Jules Verne · a new plain-English translation from the original language
In leaving, the China seemed to have carried off with it the last hope of Phileas Fogg.
Indeed, none of the other steamers that run the direct service between America and Europe—neither the French transatlantic liners, nor the ships of the "White Star Line," nor the steamers of the Inman Company, nor those of the Hamburg line, nor any others—could serve the gentleman's plans.
In fact, the Pereire, belonging to the French Transatlantic Company—whose admirable vessels equal in speed and surpass in comfort all those of the other lines, without exception—did not leave until the day after next, December 14. And besides, like those of the Hamburg Company, it did not go directly to Liverpool or to London, but to Le Havre, and this additional crossing from Le Havre to Southampton, by delaying Phileas Fogg, would have canceled out his last efforts.
As for the Inman steamers, one of which, the City of Paris, was putting to sea the next day, they were not to be thought of. These ships are chiefly given over to the transport of emigrants, their engines are weak, they sail as much under canvas as under steam, and their speed is mediocre. They took, for this crossing from New York to England, more time than Mr. Fogg had left to win his wager.
Of all this the gentleman took perfectly good stock in consulting his Bradshaw, which gave him, day by day, the movements of transoceanic shipping.
Passepartout was crushed. To have missed the steamer by forty-five minutes—that was killing him. It was his own fault, his, who, instead of helping his master, had never stopped strewing obstacles along his path! And when he ran back over in his mind all the incidents of the journey, when he reckoned up the sums spent to pure loss and in his interest alone, when he thought that this enormous wager, added to the considerable expenses of this journey now become useless, was completely ruining Mr. Fogg, he heaped abuse on himself.
Mr. Fogg, however, made him no reproach, and, on leaving the pier of the transatlantic steamers, he said only these words:
"We'll see about it tomorrow. Come."
Mr. Fogg, Mrs. Aouda, Fix, and Passepartout crossed the Hudson aboard the Jersey City ferryboat and climbed into a cab, which took them to the Saint Nicholas hotel, on Broadway. Rooms were placed at their disposal, and the night passed—short for Phileas Fogg, who slept a perfect sleep, but very long for Mrs. Aouda and her companions, whose agitation did not allow them to rest.
The next day was December 12. From the 12th, seven in the morning, to the 21st, eight forty-five in the evening, there remained nine days, thirteen hours, forty-five minutes in all. So if Phileas Fogg had left the day before by the China, one of the best runners of the Cunard line, he would have reached Liverpool, then London, within the required time!
Mr. Fogg left the hotel, alone, after instructing his servant to wait for him and to warn Mrs. Aouda to hold herself ready at any moment.
Mr. Fogg made his way to the banks of the Hudson, and among the ships moored at the quay or anchored in the river, he sought out carefully those that were about to depart. Several vessels had their departure pennant up and were preparing to put to sea on the morning tide, for in that vast and magnificent port of New York, there is not a day when a hundred ships do not set out for all the points of the world; but most were sailing vessels, and they could not suit Phileas Fogg.
This gentleman seemed bound to fail in his last attempt, when he caught sight, moored off the Battery, at a cable's length at most, of a screw-driven merchant ship, of fine lines, whose funnel, belching thick puffs of smoke, showed that she was preparing to weigh anchor.
Phileas Fogg hailed a boat, got in, and, with a few strokes of the oar, found himself at the gangway ladder of the Henrietta, a steamer with an iron hull whose upperworks were all of wood.
The captain of the Henrietta was on board. Phileas Fogg climbed onto the deck and asked for the captain. The latter presented himself at once.
He was a fellow of fifty or so, a kind of sea dog, a grumbler who could not have been easy to deal with. Bulging eyes, a complexion of oxidized copper, red hair, a thick neck—nothing of the look of a man of the world.
"The captain?" asked Mr. Fogg.
"That's me.
"I am Phileas Fogg, of London.
"And I'm Andrew Speedy, of Cardiff.
"You're about to leave?...
"In an hour.
"You're loaded for...?
"Bordeaux.
"And your cargo?
"Stones in the belly. No freight. I'm sailing in ballast.
"You have passengers?
"No passengers. Never any passengers. Cumbersome, argumentative goods.
"Your ship sails well?
"Eleven to twelve knots. The Henrietta—everyone knows her.
"Will you carry me to Liverpool, myself and three others?
"To Liverpool? Why not to China?
"I say Liverpool.
"No!
"No?
"No. I'm bound for Bordeaux, and I'm going to Bordeaux.
"No matter the price?
"No matter the price."
The captain had spoken in a tone that admitted no reply.
"But the owners of the Henrietta..." Phileas Fogg went on.
"The owners, that's me," replied the captain. "The ship belongs to me.
"I'll charter it from you.
"No.
"I'll buy it from you.
"No."
Phileas Fogg did not bat an eye. Still, the situation was serious. New York was not Hong Kong, nor was the captain of the Henrietta anything like the skipper of the Tankadère. Up to now the gentleman's money had always got the better of the obstacles. This time, the money was failing.
Still, a way had to be found to cross the Atlantic by boat—short of crossing it by balloon—which would have been very risky, and which, besides, was not feasible.
It appears, all the same, that Phileas Fogg had hit on something, for he said to the captain:
"Well, will you take me to Bordeaux?
"No, not even if you paid me two hundred dollars!
"I'm offering you two thousand (10,000 F).
"Per person?
"Per person.
"And there are four of you?
"Four."
Captain Speedy began to scratch his forehead, as if he meant to tear the skin off it. Eight thousand dollars to earn, without altering his voyage, that was well worth setting aside his pronounced dislike for any kind of passenger. Passengers at two thousand dollars, moreover, are no longer passengers, they're precious merchandise.
"I leave at nine o'clock," said Captain Speedy simply, "and if you and yours are here?...
"At nine o'clock, we'll be on board!" replied Mr. Fogg no less simply.
It was now half past eight. To get off the Henrietta, climb into a carriage, drive to the Saint Nicholas hotel, bring back Mrs. Aouda, Passepartout, and even the inseparable Fix, to whom he graciously offered the passage—all this was done by the gentleman with that composure that never abandoned him in any circumstance.
At the moment when the Henrietta was setting sail, all four were on board.
When Passepartout learned what this last crossing would cost, he let out one of those drawn-out "Oh!"s that run through every interval of the descending chromatic scale!
As for Inspector Fix, he told himself that decidedly the Bank of England would not come out of this affair unscathed. Indeed, on arriving, and supposing that Mr. Fogg did not fling a few more fistfuls of it overboard, upward of seven thousand pounds (175,000 F) would be missing from the bank-note bag!