Around the World in Eighty Days
“At least, there are two champions in presence of each other, the
Honourable Mr. Camerfield and the Honourable Mr. Mandiboy.”
Aouda, leaning upon Mr. Fogg’s arm, observed the tumultuous scene with
surprise, while Fix asked a man near him what the cause of it all was.
Before the man could reply, a fresh agitation arose; hurrahs and
excited shouts were heard; the staffs of the banners began to be used
as offensive weapons; and fists flew about in every direction. Thumps
were exchanged from the tops of the carriages and omnibuses which had
been blocked up in the crowd. Boots and shoes went whirling through the
air, and Mr. Fogg thought he even heard the crack of revolvers mingling
in the din, the rout approached the stairway, and flowed over the lower
step. One of the parties had evidently been repulsed; but the mere
lookers-on could not tell whether Mandiboy or Camerfield had gained the
upper hand.
“It would be prudent for us to retire,” said Fix, who was anxious that
Mr. Fogg should not receive any injury, at least until they got back to
London. “If there is any question about England in all this, and we
were recognised, I fear it would go hard with us.”
“An English subject—” began Mr. Fogg.
He did not finish his sentence; for a terrific hubbub now arose on the
terrace behind the flight of steps where they stood, and there were
frantic shouts of, “Hurrah for Mandiboy! Hip, hip, hurrah!”
It was a band of voters coming to the rescue of their allies, and
taking the Camerfield forces in flank. Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Fix found
themselves between two fires; it was too late to escape. The torrent of
men, armed with loaded canes and sticks, was irresistible. Phileas Fogg
and Fix were roughly hustled in their attempts to protect their fair
companion; the former, as cool as ever, tried to defend himself with
the weapons which nature has placed at the end of every Englishman’s
arm, but in vain. A big brawny fellow with a red beard, flushed face,
and broad shoulders, who seemed to be the chief of the band, raised his
clenched fist to strike Mr. Fogg, whom he would have given a crushing
blow, had not Fix rushed in and received it in his stead. An enormous
bruise immediately made its appearance under the detective’s silk hat,
which was completely smashed in.
“Yankee!” exclaimed Mr. Fogg, darting a contemptuous look at the
ruffian.
“Englishman!” returned the other. “We will meet again!”
“When you please.”
“What is your name?”
“Phileas Fogg. And yours?”
“Colonel Stamp Proctor.”
The human tide now swept by, after overturning Fix, who speedily got
upon his feet again, though with tattered clothes. Happily, he was not
seriously hurt. His travelling overcoat was divided into two unequal
parts, and his trousers resembled those of certain Indians, which fit
less compactly than they are easy to put on. Aouda had escaped
unharmed, and Fix alone bore marks of the fray in his black and blue
bruise.
“Thanks,” said Mr. Fogg to the detective, as soon as they were out of
the crowd.
“No thanks are necessary,” replied Fix; “but let us go.”
“Where?”
“To a tailor’s.”
Such a visit was, indeed, opportune. The clothing of both Mr. Fogg and
Fix was in rags, as if they had themselves been actively engaged in the
contest between Camerfield and Mandiboy. An hour after, they were once
more suitably attired, and with Aouda returned to the International
Hotel.
Passepartout was waiting for his master, armed with half a dozen
six-barrelled revolvers. When he perceived Fix, he knit his brows; but
Aouda having, in a few words, told him of their adventure, his
countenance resumed its placid expression. Fix evidently was no longer
an enemy, but an ally; he was faithfully keeping his word.
Dinner over, the coach which was to convey the passengers and their
luggage to the station drew up to the door. As he was getting in, Mr.
Fogg said to Fix, “You have not seen this Colonel Proctor again?”
“No.”
“I will come back to America to find him,” said Phileas Fogg calmly.
“It would not be right for an Englishman to permit himself to be
treated in that way, without retaliating.”
The detective smiled, but did not reply. It was clear that Mr. Fogg was
one of those Englishmen who, while they do not tolerate duelling at
home, fight abroad when their honour is attacked.
At a quarter before six the travellers reached the station, and found
the train ready to depart. As he was about to enter it, Mr. Fogg called
a porter, and said to him: “My friend, was there not some trouble
to-day in San Francisco?”
“It was a political meeting, sir,” replied the porter.
“But I thought there was a great deal of disturbance in the streets.”
“It was only a meeting assembled for an election.”
“The election of a general-in-chief, no doubt?” asked Mr. Fogg.
“No, sir; of a justice of the peace.”
Phileas Fogg got into the train, which started off at full speed.
CHAPTER XXVI.
IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG AND PARTY TRAVEL BY THE PACIFIC RAILROAD
“From ocean to ocean”—so say the Americans; and these four words
compose the general designation of the “great trunk line” which crosses
the entire width of the United States. The Pacific Railroad is,
however, really divided into two distinct lines: the Central Pacific,
between San Francisco and Ogden, and the Union Pacific, between Ogden
and Omaha. Five main lines connect Omaha with New York.
New York and San Francisco are thus united by an uninterrupted metal
ribbon, which measures no less than three thousand seven hundred and
eighty-six miles. Between Omaha and the Pacific the railway crosses a
territory which is still infested by Indians and wild beasts, and a
large tract which the Mormons, after they were driven from Illinois in
1845, began to colonise.
