From the Earth to the Moon; and, Round the Moon

CHAPTER XXI

J. T. MAS­TON RE­CALLED

“It is `they’ come back again!” the young mid­ship­man had said, and ev­ery one had un­der­stood him. No one doubt­ed but that the me­te­or was the pro­jec­tile of the Gun Club. As to the trav­el­ers which it en­closed, opin­ions were di­vid­ed re­gard­ing their fate.

“They are dead!” said one.

“They are alive!” said an­oth­er; “the crater is deep, and the shock was dead­ened.”

“But they must have want­ed air,” con­tin­ued a third speak­er; “they must have died of suf­fo­ca­tion.”

“Burned!” replied a fourth; “the pro­jec­tile was noth­ing but an in­can­des­cent mass as it crossed the at­mo­sphere.”

“What does it mat­ter!” they ex­claimed unan­imous­ly; “liv­ing or dead, we must pull them out!”

But Cap­tain Bloms­ber­ry had as­sem­bled his of­fi­cers, and “with their per­mis­sion,” was hold­ing a coun­cil. They must de­cide up­on some­thing to be done im­me­di­ate­ly. The more hasty ones were for fish­ing up the pro­jec­tile. A dif­fi­cult op­er­ation, though not an im­pos­si­ble one. But the corvette had no prop­er ma­chin­ery, which must be both fixed and pow­er­ful; so it was re­solved that they should put in at the near­est port, and give in­for­ma­tion to the Gun Club of the pro­jec­tile’s fall.

This de­ter­mi­na­tion was unan­imous. The choice of the port had to be dis­cussed. The neigh­bor­ing coast had no an­chor­age on 27@ lat­itude. High­er up, above the penin­su­la of Mon­terey, stands the im­por­tant town from which it takes its name; but, seat­ed on the bor­ders of a per­fect desert, it was not con­nect­ed with the in­te­ri­or by a net­work of tele­graph­ic wires, and elec­tric­ity alone could spread these im­por­tant news fast enough.

Some de­grees above opened the bay of San Fran­cis­co. Through the cap­ital of the gold coun­try com­mu­ni­ca­tion would be easy with the heart of the Union. And in less than two days the Susque­han­na, by putting on high pres­sure, could ar­rive in that port. She must there­fore start at once.

The fires were made up; they could set off im­me­di­ate­ly. Two thou­sand fath­oms of line were still out, which Cap­tain Bloms­ber­ry, not wish­ing to lose pre­cious time in haul­ing in, re­solved to cut.

“we will fas­ten the end to a buoy,” said he, “and that buoy will show us the ex­act spot where the pro­jec­tile fell.”

“Be­sides,” replied Lieu­tenant Brons­field, “we have our sit­ua­tion ex­act– 27@ 7′ north lat­itude and 41@ 37′ west lon­gi­tude.”

“Well, Mr. Brons­field,” replied the cap­tain, “now, with your per­mis­sion, we will have the line cut.”

A strong buoy, strength­ened by a cou­ple of spars, was thrown in­to the ocean. The end of the rope was care­ful­ly lashed to it; and, left sole­ly to the rise and fall of the bil­lows, the buoy would not sen­si­bly de­vi­ate from the spot.

At this mo­ment the en­gi­neer sent to in­form the cap­tain that steam was up and they could start, for which agree­able com­mu­ni­ca­tion the cap­tain thanked him. The course was then giv­en north-​north­east, and the corvette, wear­ing, steered at full steam di­rect for San Fran­cis­co. It was three in the morn­ing.

Four hun­dred and fifty miles to cross; it was noth­ing for a good ves­sel like the Susque­han­na. In thir­ty-​six hours she had cov­ered that dis­tance; and on the 14th of De­cem­ber, at twen­ty-​sev­en min­utes past one at night, she en­tered the bay of San Fran­cis­co.

At the sight of a ship of the na­tion­al navy ar­riv­ing at full speed, with her bowsprit bro­ken, pub­lic cu­rios­ity was great­ly roused. A dense crowd soon as­sem­bled on the quay, wait­ing for them to dis­em­bark.

Af­ter cast­ing an­chor, Cap­tain Bloms­ber­ry and Lieu­tenant Brons­field en­tered an eight-​pared cut­ter, which soon brought them to land.

They jumped on to the quay.

“The tele­graph?” they asked, with­out an­swer­ing one of the thou­sand ques­tions ad­dressed to them.

The of­fi­cer of the port con­duct­ed them to the tele­graph of­fice through a con­course of spec­ta­tors. Bloms­ber­ry and Brons­field en­tered, while the crowd crushed each oth­er at the door.

Some min­utes lat­er a four­fold tele­gram was sent out–the first to the Naval Sec­re­tary at Wash­ing­ton; the sec­ond to the vice-​pres­ident of the Gun Club, Bal­ti­more; the third to the Hon. J. T. Mas­ton, Long’s Peak, Rocky Moun­tains; and the fourth to the sub-​di­rec­tor of the Cam­bridge Ob­ser­va­to­ry, Mas­sachusetts.

