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

CHAPTER XXII

RE­COV­ERED FROM THE SEA

The spot where the pro­jec­tile sank un­der the waves was ex­act­ly known; but the ma­chin­ery to grasp it and bring it to the sur­face of the ocean was still want­ing. It must first be in­vent­ed, then made. Amer­ican en­gi­neers could not be trou­bled with such tri­fles. The grap­pling-​irons once fixed, by their help they were sure to raise it in spite of its weight, which was less­ened by the den­si­ty of the liq­uid in which it was plunged.

But fish­ing-​up the pro­jec­tile was not the on­ly thing to be thought of. They must act prompt­ly in the in­ter­est of the trav­el­ers. No one doubt­ed that they were still liv­ing.

“Yes,” re­peat­ed J. T. Mas­ton in­ces­sant­ly, whose con­fi­dence gained over ev­ery­body, “our friends are clever peo­ple, and they can­not have fall­en like sim­ple­tons. They are alive, quite alive; but we must make haste if we wish to find them so. Food and wa­ter do not trou­ble me; they have enough for a long while. But air, air, that is what they will soon want; so quick, quick!”

And they did go quick. They fit­ted up the Susque­han­na for her new des­ti­na­tion. Her pow­er­ful ma­chin­ery was brought to bear up­on the haul­ing-​chains. The alu­minum pro­jec­tile on­ly weighed 19,250 pounds, a weight very in­fe­ri­or to that of the transat­lantic ca­ble which had been drawn up un­der sim­ilar con­di­tions. The on­ly dif­fi­cul­ty was in fish­ing up a cylin­dro-​con­ical pro­jec­tile, the walls of which were so smooth as to of­fer no hold for the hooks. On that ac­count En­gi­neer Murchi­son has­tened to San Fran­cis­co, and had some enor­mous grap­pling-​irons fixed on an au­to­mat­ic sys­tem, which would nev­er let the pro­jec­tile go if it once suc­ceed­ed in seiz­ing it in its pow­er­ful claws. Div­ing-​dress­es were al­so pre­pared, which through this im­per­vi­ous cov­er­ing al­lowed the divers to ob­serve the bot­tom of the sea. He al­so had put on board an ap­pa­ra­tus of com­pressed air very clev­er­ly de­signed. There were per­fect cham­bers pierced with scut­tles, which, with wa­ter let in­to cer­tain com­part­ments, could draw it down in­to great depths. These ap­pa­ra­tus­es were at San Fran­cis­co, where they had been used in the con­struc­tion of a sub­ma­rine break­wa­ter; and very for­tu­nate­ly it was so, for there was no time to con­struct any. But in spite of the per­fec­tion of the ma­chin­ery, in spite of the in­ge­nu­ity of the sa­vants en­trust­ed with the use of them, the suc­cess of the op­er­ation was far from be­ing cer­tain. How great were the chances against them, the pro­jec­tile be­ing 20,000 feet un­der the wa­ter! And if even it was brought to the sur­face, how would the trav­el­ers have borne the ter­ri­ble shock which 20,000 feet of wa­ter had per­haps not suf­fi­cient­ly bro­ken? At any rate they must act quick­ly. J. T. Mas­ton hur­ried the work­men day and night. He was ready to don the div­ing-​dress him­self, or try the air ap­pa­ra­tus, in or­der to re­con­noi­ter the sit­ua­tion of his coura­geous friends.

But in spite of all the dili­gence dis­played in prepar­ing the dif­fer­ent en­gines, in spite of the con­sid­er­able sum placed at the dis­pos­al of the Gun Club by the Gov­ern­ment of the Union, five long days (five cen­turies!) elapsed be­fore the prepa­ra­tions were com­plete. Dur­ing this time pub­lic opin­ion was ex­cit­ed to the high­est pitch. Tele­grams were ex­changed in­ces­sant­ly through­out the en­tire world by means of wires and elec­tric ca­bles. The sav­ing of Bar­bi­cane, Nicholl, and Michel Ar­dan was an in­ter­na­tion­al af­fair. Ev­ery one who had sub­scribed to the Gun Club was di­rect­ly in­ter­est­ed in the wel­fare of the trav­el­ers.

