Around the World in Eighty Days
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.
CHAPTER XXII.
IN WHICH PASSEPARTOUT FINDS OUT THAT, EVEN AT THE ANTIPODES, IT IS
CONVENIENT TO HAVE SOME MONEY IN ONE’S POCKET
The “Carnatic,” setting sail from Hong Kong at half-past six on the 7th
of November, directed her course at full steam towards Japan. She
carried a large cargo and a well-filled cabin of passengers. Two
state-rooms in the rear were, however, unoccupied—those which had been
engaged by Phileas Fogg.
The next day a passenger with a half-stupefied eye, staggering gait,
and disordered hair, was seen to emerge from the second cabin, and to
totter to a seat on deck.
It was Passepartout; and what had happened to him was as follows:
Shortly after Fix left the opium den, two waiters had lifted the
unconscious Passepartout, and had carried him to the bed reserved for
the smokers. Three hours later, pursued even in his dreams by a fixed
idea, the poor fellow awoke, and struggled against the stupefying
influence of the narcotic. The thought of a duty unfulfilled shook off
his torpor, and he hurried from the abode of drunkenness. Staggering
and holding himself up by keeping against the walls, falling down and
creeping up again, and irresistibly impelled by a kind of instinct, he
kept crying out, “The ‘Carnatic!’ the ‘Carnatic!’”
The steamer lay puffing alongside the quay, on the point of starting.
Passepartout had but few steps to go; and, rushing upon the plank, he
crossed it, and fell unconscious on the deck, just as the “Carnatic”
was moving off. Several sailors, who were evidently accustomed to this
sort of scene, carried the poor Frenchman down into the second cabin,
and Passepartout did not wake until they were one hundred and fifty
miles away from China. Thus he found himself the next morning on the
deck of the “Carnatic,” and eagerly inhaling the exhilarating
sea-breeze. The pure air sobered him. He began to collect his sense,
which he found a difficult task; but at last he recalled the events of
the evening before, Fix’s revelation, and the opium-house.
“It is evident,” said he to himself, “that I have been abominably
drunk! What will Mr. Fogg say? At least I have not missed the steamer,
which is the most important thing.”
Then, as Fix occurred to him: “As for that rascal, I hope we are well
rid of him, and that he has not dared, as he proposed, to follow us on
board the “Carnatic.” A detective on the track of Mr. Fogg, accused of
robbing the Bank of England! Pshaw! Mr. Fogg is no more a robber than I
am a murderer.”
Should he divulge Fix’s real errand to his master? Would it do to tell
the part the detective was playing? Would it not be better to wait
until Mr. Fogg reached London again, and then impart to him that an
agent of the metropolitan police had been following him round the
world, and have a good laugh over it? No doubt; at least, it was worth
considering. The first thing to do was to find Mr. Fogg, and apologise
for his singular behaviour.
Passepartout got up and proceeded, as well as he could with the rolling
of the steamer, to the after-deck. He saw no one who resembled either
his master or Aouda. “Good!” muttered he; “Aouda has not got up yet,
and Mr. Fogg has probably found some partners at whist.”
He descended to the saloon. Mr. Fogg was not there. Passepartout had
only, however, to ask the purser the number of his master’s state-room.
The purser replied that he did not know any passenger by the name of
Fogg.
“I beg your pardon,” said Passepartout persistently. “He is a tall
gentleman, quiet, and not very talkative, and has with him a young
lady—”
“There is no young lady on board,” interrupted the purser. “Here is a
list of the passengers; you may see for yourself.”
Passepartout scanned the list, but his master’s name was not upon it.
All at once an idea struck him.
“Ah! am I on the ‘Carnatic?’”
“Yes.”
“On the way to Yokohama?”
“Certainly.”
Passepartout had for an instant feared that he was on the wrong boat;
but, though he was really on the “Carnatic,” his master was not there.
He fell thunderstruck on a seat. He saw it all now. He remembered that
the time of sailing had been changed, that he should have informed his
master of that fact, and that he had not done so. It was his fault,
then, that Mr. Fogg and Aouda had missed the steamer. Yes, but it was
still more the fault of the traitor who, in order to separate him from
his master, and detain the latter at Hong Kong, had inveigled him into
getting drunk! He now saw the detective’s trick; and at this moment Mr.
Fogg was certainly ruined, his bet was lost, and he himself perhaps
arrested and imprisoned! At this thought Passepartout tore his hair.
Ah, if Fix ever came within his reach, what a settling of accounts
there would be!
After his first depression, Passepartout became calmer, and began to
study his situation. It was certainly not an enviable one. He found
himself on the way to Japan, and what should he do when he got there?
His pocket was empty; he had not a solitary shilling, not so much as a
penny. His passage had fortunately been paid for in advance; and he had
five or six days in which to decide upon his future course. He fell to
at meals with an appetite, and ate for Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and himself. He
helped himself as generously as if Japan were a desert, where nothing
to eat was to be looked for.
At dawn on the 13th the “Carnatic” entered the port of Yokohama. This
is an important port of call in the Pacific, where all the
mail-steamers, and those carrying travellers between North America,
China, Japan, and the Oriental islands put in. It is situated in the
bay of Yeddo, and at but a short distance from that second capital of
the Japanese Empire, and the residence of the Tycoon, the civil
Emperor, before the Mikado, the spiritual Emperor, absorbed his office
in his own. The “Carnatic” anchored at the quay near the custom-house,
in the midst of a crowd of ships bearing the flags of all nations.
Passepartout went timidly ashore on this so curious territory of the
Sons of the Sun. He had nothing better to do than, taking chance for
his guide, to wander aimlessly through the streets of Yokohama. He
found himself at first in a thoroughly European quarter, the houses
having low fronts, and being adorned with verandas, beneath which he
caught glimpses of neat peristyles. This quarter occupied, with its
streets, squares, docks, and warehouses, all the space between the
“promontory of the Treaty” and the river. Here, as at Hong Kong and
Calcutta, were mixed crowds of all races, Americans and English,
Chinamen and Dutchmen, mostly merchants ready to buy or sell anything.
The Frenchman felt himself as much alone among them as if he had
dropped down in the midst of Hottentots.