It was word­ed as fol­lows:

In 20@ 7′ north lat­itude, and 41@ 37′ west lon­gi­tude, on the 12th of De­cem­ber, at sev­en­teen min­utes past one in the morn­ing, the pro­jec­tile of the Columbi­ad fell in­to the Pa­cif­ic. Send in­struc­tions.– BLOMS­BER­RY, Com­man­der Susque­han­na.

Five min­utes af­ter­ward the whole town of San Fran­cis­co learned the news. Be­fore six in the evening the dif­fer­ent States of the Union had heard the great catas­tro­phe; and af­ter mid­night, by the ca­ble, the whole of Eu­rope knew the re­sult of the great Amer­ican ex­per­iment. We will not at­tempt to pic­ture the ef­fect pro­duced on the en­tire world by that un­ex­pect­ed de­noue­ment.

On re­ceipt of the tele­gram the Naval Sec­re­tary tele­graphed to the Susque­han­na to wait in the bay of San Fran­cis­co with­out ex­tin­guish­ing her fires. Day and night she must be ready to put to sea.

The Cam­bridge ob­ser­va­to­ry called a spe­cial meet­ing; and, with that com­po­sure which dis­tin­guish­es learned bod­ies in gen­er­al, peace­ful­ly dis­cussed the sci­en­tif­ic bear­ings of the ques­tion. At the Gun Club there was an ex­plo­sion. All the gun­ners were as­sem­bled. Vice-​Pres­ident the Hon. Wilcome was in the act of read­ing the pre­ma­ture dis­patch, in which J. T. Mas­ton and Belfast an­nounced that the pro­jec­tile had just been seen in the gi­gan­tic re­flec­tor of Long’s Peak, and al­so that it was held by lu­nar at­trac­tion, and was play­ing the part of un­der satel­lite to the lu­nar world.

We know the truth on that point.

But on the ar­rival of Bloms­ber­ry’s dis­patch, so de­cide­ly con­tra­dict­ing J. T. Mas­ton’s tele­gram, two par­ties were formed in the bo­som of the Gun Club. On one side were those who ad­mit­ted the fall of the pro­jec­tile, and con­se­quent­ly the re­turn of the trav­el­ers; on the oth­er, those who be­lieved in the ob­ser­va­tions of Long’s Peak, con­clud­ed that the com­man­der of the Susque­han­na had made a mis­take. To the lat­ter the pre­tend­ed pro­jec­tile was noth­ing but a me­te­or! noth­ing but a me­te­or, a shoot­ing globe, which in its fall had smashed the bows of the corvette. It was dif­fi­cult to an­swer this ar­gu­ment, for the speed with which it was an­imat­ed must have made ob­ser­va­tion very dif­fi­cult. The com­man­der of the Susque­han­na and her of­fi­cers might have made a mis­take in all good faith; one ar­gu­ment how­ev­er, was in their fa­vor, name­ly, that if the pro­jec­tile had fall­en on the earth, its place of meet­ing with the ter­res­tri­al globe could on­ly take place on this 27@ north lat­itude, and (tak­ing in­to con­sid­er­ation the time that had elapsed, and the ro­tary mo­tion of the earth) be­tween the 41@ and the 42@ of west lon­gi­tude. In any case, it was de­cid­ed in the Gun Club that Bloms­ber­ry broth­ers, Bils­by, and Ma­jor El­phin­stone should go straight to San Fran­cis­co, and con­sult as to the means of rais­ing the pro­jec­tile from the depths of the ocean.

These de­vot­ed men set off at once; and the rail­road, which will soon cross the whole of Cen­tral Amer­ica, took them as far as St. Louis, where the swift mail-​coach­es await­ed them. Al­most at the same mo­ment in which the Sec­re­tary of Ma­rine, the vice-​pres­ident of the Gun Club, and the sub-​di­rec­tor of the Ob­ser­va­to­ry re­ceived the dis­patch from San Fran­cis­co, the Hon­or­able J. T. Mas­ton was un­der­go­ing the great­est ex­cite­ment he had ev­er ex­pe­ri­enced in his life, an ex­cite­ment which even the burst­ing of his pet gun, which had more than once near­ly cost him his life, had not caused him. We may re­mem­ber that the sec­re­tary of the Gun Club had start­ed soon af­ter the pro­jec­tile (and al­most as quick­ly) for the sta­tion on Long’s Peak, in the Rocky Moun­tains, J. Belfast, di­rec­tor of the Cam­bridge Ob­ser­va­to­ry, ac­com­pa­ny­ing him. Ar­rived there, the two friends had in­stalled them­selves at once, nev­er quit­ting the sum­mit of their enor­mous tele­scope. We know that this gi­gan­tic in­stru­ment had been set up ac­cord­ing to the re­flect­ing sys­tem, called by the En­glish “front view.” This ar­range­ment sub­ject­ed all ob­jects to but one re­flec­tion, mak­ing the view con­se­quent­ly much clear­er; the re­sult was that, when they were tak­ing ob­ser­va­tion, J. T. Mas­ton and Belfast were placed in the _up­per_ part of the in­stru­ment and not in the low­er, which they reached by a cir­cu­lar stair­case, a mas­ter­piece of light­ness, while be­low them opened a met­al well ter­mi­nat­ed by the metal­lic mir­ror, which mea­sured two hun­dred and eighty feet in depth.