At length the haul­ing-​chains, the air-​cham­bers, and the au­to­mat­ic grap­pling-​irons were put on board. J. T. Mas­ton, En­gi­neer Murchi­son, and the del­egates of the Gun Club, were al­ready in their cab­ins. They had but to start, which they did on the 21st of De­cem­ber, at eight o’clock at night, the corvette meet­ing with a beau­ti­ful sea, a north­east­er­ly wind, and rather sharp cold. The whole pop­ula­tion of San Fran­cis­co was gath­ered on the quay, great­ly ex­cit­ed but silent, re­serv­ing their hur­rahs for the re­turn. Steam was ful­ly up, and the screw of the Susque­han­na car­ried them briskly out of the bay.

It is need­less to re­late the con­ver­sa­tions on board be­tween the of­fi­cers, sailors, and pas­sen­gers. All these men had but one thought. All these hearts beat un­der the same emo­tion. While they were has­ten­ing to help them, what were Bar­bi­cane and his com­pan­ions do­ing? What had be­come of them? Were they able to at­tempt any bold ma­neu­ver to re­gain their lib­er­ty? None could say. The truth is that ev­ery at­tempt must have failed! Im­mersed near­ly four miles un­der the ocean, this met­al prison de­fied ev­ery ef­fort of its pris­on­ers.

On the 23rd in­st., at eight in the morn­ing, af­ter a rapid pas­sage, the Susque­han­na was due at the fa­tal spot. They must wait till twelve to take the reck­on­ing ex­act­ly. The buoy to which the sound­ing line had been lashed had not yet been rec­og­nized.

At twelve, Cap­tain Bloms­ber­ry, as­sist­ed by his of­fi­cers who su­per­in­tend­ed the ob­ser­va­tions, took the reck­on­ing in the pres­ence of the del­egates of the Gun Club. Then there was a mo­ment of anx­iety. Her po­si­tion de­cid­ed, the Susque­han­na was found to be some min­utes west­ward of the spot where the pro­jec­tile had dis­ap­peared be­neath the waves.

The ship’s course was then changed so as to reach this ex­act point.

At forty-​sev­en min­utes past twelve they reached the buoy; it was in per­fect con­di­tion, and must have shift­ed but lit­tle.

“At last!” ex­claimed J. T. Mas­ton.

“Shall we be­gin?” asked Cap­tain Bloms­ber­ry.

“With­out los­ing a sec­ond.”

Ev­ery pre­cau­tion was tak­en to keep the corvette al­most com­plete­ly mo­tion­less. Be­fore try­ing to seize the pro­jec­tile, En­gi­neer Murchi­son want­ed to find its ex­act po­si­tion at the bot­tom of the ocean. The sub­ma­rine ap­pa­ra­tus des­tined for this ex­pe­di­tion was sup­plied with air. The work­ing of these en­gines was not with­out dan­ger, for at 20,000 feet be­low the sur­face of the wa­ter, and un­der such great pres­sure, they were ex­posed to frac­ture, the con­se­quences of which would be dread­ful.

J. T. Mas­ton, the broth­ers Bloms­ber­ry, and En­gi­neer Murchi­son, with­out heed­ing these dan­gers, took their places in the air-​cham­ber. The com­man­der, post­ed on his bridge, su­per­in­tend­ed the op­er­ation, ready to stop or haul in the chains on the slight­est sig­nal. The screw had been shipped, and the whole pow­er of the ma­chin­ery col­lect­ed on the cap­stan would have quick­ly drawn the ap­pa­ra­tus on board. The de­scent be­gan at twen­ty-​five min­utes past one at night, and the cham­ber, drawn un­der by the reser­voirs full of wa­ter, dis­ap­peared from the sur­face of the ocean.

