Jules Verne · a new plain-English translation from the original language
It was an adventurous undertaking, this voyage of eight hundred miles aboard a craft of twenty tons, and above all at this season of the year. They are generally bad, these seas of China, exposed to terrible gales, chiefly during the equinoxes, and it was still only the first days of November.
It would clearly have been to the pilot's advantage to carry his passengers all the way to Yokohama, since he was paid by the day. But it would have been great recklessness on his part to attempt such a crossing under these conditions, and it was already an act of daring, if not of foolhardiness, to push as far as Shanghai. But John Bunsby had confidence in his Tankadère, which rose to the swell like a gull, and perhaps he was not wrong.
During the last hours of that day, the Tankadère sailed through the fickle channels of Hong Kong, and under every point of sailing, close-hauled or before the wind, she behaved admirably.
«I have no need, pilot,» said Phileas Fogg the moment the schooner stood out to sea, «to urge on you all possible dispatch.»
«Your Honour may rely on me,» replied John Bunsby. «As for sails, we carry all the wind allows us to carry. Our topsails would add nothing, and would only serve to press the boat down and hurt her way.»
«That is your trade, pilot, and not mine, and I put my trust in you.»
Phileas Fogg, body erect, legs apart, steady as a sailor, watched the heaving sea without flinching. The young woman, seated aft, felt herself moved as she gazed at that ocean, already darkened by dusk, which she was braving on a fragile little craft. Above her head spread the white sails, carrying her through space like great wings. The schooner, lifted by the wind, seemed to fly through the air.
Night came. The moon was entering its first quarter, and its faint light would soon fade in the mists of the horizon. Clouds were driving up from the east and already invading part of the sky.
The pilot had set his running lights—an indispensable precaution to take in these seas so crowded near the landfalls. Encounters between ships were not rare there, and, at the speed she was making, the schooner would have been shattered at the slightest collision.
Fix was lost in thought at the bow of the boat. He kept apart, knowing Fogg to be of a scarcely talkative nature. Besides, it repelled him to speak to this man whose services he was accepting. He mused as well on what was to come. To his mind it was beyond doubt that Mr. Fogg would not stop at Yokohama, that he would take the San Francisco steamer at once in order to reach America, whose vast expanse would assure him impunity along with safety. Phileas Fogg's plan seemed to him as simple as could be.
Instead of sailing from England for the United States like a common crook, this Fogg had made the grand tour and crossed three-quarters of the globe, in order to reach the American continent more surely, where he would quietly eat up the Bank's million after throwing the police off his trail. But once on Union soil, what would Fix do? Would he desert this fellow? No, a hundred times over, no! And until he had obtained a writ of extradition, he would not budge a step from him. It was his duty, and he would carry it out to the very end. In any case, one happy circumstance had arisen: Passepartout was no longer beside his master, and above all, after Fix's confidences, it was important that master and servant should never see each other again.
Phileas Fogg, for his part, was likewise not without thoughts of his servant, who had vanished so oddly. All things considered, it did not seem impossible to him that, through some misunderstanding, the poor fellow had boarded the Carnatic at the very last moment. That was also the opinion of Mrs. Aouda, who deeply missed that honest servant to whom she owed so much. It might therefore be that he would be found again at Yokohama, and, if the Carnatic had carried him there, it would be easy to learn.
Toward ten o'clock the breeze freshened. Perhaps it would have been wise to take in a reef, but the pilot, after carefully studying the state of the sky, left the canvas as it was set. Moreover, the Tankadère carried sail admirably, having a deep draught, and everything was ready to strike quickly in case of a squall.
At midnight, Phileas Fogg and Mrs. Aouda went down into the cabin. Fix had gone before them and had stretched out on one of the bunks. As for the pilot and his men, they stayed on deck all night.
The next day, November 8, at sunrise, the schooner had made more than a hundred miles. The log, cast often, showed that her average speed was between eight and nine miles. The Tankadère had the wind on her quarter, all her sails drawing, and under this point of sailing she reached her maximum speed. If the wind held in these conditions, the odds were in her favour.
Throughout that day the Tankadère did not draw appreciably away from the coast, whose currents were favourable to her. She held it five miles off at most on her port quarter, and this coast, irregularly outlined, appeared at times through breaks in the haze. The wind coming off the land, the sea was less heavy for that very reason: a happy circumstance for the schooner, for craft of small tonnage suffer above all from the swell that breaks their speed, that «kills them,» to use the seamen's expression.
Toward noon the breeze slackened a little and hauled to the south-east. The pilot had the topsails set; but at the end of two hours they had to be taken in, for the wind was freshening again.