It was on a nar­row plat­form placed above the tele­scope that the two sa­vants passed their ex­is­tence, ex­ecrat­ing the day which hid the moon from their eyes, and the clouds which ob­sti­nate­ly veiled her dur­ing the night.

What, then, was their de­light when, af­ter some days of wait­ing, on the night of the 5th of De­cem­ber, they saw the ve­hi­cle which was bear­ing their friends in­to space! To this de­light suc­ceed­ed a great de­cep­tion, when, trust­ing to a cur­so­ry ob­ser­va­tion, they launched their first tele­gram to the world, er­ro­neous­ly af­firm­ing that the pro­jec­tile had be­come a satel­lite of the moon, grav­itat­ing in an im­mutable or­bit.

From that mo­ment it had nev­er shown it­self to their eyes– a dis­ap­pear­ance all the more eas­ily ex­plained, as it was then pass­ing be­hind the moon’s in­vis­ible disc; but when it was time for it to reap­pear on the vis­ible disc, one may imag­ine the im­pa­tience of the fum­ing J. T. Mas­ton and his not less im­pa­tient com­pan­ion. Each minute of the night they thought they saw the pro­jec­tile once more, and they did not see it. Hence con­stant dis­cus­sions and vi­olent dis­putes be­tween them, Belfast af­firm­ing that the pro­jec­tile could not be seen, J. T. Mas­ton main­tain­ing that “it had put his eyes out.”

“It is the pro­jec­tile!” re­peat­ed J. T. Mas­ton.

“No,” an­swered Belfast; “it is an avalanche de­tached from a lu­nar moun­tain.”

“Well, we shall see it to-​mor­row.”

“No, we shall not see it any more. It is car­ried in­to space.”

“Yes!”

“No!”

And at these mo­ments, when con­tra­dic­tions rained like hail, the well-​known ir­ri­tabil­ity of the sec­re­tary of the Gun Club con­sti­tut­ed a per­ma­nent dan­ger for the Hon­or­able Belfast. The ex­is­tence of these two to­geth­er would soon have be­come im­pos­si­ble; but an un­forseen event cut short their ev­er­last­ing dis­cus­sions.

Dur­ing the night, from the 14th to the 15th of De­cem­ber, the two ir­rec­on­cil­able friends were busy ob­serv­ing the lu­nar disc, J. T. Mas­ton abus­ing the learned Belfast as usu­al, who was by his side; the sec­re­tary of the Gun Club main­tain­ing for the thou­sandth time that he had just seen the pro­jec­tile, and adding that he could see Michel Ar­dan’s face look­ing through one of the scut­tles, at the same time en­forc­ing his ar­gu­ment by a se­ries of ges­tures which his formidable hook ren­dered very un­pleas­ant.

At this mo­ment Belfast’s ser­vant ap­peared on the plat­form (it was ten at night) and gave him a dis­patch. It was the com­man­der of the Susque­han­na’s tele­gram.

Belfast tore the en­ve­lope and read, and ut­tered a cry.

“What!” said J. T. Mas­ton.

“The pro­jec­tile!”

“Well!”

“Has fall­en to the earth!”

An­oth­er cry, this time a per­fect howl, an­swered him. He turned to­ward J. T. Mas­ton. The un­for­tu­nate man, im­pru­dent­ly lean­ing over the met­al tube, had dis­ap­peared in the im­mense tele­scope. A fall of two hun­dred and eighty feet! Belfast, dis­mayed, rushed to the ori­fice of the re­flec­tor.

He breathed. J. T. Mas­ton, caught by his met­al hook, was hold­ing on by one of the rings which bound the tele­scope to­geth­er, ut­ter­ing fear­ful cries.

Belfast called. Help was brought, tack­le was let down, and they hoist­ed up, not with­out some trou­ble, the im­pru­dent sec­re­tary of the Gun Club.

He reap­peared at the up­per ori­fice with­out hurt.

“Ah!” said he, “if I had bro­ken the mir­ror?”

“You would have paid for it,” replied Belfast severe­ly.

“And that cursed pro­jec­tile has fall­en?” asked J. T. Mas­ton.

“In­to the Pa­cif­ic!”

“Let us go!”

A quar­ter of an hour af­ter the two sa­vants were de­scend­ing the de­cliv­ity of the Rocky Moun­tains; and two days af­ter, at the same time as their friends of the Gun Club, they ar­rived at San Fran­cis­co, hav­ing killed five hors­es on the road.

El­phin­stone, the broth­ers Bloms­ber­ry, and Bils­by rushed to­ward them on their ar­rival.

“What shall we do?” they ex­claimed.

“Fish up the pro­jec­tile,” replied J. T. Mas­ton, “and the soon­er the bet­ter.”