The emo­tion of the of­fi­cers and sailors on board was now di­vid­ed be­tween the pris­on­ers in the pro­jec­tile and the pris­on­ers in the sub­ma­rine ap­pa­ra­tus. As to the lat­ter, they for­got them­selves, and, glued to the win­dows of the scut­tles, at­ten­tive­ly watched the liq­uid mass through which they were pass­ing.

The de­scent was rapid. At sev­en­teen min­utes past two, J. T. Mas­ton and his com­pan­ions had reached the bot­tom of the Pa­cif­ic; but they saw noth­ing but an arid desert, no longer an­imat­ed by ei­ther fau­na or flo­ra. By the light of their lamps, fur­nished with pow­er­ful re­flec­tors, they could see the dark beds of the ocean for a con­sid­er­able ex­tent of view, but the pro­jec­tile was nowhere to be seen.

The im­pa­tience of these bold divers can­not be de­scribed, and hav­ing an elec­tri­cal com­mu­ni­ca­tion with the corvette, they made a sig­nal al­ready agreed up­on, and for the space of a mile the Susque­han­na moved their cham­ber along some yards above the bot­tom.

Thus they ex­plored the whole sub­ma­rine plain, de­ceived at ev­ery turn by op­ti­cal il­lu­sions which al­most broke their hearts. Here a rock, there a pro­jec­tion from the ground, seemed to be the much-​sought-​for pro­jec­tile; but their mis­take was soon dis­cov­ered, and then they were in de­spair.

“But where are they? where are they?” cried J. T. Mas­ton. And the poor man called loud­ly up­on Nicholl, Bar­bi­cane, and Michel Ar­dan, as if his un­for­tu­nate friends could ei­ther hear or an­swer him through such an im­pen­etra­ble medi­um! The search con­tin­ued un­der these con­di­tions un­til the vi­ti­at­ed air com­pelled the divers to as­cend.

The haul­ing in be­gan about six in the evening, and was not end­ed be­fore mid­night.

“To-​mor­row,” said J. T. Mas­ton, as he set foot on the bridge of the corvette.

“Yes,” an­swered Cap­tain Bloms­ber­ry.

“And on an­oth­er spot?”

“Yes.”

J. T. Mas­ton did not doubt of their fi­nal suc­cess, but his com­pan­ions, no longer up­held by the ex­cite­ment of the first hours, un­der­stood all the dif­fi­cul­ty of the en­ter­prise. What seemed easy at San Fran­cis­co, seemed here in the wide ocean al­most im­pos­si­ble. The chances of suc­cess di­min­ished in rapid pro­por­tion; and it was from chance alone that the meet­ing with the pro­jec­tile might be ex­pect­ed.

The next day, the 24th, in spite of the fa­tigue of the pre­vi­ous day, the op­er­ation was re­newed. The corvette ad­vanced some min­utes to west­ward, and the ap­pa­ra­tus, pro­vid­ed with air, bore the same ex­plor­ers to the depths of the ocean.

The whole day passed in fruit­less re­search; the bed of the sea was a desert. The 25th brought no oth­er re­sult, nor the 26th.

It was dis­heart­en­ing. They thought of those un­for­tu­nates shut up in the pro­jec­tile for twen­ty-​six days. Per­haps at that mo­ment they were ex­pe­ri­enc­ing the first ap­proach of suf­fo­ca­tion; that is, if they had es­caped the dan­gers of their fall. The air was spent, and doubt­less with the air all their _morale_.

“The air, pos­si­bly,” an­swered J. T. Mas­ton res­olute­ly, “but their _morale_ nev­er!”

On the 28th, af­ter two more days of search, all hope was gone. This pro­jec­tile was but an atom in the im­men­si­ty of the ocean. They must give up all idea of find­ing it.

But J. T. Mas­ton would not hear of go­ing away. He would not aban­don the place with­out at least dis­cov­er­ing the tomb of his friends. But Com­man­der Bloms­ber­ry could no longer per­sist, and in spite of the ex­cla­ma­tions of the wor­thy sec­re­tary, was obliged to give the or­der to sail.

