Around the World in Eighty Days
less than forty miles an hour.
“If nothing breaks,” said Mudge, “we shall get there!”
Mr. Fogg had made it for Mudge’s interest to reach Omaha within the
time agreed on, by the offer of a handsome reward.
The prairie, across which the sledge was moving in a straight line, was
as flat as a sea. It seemed like a vast frozen lake. The railroad which
ran through this section ascended from the south-west to the north-west
by Great Island, Columbus, an important Nebraska town, Schuyler, and
Fremont, to Omaha. It followed throughout the right bank of the Platte
River. The sledge, shortening this route, took a chord of the arc
described by the railway. Mudge was not afraid of being stopped by the
Platte River, because it was frozen. The road, then, was quite clear of
obstacles, and Phileas Fogg had but two things to fear—an accident to
the sledge, and a change or calm in the wind.
But the breeze, far from lessening its force, blew as if to bend the
mast, which, however, the metallic lashings held firmly. These
lashings, like the chords of a stringed instrument, resounded as if
vibrated by a violin bow. The sledge slid along in the midst of a
plaintively intense melody.
“Those chords give the fifth and the octave,” said Mr. Fogg.
These were the only words he uttered during the journey. Aouda, cosily
packed in furs and cloaks, was sheltered as much as possible from the
attacks of the freezing wind. As for Passepartout, his face was as red
as the sun’s disc when it sets in the mist, and he laboriously inhaled
the biting air. With his natural buoyancy of spirits, he began to hope
again. They would reach New York on the evening, if not on the morning,
of the 11th, and there were still some chances that it would be before
the steamer sailed for Liverpool.
Passepartout even felt a strong desire to grasp his ally, Fix, by the
hand. He remembered that it was the detective who procured the sledge,
the only means of reaching Omaha in time; but, checked by some
presentiment, he kept his usual reserve. One thing, however,
Passepartout would never forget, and that was the sacrifice which Mr.
Fogg had made, without hesitation, to rescue him from the Sioux. Mr.
Fogg had risked his fortune and his life. No! His servant would never
forget that!
While each of the party was absorbed in reflections so different, the
sledge flew past over the vast carpet of snow. The creeks it passed
over were not perceived. Fields and streams disappeared under the
uniform whiteness. The plain was absolutely deserted. Between the Union
Pacific road and the branch which unites Kearney with Saint Joseph it
formed a great uninhabited island. Neither village, station, nor fort
appeared. From time to time they sped by some phantom-like tree, whose
white skeleton twisted and rattled in the wind. Sometimes flocks of
wild birds rose, or bands of gaunt, famished, ferocious prairie-wolves
ran howling after the sledge. Passepartout, revolver in hand, held
himself ready to fire on those which came too near. Had an accident
then happened to the sledge, the travellers, attacked by these beasts,
would have been in the most terrible danger; but it held on its even
course, soon gained on the wolves, and ere long left the howling band
at a safe distance behind.
About noon Mudge perceived by certain landmarks that he was crossing
the Platte River. He said nothing, but he felt certain that he was now
within twenty miles of Omaha. In less than an hour he left the rudder
and furled his sails, whilst the sledge, carried forward by the great
impetus the wind had given it, went on half a mile further with its
sails unspread.
It stopped at last, and Mudge, pointing to a mass of roofs white with
snow, said: “We have got there!”
Arrived! Arrived at the station which is in daily communication, by
numerous trains, with the Atlantic seaboard!
Passepartout and Fix jumped off, stretched their stiffened limbs, and
aided Mr. Fogg and the young woman to descend from the sledge. Phileas
Fogg generously rewarded Mudge, whose hand Passepartout warmly grasped,
and the party directed their steps to the Omaha railway station.
The Pacific Railroad proper finds its terminus at this important
Nebraska town. Omaha is connected with Chicago by the Chicago and Rock
Island Railroad, which runs directly east, and passes fifty stations.
A train was ready to start when Mr. Fogg and his party reached the
station, and they only had time to get into the cars. They had seen
nothing of Omaha; but Passepartout confessed to himself that this was
not to be regretted, as they were not travelling to see the sights.
The train passed rapidly across the State of Iowa, by Council Bluffs,
Des Moines, and Iowa City. During the night it crossed the Mississippi
at Davenport, and by Rock Island entered Illinois. The next day, which
was the 10th, at four o’clock in the evening, it reached Chicago,
already risen from its ruins, and more proudly seated than ever on the
borders of its beautiful Lake Michigan.
Nine hundred miles separated Chicago from New York; but trains are not
wanting at Chicago. Mr. Fogg passed at once from one to the other, and
the locomotive of the Pittsburgh, Fort Wayne, and Chicago Railway left
at full speed, as if it fully comprehended that that gentleman had no
time to lose. It traversed Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey
like a flash, rushing through towns with antique names, some of which
had streets and car-tracks, but as yet no houses. At last the Hudson
came into view; and, at a quarter-past eleven in the evening of the
11th, the train stopped in the station on the right bank of the river,
before the very pier of the Cunard line.
The “China,” for Liverpool, had started three-quarters of an hour
before!
CHAPTER XXXII.
IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG ENGAGES IN A DIRECT STRUGGLE WITH BAD FORTUNE
The “China,” in leaving, seemed to have carried off Phileas Fogg’s last
hope. None of the other steamers were able to serve his projects. The
“Pereire,” of the French Transatlantic Company, whose admirable
steamers are equal to any in speed and comfort, did not leave until the
14th; the Hamburg boats did not go directly to Liverpool or London, but
to Havre; and the additional trip from Havre to Southampton would
render Phileas Fogg’s last efforts of no avail. The Inman steamer did
not depart till the next day, and could not cross the Atlantic in time
to save the wager.
Mr. Fogg learned all this in consulting his “Bradshaw,” which gave him
the daily movements of the transatlantic steamers.
Passepartout was crushed; it overwhelmed him to lose the boat by
three-quarters of an hour. It was his fault, for, instead of helping
his master, he had not ceased putting obstacles in his path! And when
he recalled all the incidents of the tour, when he counted up the sums
expended in pure loss and on his own account, when he thought that the
immense stake, added to the heavy charges of this useless journey,
would completely ruin Mr. Fogg, he overwhelmed himself with bitter
self-accusations. Mr. Fogg, however, did not reproach him; and, on
leaving the Cunard pier, only said: “We will consult about what is best
to-morrow. Come.”
The party crossed the Hudson in the Jersey City ferryboat, and drove in
a carriage to the St. Nicholas Hotel, on Broadway. Rooms were engaged,
and the night passed, briefly to Phileas Fogg, who slept profoundly,
but very long to Aouda and the others, whose agitation did not permit
them to rest.
The next day was the 12th of December. From seven in the morning of the
12th to a quarter before nine in the evening of the 21st there were
nine days, thirteen hours, and forty-five minutes. If Phileas Fogg had
left in the “China,” one of the fastest steamers on the Atlantic, he
would have reached Liverpool, and then London, within the period agreed
upon.
Mr. Fogg left the hotel alone, after giving Passepartout instructions
to await his return, and inform Aouda to be ready at an instant’s
notice. He proceeded to the banks of the Hudson, and looked about among
the vessels moored or anchored in the river, for any that were about to
depart. Several had departure signals, and were preparing to put to sea
at morning tide; for in this immense and admirable port there is not
one day in a hundred that vessels do not set out for every quarter of
the globe. But they were mostly sailing vessels, of which, of course,
Phileas Fogg could make no use.
He seemed about to give up all hope, when he espied, anchored at the
Battery, a cable’s length off at most, a trading vessel, with a screw,
well-shaped, whose funnel, puffing a cloud of smoke, indicated that she
was getting ready for departure.
Phileas Fogg hailed a boat, got into it, and soon found himself on
board the “Henrietta,” iron-hulled, wood-built above. He ascended to
the deck, and asked for the captain, who forthwith presented himself.
He was a man of fifty, a sort of sea-wolf, with big eyes, a complexion
of oxidised copper, red hair and thick neck, and a growling voice.
“The captain?” asked Mr. Fogg.
“I am the captain.”
“I am Phileas Fogg, of London.”
“And I am Andrew Speedy, of Cardiff.”
“You are going to put to sea?”
“In an hour.”
“You are bound for—”
“Bordeaux.”
“And your cargo?”
“No freight. Going in ballast.”
“Have you any passengers?”
“No passengers. Never have passengers. Too much in the way.”
“Is your vessel a swift one?”
“Between eleven and twelve knots. The “Henrietta,” well known.”
“Will you carry me and three other persons to Liverpool?”
“To Liverpool? Why not to China?”
“I said Liverpool.”
“No!”
“No?”
“No. I am setting out for Bordeaux, and shall go to Bordeaux.”
“Money is no object?”
“None.”
The captain spoke in a tone which did not admit of a reply.
“But the owners of the ‘Henrietta’—” resumed Phileas Fogg.
“The owners are myself,” replied the captain. “The vessel belongs to
me.”
“I will freight it for you.”
“No.”
“I will buy it of you.”
“No.”
Phileas Fogg did not betray the least disappointment; but the situation
was a grave one. It was not at New York as at Hong Kong, nor with the
captain of the “Henrietta” as with the captain of the “Tankadere.” Up
to this time money had smoothed away every obstacle. Now money failed.
Still, some means must be found to cross the Atlantic on a boat, unless
by balloon—which would have been venturesome, besides not being capable
of being put in practice. It seemed that Phileas Fogg had an idea, for
he said to the captain, “Well, will you carry me to Bordeaux?”
“No, not if you paid me two hundred dollars.”
“I offer you two thousand.”
“Apiece?”
“Apiece.”
“And there are four of you?”
“Four.”
Captain Speedy began to scratch his head. There were eight thousand
dollars to gain, without changing his route; for which it was well
worth conquering the repugnance he had for all kinds of passengers.
Besides, passengers at two thousand dollars are no longer passengers,
but valuable merchandise. “I start at nine o’clock,” said Captain
Speedy, simply. “Are you and your party ready?”
“We will be on board at nine o’clock,” replied, no less simply, Mr.
Fogg.
It was half-past eight. To disembark from the “Henrietta,” jump into a
hack, hurry to the St. Nicholas, and return with Aouda, Passepartout,
and even the inseparable Fix was the work of a brief time, and was
performed by Mr. Fogg with the coolness which never abandoned him. They
were on board when the “Henrietta” made ready to weigh anchor.
When Passepartout heard what this last voyage was going to cost, he
uttered a prolonged “Oh!” which extended throughout his vocal gamut.
As for Fix, he said to himself that the Bank of England would certainly