Mr. Fogg and the young woman, most fortunately proof against seasickness, ate the ship's tinned food and biscuit with appetite. Fix was invited to share their meal and had to accept, well knowing that it is as necessary to ballast stomachs as boats, but it vexed him! To travel at this man's expense, to feed on his very provisions, he found in it something rather disloyal. Still, he ate—on the run, it is true—but eat he did.
However, when this meal was over, he thought he ought to take Mr. Fogg aside, and he said to him:
«Sir...»
That «sir» scraped his lips, and he held himself back from laying his hand on the collar of this «sir»!
«Sir, you have been most obliging in offering me passage aboard your vessel. But, although my means do not allow me to act as handsomely as you, I intend to pay my share...
--Let us not speak of it, sir,» replied Mr. Fogg.
«But indeed, I insist...
--No, sir,» Fogg repeated in a tone that brooked no reply. «This goes into the general expenses!»
Fix bowed; he was choking, and, going to stretch out on the fore part of the schooner, he did not say another word all day.
Meanwhile they were running along rapidly. John Bunsby was full of hope. Several times he told Mr. Fogg they would make Shanghai in good time. Mr. Fogg simply replied that he was counting on it. Besides, the whole crew of the little schooner threw itself into the task with zeal. The bonus tempted these good fellows. And so not a sheet that was not conscientiously hauled taut! Not a sail that was not vigorously set up! Not a yaw that could be laid to the helmsman's charge! They could not have manoeuvred more strictly in a Royal Yacht Club regatta.
In the evening the pilot had logged a run of two hundred and twenty miles from Hong Kong, and Phileas Fogg could hope that, on reaching Yokohama, he would have no delay to enter in his schedule. Thus the first serious setback he had met since leaving London would probably cause him no harm at all.
During the night, toward the small hours of the morning, the Tankadère entered squarely into the Strait of Fo-Kien, which separates the great island of Formosa from the Chinese coast, and she cut across the Tropic of Cancer. In this strait the sea ran very high, churned with eddies thrown up by the counter-currents. The schooner laboured greatly. The short seas broke her way. It became very difficult to keep one's feet on deck.
With daybreak the wind freshened still more. There was the look of a gale in the sky. Moreover, the barometer foretold a coming change in the atmosphere; its daily movement was irregular, and the mercury swung capriciously. The sea, too, could be seen heaving toward the south-east in long swells «that smelled of the tempest.» The evening before, the sun had set in a red haze, amid the phosphorescent sparklings of the ocean.
The pilot examined this evil aspect of the sky for a long while and muttered barely intelligible things between his teeth. At one point, finding himself near his passenger:
«May one tell Your Honour everything?» he said in a low voice.
«Everything,» replied Phileas Fogg.
«Well then, we are going to have a gale.
--Will it come from the north or the south?» Mr. Fogg simply asked.
«From the south. Look. It is a typhoon brewing!
--A south typhoon let it be, then, since it will drive us the right way,» replied Mr. Fogg.
«If you take it like that,» retorted the pilot, «I have nothing more to say!»
John Bunsby's forebodings did not deceive him. Earlier in the year, the typhoon, in the words of a famous meteorologist, would have flowed away like a luminous cascade of electric flames; but with the winter equinox at hand, one had to fear that it would break loose with violence.
The pilot took his measures well ahead of time. He had all the schooner's sails furled and the yards brought down on deck. The topmast poles were sent down. The jib-boom was run in. The hatches were carefully battened down. Not a drop of water could henceforth get into the hull of the boat. A single triangular sail, a storm-jib of stout canvas, was hoisted in place of a fore-staysail, so as to hold the schooner before the wind. And they waited.
John Bunsby had urged his passengers to go down into the cabin; but, in a cramped space, nearly without air, and with the jolting of the swell, this imprisonment had nothing pleasant about it. Neither Mr. Fogg, nor Mrs. Aouda, nor Fix himself would consent to leave the deck.
Toward eight o'clock, the squall of rain and gusts struck aboard. With nothing but its little scrap of canvas, the Tankadère was lifted like a feather by that wind of which one can give no exact idea when it blows a tempest. To set its speed at fourfold that of a locomotive at full steam would still fall short of the truth.
All that day the boat ran thus toward the north, carried along by the monstrous waves, happily holding a pace equal to theirs. A score of times she was nearly caught from behind by one of those mountains of water that reared up astern; but a deft turn of the helm, given by the pilot, warded off the disaster. The passengers were sometimes drenched all over by the spray, which they received philosophically. Fix no doubt grumbled, but the intrepid Aouda, her eyes fixed on her companion, whose coolness she could only admire, showed herself worthy of him and braved the storm at his side. As for Phileas Fogg, it seemed as though this typhoon were part of his schedule.
