing safely. Sometimes the screw rose out of the water, beating its
protruding end, when a mountain of water raised the stern above the
waves; but the craft always kept straight ahead.
The wind, however, did not grow as boisterous as might have been
feared; it was not one of those tempests which burst, and rush on with
a speed of ninety miles an hour. It continued fresh, but, unhappily, it
remained obstinately in the south-east, rendering the sails useless.
The 16th of December was the seventy-fifth day since Phileas Fogg’s
departure from London, and the “Henrietta” had not yet been seriously
delayed. Half of the voyage was almost accomplished, and the worst
localities had been passed. In summer, success would have been
well-nigh certain. In winter, they were at the mercy of the bad season.
Passepartout said nothing; but he cherished hope in secret, and
comforted himself with the reflection that, if the wind failed them,
they might still count on the steam.
On this day the engineer came on deck, went up to Mr. Fogg, and began
to speak earnestly with him. Without knowing why it was a presentiment,
perhaps Passepartout became vaguely uneasy. He would have given one of
his ears to hear with the other what the engineer was saying. He
finally managed to catch a few words, and was sure he heard his master
say, “You are certain of what you tell me?”
“Certain, sir,” replied the engineer. “You must remember that, since we
started, we have kept up hot fires in all our furnaces, and, though we
had coal enough to go on short steam from New York to Bordeaux, we
haven’t enough to go with all steam from New York to Liverpool.” “I
will consider,” replied Mr. Fogg.
Passepartout understood it all; he was seized with mortal anxiety. The
coal was giving out! “Ah, if my master can get over that,” muttered he,
“he’ll be a famous man!” He could not help imparting to Fix what he had
overheard.
“Then you believe that we really are going to Liverpool?”
“Of course.”
“Ass!” replied the detective, shrugging his shoulders and turning on
his heel.
Passepartout was on the point of vigorously resenting the epithet, the
reason of which he could not for the life of him comprehend; but he
reflected that the unfortunate Fix was probably very much disappointed
and humiliated in his self-esteem, after having so awkwardly followed a
false scent around the world, and refrained.
And now what course would Phileas Fogg adopt? It was difficult to
imagine. Nevertheless he seemed to have decided upon one, for that
evening he sent for the engineer, and said to him, “Feed all the fires
until the coal is exhausted.”
A few moments after, the funnel of the “Henrietta” vomited forth
torrents of smoke. The vessel continued to proceed with all steam on;
but on the 18th, the engineer, as he had predicted, announced that the
coal would give out in the course of the day.
“Do not let the fires go down,” replied Mr. Fogg. “Keep them up to the
last. Let the valves be filled.”
Towards noon Phileas Fogg, having ascertained their position, called
Passepartout, and ordered him to go for Captain Speedy. It was as if
the honest fellow had been commanded to unchain a tiger. He went to the
poop, saying to himself, “He will be like a madman!”
In a few moments, with cries and oaths, a bomb appeared on the
poop-deck. The bomb was Captain Speedy. It was clear that he was on the
point of bursting. “Where are we?” were the first words his anger
permitted him to utter. Had the poor man been an apoplectic, he could
never have recovered from his paroxysm of wrath.
“Where are we?” he repeated, with purple face.
“Seven hundred and seven miles from Liverpool,” replied Mr. Fogg, with
imperturbable calmness.
“Pirate!” cried Captain Speedy.
“I have sent for you, sir—”
“Pickaroon!”
“—sir,” continued Mr. Fogg, “to ask you to sell me your vessel.”
“No! By all the devils, no!”
“But I shall be obliged to burn her.”
“Burn the ‘Henrietta’!”
“Yes; at least the upper part of her. The coal has given out.”
“Burn my vessel!” cried Captain Speedy, who could scarcely pronounce
the words. “A vessel worth fifty thousand dollars!”
“Here are sixty thousand,” replied Phileas Fogg, handing the captain a
roll of bank-bills. This had a prodigious effect on Andrew Speedy. An
American can scarcely remain unmoved at the sight of sixty thousand
dollars. The captain forgot in an instant his anger, his imprisonment,
and all his grudges against his passenger. The “Henrietta” was twenty
years old; it was a great bargain. The bomb would not go off after all.