On the 29th of De­cem­ber, at nine A.M., the Susque­han­na, head­ing north­east, re­sumed her course to the bay of San Fran­cis­co.

It was ten in the morn­ing; the corvette was un­der half-​steam, as it was re­gret­ting to leave the spot where the catas­tro­phe had tak­en place, when a sailor, perched on the main-​top-​gal­lant crosstrees, watch­ing the sea, cried sud­den­ly:

“A buoy on the lee bow!”

The of­fi­cers looked in the di­rec­tion in­di­cat­ed, and by the help of their glass­es saw that the ob­ject sig­nalled had the ap­pear­ance of one of those buoys which are used to mark the pas­sages of bays or rivers. But, sin­gu­lar­ly to say, a flag float­ing on the wind sur­mount­ed its cone, which emerged five or six feet out of wa­ter. This buoy shone un­der the rays of the sun as if it had been made of plates of sil­ver. Com­man­der Bloms­ber­ry, J. T. Mas­ton, and the del­egates of the Gun Club were mount­ed on the bridge, ex­am­in­ing this ob­ject stray­ing at ran­dom on the waves.

All looked with fever­ish anx­iety, but in si­lence. None dared give ex­pres­sion to the thoughts which came to the minds of all.

The corvette ap­proached to with­in two ca­bles’ lengths of the ob­ject.

A shud­der ran through the whole crew. That flag was the Amer­ican flag!

At this mo­ment a per­fect howl­ing was heard; it was the brave J. T. Mas­ton who had just fall­en all in a heap. For­get­ting on the one hand that his right arm had been re­placed by an iron hook, and on the oth­er that a sim­ple gut­ta-​per­cha cap cov­ered his brain-​box, he had giv­en him­self a formidable blow.

They hur­ried to­ward him, picked him up, re­stored him to life. And what were his first words?

“Ah! tre­bly brutes! quadru­ply id­iots! quin­tu­ply boo­bies that we are!”

“What is it?” ex­claimed ev­ery­one around him.

“What is it?”

“Come, speak!”

“It is, sim­ple­tons,” howled the ter­ri­ble sec­re­tary, “it is that the pro­jec­tile on­ly weighs 19,250 pounds!”

“Well?”

“And that it dis­places twen­ty-​eight tons, or in oth­er words 56,000 pounds, and that con­se­quent­ly _it floats_!”

Ah! what stress the wor­thy man had laid on the verb “float!” And it was true! All, yes! all these sa­vants had for­got­ten this fun­da­men­tal law, name­ly, that on ac­count of its spe­cif­ic light­ness, the pro­jec­tile, af­ter hav­ing been drawn by its fall to the great­est depths of the ocean, must nat­ural­ly re­turn to the sur­face. And now it was float­ing qui­et­ly at the mer­cy of the waves.

The boats were put to sea. J. T. Mas­ton and his friends had rushed in­to them! Ex­cite­ment was at its height! Ev­ery heart beat loud­ly while they ad­vanced to the pro­jec­tile. What did it con­tain? Liv­ing or dead?

Liv­ing, yes! liv­ing, at least un­less death had struck Bar­bi­cane and his two friends since they had hoist­ed the flag. Pro­found si­lence reigned on the boats. All were breath­less. Eyes no longer saw. One of the scut­tles of the pro­jec­tile was open. Some pieces of glass re­mained in the frame, show­ing that it had been bro­ken. This scut­tle was ac­tu­al­ly five feet above the wa­ter.

A boat came along­side, that of J. T. Mas­ton, and J. T. Mas­ton rushed to the bro­ken win­dow.

At that mo­ment they heard a clear and mer­ry voice, the voice of Michel Ar­dan, ex­claim­ing in an ac­cent of tri­umph:

“White all, Bar­bi­cane, white all!”

Bar­bi­cane, Michel Ar­dan, and Nicholl were play­ing at domi­noes!