Until then the Tankadère had always steered north; but toward evening, as was to be feared, the wind, veering three quarters round, hauled to the north-west. The schooner, now offering her flank to the sea, was fearfully shaken. The sea struck her with a violence well fitted to frighten, when one does not know how solidly all the parts of a vessel are joined together.
With the night, the storm grew fiercer still. Seeing the darkness come on, and with the darkness the tempest increase, John Bunsby felt sharp anxiety. He wondered whether it might not be time to put in, and he consulted his crew.
His men consulted, John Bunsby went up to Mr. Fogg and said to him:
«I believe, Your Honour, that we would do well to run for one of the ports along the coast.
--I believe so too,» replied Phileas Fogg.
«Ah!» said the pilot, «but which one?
--I know only one,» Mr. Fogg replied calmly.
«And that is?...
--Shanghai.»
For a few moments the pilot at first did not grasp what this answer meant, what it held of obstinacy and tenacity. Then he cried out:
«Well then, yes! Your Honour has it right. To Shanghai!»
And the course of the Tankadère was held imperturbably to the north.
A truly terrible night! It was a miracle the little schooner did not capsize. Twice she shipped seas, and everything aboard would have been swept away had the lashings given. Mrs. Aouda was worn out, but she did not let a single complaint be heard. More than once Mr. Fogg had to rush to her to shield her from the violence of the waves.
Day reappeared. The storm was still raging with extreme fury. Yet the wind fell back into the south-east. This was a favourable change, and the Tankadère again made way over that heaving sea, whose waves now clashed with those raised by the wind's new quarter. Hence a shock of counter-swells that would have crushed a boat less solidly built.
From time to time the coast could be glimpsed through the torn mists, but not a ship in sight. The Tankadère alone kept the sea.
At noon there were some signs of a lull, which, with the sinking of the sun toward the horizon, grew more distinct.
The short duration of the storm was due to its very violence. The passengers, utterly worn out, were able to eat a little and get some rest.
The night was relatively peaceful. The pilot had his sails set again close-reefed. The boat's speed was considerable. The next day, the 11th, at daybreak, having taken his bearings from the coast, John Bunsby could declare they were not a hundred miles from Shanghai.
A hundred miles, and only this one day left to make them in! It was that very evening that Mr. Fogg had to reach Shanghai, if he did not want to miss the departure of the Yokohama steamer. Without this storm, during which he lost several hours, he would at this moment have been within thirty miles of the port.
The breeze was slackening noticeably, but happily the sea was falling with it. The schooner covered herself in canvas. Topsails, staysails, flying jib—all drew, and the sea foamed under her stem.
At noon the Tankadère was no more than forty-five miles from Shanghai. She had six hours left to reach that port before the departure of the Yokohama steamer.
Anxiety ran high aboard. They wanted to arrive at all costs. Everyone—except Phileas Fogg, no doubt—felt his heart beat with impatience. The little schooner had to keep up an average of nine miles in the hour, and yet the wind kept slackening! It was an irregular breeze, capricious puffs coming off the coast. They passed, and the sea smoothed out again as soon as they had gone by.
Yet the boat was so light, her sails so high and of so fine a fabric, and gathered the wild breezes so well, that, with the current helping, at six o'clock John Bunsby reckoned no more than ten miles to the Shanghai river, for the city itself lies at a distance of at least twelve miles above the mouth.
At seven o'clock they were still three miles from Shanghai. A tremendous oath escaped the pilot's lips... The two-hundred-pound bonus was plainly going to slip away from him. His eyes went to Mr. Fogg. Mr. Fogg was impassive, and yet his entire fortune was at play at that moment...
At that moment, too, a long black spindle, crowned with a plume of smoke, appeared level with the water. It was the American steamer, leaving at its scheduled hour.
«Damnation!» cried John Bunsby, thrusting back the helm with a desperate arm.
«Signals!» said Phileas Fogg simply. A little bronze cannon stretched out at the bow of the Tankadère. It served to make signals in foggy weather.
The cannon was charged right to the muzzle, but at the instant the pilot made to set a glowing coal to the touch-hole:
«The flag at half-mast,» said Mr. Fogg.
The flag was lowered to half-mast. It was a distress signal, and one could hope that the American steamer, sighting it, would alter its course for a moment to close with the boat.
«Fire!» said Mr. Fogg.
And the report of the little bronze cannon burst into the air.