Around the World in 80 Days, Jules Verne [easy novels to read TXT] 📗

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.

Sometinies 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 be 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!”