Around the World in 80 Days

Chapter XXI

IN WHICH THE MAS­TER OF THE “TANKADERE” RUNS GREAT RISK OF LOS­ING A RE­WARD OF TWO HUN­DRED POUNDS

This voy­age of eight hun­dred miles was a per­ilous ven­ture on a craft of twen­ty tons, and at that sea­son of the year. The Chi­nese seas are usu­al­ly bois­ter­ous, sub­ject to ter­ri­ble gales of wind, and es­pe­cial­ly dur­ing the equinox­es; and it was now ear­ly Novem­ber.

It would clear­ly have been to the mas­ter's ad­van­tage to car­ry his pas­sen­gers to Yoko­hama, since he was paid a cer­tain sum per day; but he would have been rash to at­tempt such a voy­age, and it was im­pru­dent even to at­tempt to reach Shang­hai. But John Buns­by be­lieved in the Tankadere, which rode on the waves like a seag­ull; and per­haps he was not wrong.

Late in the day they passed through the capri­cious chan­nels of Hong Kong, and the Tankadere, im­pelled by favourable winds, con­duct­ed her­self ad­mirably.

“I do not need, pi­lot,” said Phileas Fogg, when they got in­to the open sea, “to ad­vise you to use all pos­si­ble speed.”

“Trust me, your hon­our. We are car­ry­ing all the sail the wind will let us. The poles would add noth­ing, and are on­ly used when we are go­ing in­to port.”

“Its your trade, not mine, pi­lot, and I con­fide in you.”

Phileas Fogg, with body erect and legs wide apart, stand­ing like a sailor, gazed with­out stag­ger­ing at the swelling wa­ters. The young wom­an, who was seat­ed aft, was pro­found­ly af­fect­ed as she looked out up­on the ocean, dark­en­ing now with the twi­light, on which she had ven­tured in so frail a ves­sel. Above her head rus­tled the white sails, which seemed like great white wings. The boat, car­ried for­ward by the wind, seemed to be fly­ing in the air.

Night came. The moon was en­ter­ing her first quar­ter, and her in­suf­fi­cient light would soon die out in the mist on the hori­zon. Clouds were ris­ing from the east, and al­ready over­cast a part of the heav­ens.

The pi­lot had hung out his lights, which was very nec­es­sary in these seas crowd­ed with ves­sels bound land­ward; for col­li­sions are not un­com­mon oc­cur­rences, and, at the speed she was go­ing, the least shock would shat­ter the gal­lant lit­tle craft.

Fix, seat­ed in the bow, gave him­self up to med­ita­tion. He kept apart from his fel­low-​trav­ellers, know­ing Mr. Fogg's tac­iturn tastes; be­sides, he did not quite like to talk to the man whose favours he had ac­cept­ed. He was think­ing, too, of the fu­ture. It seemed cer­tain that Fogg would not stop at Yoko­hama, but would at once take the boat for San Fran­cis­co; and the vast ex­tent of Amer­ica would en­sure him im­puni­ty and safe­ty. Fogg's plan ap­peared to him the sim­plest in the world. In­stead of sail­ing di­rect­ly from Eng­land to the Unit­ed States, like a com­mon vil­lain, he had tra­versed three quar­ters of the globe, so as to gain the Amer­ican con­ti­nent more sure­ly; and there, af­ter throw­ing the po­lice off his track, he would qui­et­ly en­joy him­self with the for­tune stolen from the bank. But, once in the Unit­ed States, what should he, Fix, do? Should he aban­don this man? No, a hun­dred times no! Un­til he had se­cured his ex­tra­di­tion, he would not lose sight of him for an hour. It was his du­ty, and he would ful­fil it to the end. At all events, there was one thing to be thank­ful for; Passep­artout was not with his mas­ter; and it was above all im­por­tant, af­ter the con­fi­dences Fix had im­part­ed to him, that the ser­vant should nev­er have speech with his mas­ter.

Phileas Fogg was al­so think­ing of Passep­artout, who had so strange­ly dis­ap­peared. Look­ing at the mat­ter from ev­ery point of view, it did not seem to him im­pos­si­ble that, by some mis­take, the man might have em­barked on the Car­nat­ic at the last mo­ment; and this was al­so Aou­da's opin­ion, who re­gret­ted very much the loss of the wor­thy fel­low to whom she owed so much. They might then find him at Yoko­hama; for, if the Car­nat­ic was car­ry­ing him thith­er, it would be easy to as­cer­tain if he had been on board.

A brisk breeze arose about ten o'clock; but, though it might have been pru­dent to take in a reef, the pi­lot, af­ter care­ful­ly ex­am­in­ing the heav­ens, let the craft re­main rigged as be­fore. The Tankadere bore sail ad­mirably, as she drew a great deal of wa­ter, and ev­ery­thing was pre­pared for high speed in case of a gale.

Mr. Fogg and Aou­da de­scend­ed in­to the cab­in at mid­night, hav­ing been al­ready pre­ced­ed by Fix, who had lain down on one of the cots. The pi­lot and crew re­mained on deck all night.

At sun­rise the next day, which was 8th Novem­ber, the boat had made more than one hun­dred miles. The log in­di­cat­ed a mean speed of be­tween eight and nine miles. The Tankadere still car­ried all sail, and was ac­com­plish­ing her great­est ca­pac­ity of speed. If the wind held as it was, the chances would be in her favour. Dur­ing the day she kept along the coast, where the cur­rents were favourable; the coast, ir­reg­ular in pro­file, and vis­ible some­times across the clear­ings, was at most five miles dis­tant. The sea was less bois­ter­ous, since the wind came off land--a for­tu­nate cir­cum­stance for the boat, which would suf­fer, ow­ing to its small ton­nage, by a heavy surge on the sea.

The breeze sub­sid­ed a lit­tle to­wards noon, and set in from the south-​west. The pi­lot put up his poles, but took them down again with­in two hours, as the wind fresh­ened up anew.

Mr. Fogg and Aou­da, hap­pi­ly un­af­fect­ed by the rough­ness of the sea, ate with a good ap­petite, Fix be­ing in­vit­ed to share their repast, which he ac­cept­ed with se­cret cha­grin. To trav­el at this man's ex­pense and live up­on his pro­vi­sions was not palat­able to him. Still, he was obliged to eat, and so he ate.

When the meal was over, he took Mr. Fogg apart, and said, “sir”--this “sir” scorched his lips, and he had to con­trol him­self to avoid col­lar­ing this “gen­tle­man”--“sir, you have been very kind to give me a pas­sage on this boat. But, though my means will not ad­mit of my ex­pend­ing them as freely as you, I must ask to pay my share--”

“Let us not speak of that, sir,” replied Mr. Fogg.

“But, if I in­sist--”

“No, sir,” re­peat­ed Mr. Fogg, in a tone which did not ad­mit of a re­ply. “This en­ters in­to my gen­er­al ex­pens­es.”

Fix, as he bowed, had a sti­fled feel­ing, and, go­ing for­ward, where he en­sconced him­self, did not open his mouth for the rest of the day.

Mean­while they were pro­gress­ing fa­mous­ly, and John Buns­by was in high hope. He sev­er­al times as­sured Mr. Fogg that they would reach Shang­hai in time; to which that gen­tle­man re­spond­ed that he 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 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.