Mr. Fogg had taken away the match.
“And I shall still have the iron hull,” said the captain in a softer
tone.
“The iron hull and the engine. Is it agreed?”
“Agreed.”
And Andrew Speedy, seizing the banknotes, counted them and consigned
them to his pocket.
During this colloquy, Passepartout was as white as a sheet, and Fix
seemed on the point of having an apoplectic fit. Nearly twenty thousand
pounds had been expended, and Fogg left the hull and engine to the
captain, that is, near the whole value of the craft! It was true,
however, that fifty-five thousand pounds had been stolen from the Bank.
When Andrew Speedy had pocketed the money, Mr. Fogg said to him, “Don’t
let this astonish you, sir. You must know that I shall lose twenty
thousand pounds, unless I arrive in London by a quarter before nine on
the evening of the 21st of December. I missed the steamer at New York,
and as you refused to take me to Liverpool—”
“And I did well!” cried Andrew Speedy; “for I have gained at least
forty thousand dollars by it!” He added, more sedately, “Do you know
one thing, Captain—”
“Fogg.”
“Captain Fogg, you’ve got something of the Yankee about you.”
And, having paid his passenger what he considered a high compliment, he
was going away, when Mr. Fogg said, “The vessel now belongs to me?”
“Certainly, from the keel to the truck of the masts—all the wood, that
is.”
“Very well. Have the interior seats, bunks, and frames pulled down, and
burn them.”
It was necessary to have dry wood to keep the steam up to the adequate
pressure, and on that day the poop, cabins, bunks, and the spare deck
were sacrificed. On the next day, the 19th of December, the masts,
rafts, and spars were burned; the crew worked lustily, keeping up the
fires. Passepartout hewed, cut, and sawed away with all his might.
There was a perfect rage for demolition.
The railings, fittings, the greater part of the deck, and top sides
disappeared on the 20th, and the “Henrietta” was now only a flat hulk.
But on this day they sighted the Irish coast and Fastnet Light. By ten
in the evening they were passing Queenstown. Phileas Fogg had only
twenty-four hours more in which to get to London; that length of time
was necessary to reach Liverpool, with all steam on. And the steam was
about to give out altogether!
“Sir,” said Captain Speedy, who was now deeply interested in Mr. Fogg’s
project, “I really commiserate you. Everything is against you. We are
only opposite Queenstown.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Fogg, “is that place where we see the lights
Queenstown?”
“Yes.”
“Can we enter the harbour?”
“Not under three hours. Only at high tide.”
“Stay,” replied Mr. Fogg calmly, without betraying in his features that
by a supreme inspiration he was about to attempt once more to conquer
ill-fortune.
Queenstown is the Irish port at which the transatlantic steamers stop
to put off the mails. These mails are carried to Dublin by express
trains always held in readiness to start; from Dublin they are sent on
to Liverpool by the most rapid boats, and thus gain twelve hours on the
Atlantic steamers.
Phileas Fogg counted on gaining twelve hours in the same way. Instead
of arriving at Liverpool the next evening by the “Henrietta,” he would
be there by noon, and would therefore have time to reach London before
a quarter before nine in the evening.
The “Henrietta” entered Queenstown Harbour at one o’clock in the
morning, it then being high tide; and Phileas Fogg, after being grasped
heartily by the hand by Captain Speedy, left that gentleman on the
levelled hulk of his craft, which was still worth half what he had sold
it for.
The party went on shore at once. Fix was greatly tempted to arrest Mr.
Fogg on the spot; but he did not. Why? What struggle was going on
within him? Had he changed his mind about “his man”? Did he understand
that he had made a grave mistake? He did not, however, abandon Mr.
Fogg. They all got upon the train, which was just ready to start, at
half-past one; at dawn of day they were in Dublin; and they lost no
time in embarking on a steamer which, disdaining to rise upon the
waves, invariably cut through them.
Phileas Fogg at last disembarked on the Liverpool quay, at twenty
minutes before twelve, 21st December. He was only six hours distant
from London.
But at this moment Fix came up, put his hand upon Mr. Fogg’s shoulder,
and, showing his warrant, said, “You are really Phileas Fogg?”
“I am.”
“I arrest you in the Queen’s name!”