Around the World in 80 Days by Jules Verne (best story books to read .txt) 📕
and sat down to the Pall Mall at twenty minutes before six. Half an hour later several members of the Reform came in and drew up to the fireplace, where a coal fire was steadily burning. They were Mr. Fogg's usual partners at whist: Andrew Stuart, an engineer; John Sullivan and Samuel Fallentin, bankers; Thomas Flanagan, a brewer; and Gauthier Ralph, one of the Directors of the Bank of England-- all rich and highly respectable personages, even in a club which comprises the princes of English trade and finance.
"Well, Ralph," said Thomas Flanagan, "what about that robbery?"
"Oh," replied Stuart, "the Bank will lose the money."
"On the contrary," broke in Ralph, "I hope we may put our hands on the robber. Skilful detectives have been sent to all the principal ports of America and the Continent, and he'll be a clever fellow if he slips through their fingers."
"But have you got the robber's description?" asked Stuart.
"In the first place, he is no robber at all," returned Ralph
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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!
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 tomorrow. 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, passenger’s
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
not come out of this affair well indemnified. When they reached England,
even if Mr. Fogg did not throw some handfuls of bank-bills into the sea,
more than seven thousand pounds would have been spent!
IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG SHOWS HIMSELF EQUAL TO THE OCCASION
An hour after, the Henrietta passed the lighthouse which marks the
entrance of the Hudson, turned the point of Sandy Hook, and put to
sea. During the day she skirted Long Island, passed Fire Island,
and directed her course rapidly eastward.
At noon the next day, a man mounted the bridge to ascertain the
vessel’s position. It might be thought that this was Captain Speedy.
Not the least in the world. It was Phileas Fogg, Esquire.
As for Captain Speedy, he was shut up in his cabin under lock and key,
and was uttering loud cries, which signified an anger at once pardonable
and excessive.
What had happened was very simple. Phileas Fogg wished
to go to Liverpool, but the captain would not carry him there.
Then Phileas Fogg had taken passage for Bordeaux, and, during
the thirty hours he had been on board, had so shrewdly managed
with his banknotes that the sailors and stokers, who were only
an occasional crew, and were not on the best terms with the captain,
went over to him in a body. This was why Phileas Fogg was in command
instead of Captain Speedy; why the captain was a prisoner in his cabin;
and why, in short, the Henrietta was directing her course towards Liverpool.
It was very clear, to see Mr. Fogg manage the craft, that he had been a sailor.
How the adventure ended will be seen anon. Aouda was anxious, though she
said nothing. As for Passepartout, he thought Mr. Fogg’s manoeuvre
simply glorious. The captain had said “between eleven and twelve knots,”
and the Henrietta confirmed his prediction.
If, then—for there were “ifs” still—the sea did not become
too boisterous, if the wind did not veer round to the east,
if no accident happened to the boat or its machinery, the Henrietta
might cross the three thousand miles from New York to Liverpool
in the nine days, between the 12th and the 21st of December.
It is true that, once arrived, the affair on board the Henrietta,
added to that of the Bank of England, might create more difficulties
for Mr. Fogg than he imagined or could desire.
During the first days, they went along smoothly enough. The sea was
not very unpropitious, the wind seemed stationary in the northeast,
the sails were hoisted, and the Henrietta ploughed across the waves
like a real transAtlantic steamer.
Passepartout was delighted. His master’s last exploit, the consequences
of which he ignored, enchanted him. Never had the crew seen so jolly
and dexterous a fellow. He formed warm friendships with the sailors,
and amazed them with his acrobatic feats. He thought they managed
the vessel like gentlemen, and that the stokers fired up like heroes.
His loquacious good-humour infected everyone. He had forgotten the past,
its vexations and delays. He only thought of the end, so nearly accomplished;
and sometimes he boiled over with impatience, as if heated by the furnaces
of the Henrietta. Often, also, the worthy fellow revolved around Fix,
looking at him with a keen, distrustful eye; but he did not speak to him,
for their old intimacy no longer existed.
Fix, it must be confessed, understood nothing of what was going on.
The conquest of the Henrietta, the bribery of the crew, Fogg managing
the boat like a skilled seaman, amazed and confused him. He did not know
what to think. For, after all, a man who began by stealing fifty-five thousand
pounds might end by stealing a vessel; and Fix was not unnaturally inclined
to conclude that the Henrietta under Fogg’s command, was not going to Liverpool
at all, but to some part of the world where the robber, turned into a pirate,
would quietly put himself in safety. The conjecture was at least a plausible
one, and the detective began to seriously regret that he had embarked
on the affair.
As for Captain Speedy, he continued to howl and growl in his cabin;
and Passepartout, whose duty it was to carry him his meals,
courageous as he was, took the greatest precautions. Mr. Fogg
did not seem even to know that there was a captain on board.
On the 13th they passed the edge of the Banks of Newfoundland,
a dangerous locality;
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