Around the World in 80 Days by Jules Verne (best story books to read .txt) 📕

counted upon it. The crew set to work in good earnest,

inspired by the reward to be gained. There was not a sheet

which was not tightened not a sail which was not vigorously hoisted;

not a lurch could be charged to the man at the helm. They worked

as desperately as if they were contesting in a Royal yacht regatta.

 

By evening, the log showed that two hundred and twenty miles had been

accomplished from Hong Kong, and Mr. Fogg might hope that he would be able

to reach Yokohama without recording any delay in his journal; in which case,

the many misadventures which had overtaken him since he left London

would not seriously affect his journey.

 

The Tankadere entered the Straits of Fo-Kien, which separate

the island of Formosa from the Chinese coast, in the small hours

of the night, and crossed the Tropic of Cancer. The sea was very

rough in the straits, full of eddies formed by the counter-currents,

and the chopping waves broke her course, whilst it became very difficult

to stand on deck.

 

At daybreak the wind began to blow hard again, and the heavens

seemed to predict a gale. The barometer announced a speedy change,

the mercury rising and falling capriciously; the sea also,

in the south-east, raised long surges which indicated a tempest.

The sun had set the evening before in a red mist,

in the midst of the phosphorescent scintillations of the ocean.

 

John Bunsby long examined the threatening aspect of the heavens,

muttering indistinctly between his teeth. At last he said in a low voice

to Mr. Fogg, “Shall I speak out to your honour?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Well, we are going to have a squall.”

 

“Is the wind north or south?” asked Mr. Fogg quietly.

 

“South. Look! a typhoon is coming up.”

 

“Glad it’s a typhoon from the south, for it will carry us forward.”

 

“Oh, if you take it that way,” said John Bunsby, “I’ve nothing more to say.”

John Bunsby’s suspicions were confirmed. At a less advanced season of the year

the typhoon, according to a famous meteorologist, would have passed away

like a luminous cascade of electric flame; but in the winter equinox

it was to be feared that it would burst upon them with great violence.

 

The pilot took his precautions in advance. He reefed all sail,

the pole-masts were dispensed with; all hands went forward to the bows.

A single triangular sail, of strong canvas, was hoisted as a storm-jib,

so as to hold the wind from behind. Then they waited.

 

John Bunsby had requested his passengers to go below; but this

imprisonment in so narrow a space, with little air, and the boat

bouncing in the gale, was far from pleasant. Neither Mr. Fogg,

Fix, nor Aouda consented to leave the deck.

 

The storm of rain and wind descended upon them towards eight o’clock.

With but its bit of sail, the Tankadere was lifted like a feather by a wind,

an idea of whose violence can scarcely be given. To compare her speed

to four times that of a locomotive going on full steam would be below

the truth.

 

The boat scudded thus northward during the whole day, borne on

by monstrous waves, preserving always, fortunately, a speed equal

to 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 northwest. 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.