The journey from New York to San Francisco consumed, formerly, under
the most favourable conditions, at least six months. It is now
accomplished in seven days.
It was in 1862 that, in spite of the Southern Members of Congress, who
wished a more southerly route, it was decided to lay the road between
the forty-first and forty-second parallels. President Lincoln himself
fixed the end of the line at Omaha, in Nebraska. The work was at once
commenced, and pursued with true American energy; nor did the rapidity
with which it went on injuriously affect its good execution. The road
grew, on the prairies, a mile and a half a day. A locomotive, running
on the rails laid down the evening before, brought the rails to be laid
on the morrow, and advanced upon them as fast as they were put in
position.
The Pacific Railroad is joined by several branches in Iowa, Kansas,
Colorado, and Oregon. On leaving Omaha, it passes along the left bank
of the Platte River as far as the junction of its northern branch,
follows its southern branch, crosses the Laramie territory and the
Wahsatch Mountains, turns the Great Salt Lake, and reaches Salt Lake
City, the Mormon capital, plunges into the Tuilla Valley, across the
American Desert, Cedar and Humboldt Mountains, the Sierra Nevada, and
descends, _viâ_ Sacramento, to the Pacific—its grade, even on the Rocky
Mountains, never exceeding one hundred and twelve feet to the mile.
Such was the road to be traversed in seven days, which would enable
Phileas Fogg—at least, so he hoped—to take the Atlantic steamer at New
York on the 11th for Liverpool.
The car which he occupied was a sort of long omnibus on eight wheels,
and with no compartments in the interior. It was supplied with two rows
of seats, perpendicular to the direction of the train on either side of
an aisle which conducted to the front and rear platforms. These
platforms were found throughout the train, and the passengers were able
to pass from one end of the train to the other. It was supplied with
saloon cars, balcony cars, restaurants, and smoking-cars; theatre cars
alone were wanting, and they will have these some day.
Book and news dealers, sellers of edibles, drinkables, and cigars, who
seemed to have plenty of customers, were continually circulating in the
aisles.
The train left Oakland station at six o’clock. It was already night,
cold and cheerless, the heavens being overcast with clouds which seemed
to threaten snow. The train did not proceed rapidly; counting the
stoppages, it did not run more than twenty miles an hour, which was a
sufficient speed, however, to enable it to reach Omaha within its
designated time.
There was but little conversation in the car, and soon many of the
passengers were overcome with sleep. Passepartout found himself beside
the detective; but he did not talk to him. After recent events, their
relations with each other had grown somewhat cold; there could no
longer be mutual sympathy or intimacy between them. Fix’s manner had
not changed; but Passepartout was very reserved, and ready to strangle
his former friend on the slightest provocation.
Snow began to fall an hour after they started, a fine snow, however,
which happily could not obstruct the train; nothing could be seen from
the windows but a vast, white sheet, against which the smoke of the
locomotive had a greyish aspect.
At eight o’clock a steward entered the car and announced that the time
for going to bed had arrived; and in a few minutes the car was
transformed into a dormitory. The backs of the seats were thrown back,
bedsteads carefully packed were rolled out by an ingenious system,
berths were suddenly improvised, and each traveller had soon at his
disposition a comfortable bed, protected from curious eyes by thick
curtains. The sheets were clean and the pillows soft. It only remained
to go to bed and sleep which everybody did—while the train sped on
across the State of California.
The country between San Francisco and Sacramento is not very hilly. The
Central Pacific, taking Sacramento for its starting-point, extends
eastward to meet the road from Omaha. The line from San Francisco to
Sacramento runs in a north-easterly direction, along the American
River, which empties into San Pablo Bay. The one hundred and twenty
miles between these cities were accomplished in six hours, and towards
midnight, while fast asleep, the travellers passed through Sacramento;
so that they saw nothing of that important place, the seat of the State
government, with its fine quays, its broad streets, its noble hotels,
squares, and churches.
The train, on leaving Sacramento, and passing the junction, Roclin,
Auburn, and Colfax, entered the range of the Sierra Nevada. ’Cisco was
reached at seven in the morning; and an hour later the dormitory was
transformed into an ordinary car, and the travellers could observe the
picturesque beauties of the mountain region through which they were
steaming. The railway track wound in and out among the passes, now
approaching the mountain-sides, now suspended over precipices, avoiding
abrupt angles by bold curves, plunging into narrow defiles, which
seemed to have no outlet. The locomotive, its great funnel emitting a
weird light, with its sharp bell, and its cow-catcher extended like a
spur, mingled its shrieks and bellowings with the noise of torrents and
cascades, and twined its smoke among the branches of the gigantic
pines.
There were few or no bridges or tunnels on the route. The railway
turned around the sides of the mountains, and did not attempt to
violate nature by taking the shortest cut from one point to another.
The train entered the State of Nevada through the Carson Valley about
nine o’clock, going always northeasterly; and at midday reached Reno,
where there was a delay of twenty minutes for breakfast.
From this point the road, running along Humboldt River, passed
northward for several miles by its banks; then it turned eastward, and