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,
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 favorable 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 honor. 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."
"It's 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. 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-travelers, knowing Mr. Fogg's taciturn
tastes. Besides, he did not quite like to talk to the man whose
favors 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 traveled three quarters of the
globe, so as to gain the American continent more surely. 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 fulfill 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.
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 favor.
During the day she kept along the coast, where the currents were
favorable. The coast, regular in profile, and visible sometimes
across the clearings, was at most five miles distant. The sea was
less violent, 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
southwest. 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 was invited to share their
repast, and 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. 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, while
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 southeast, 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 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 honor?"
"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, 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 program.
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 northwest. 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 honor, 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 realize so much determination and tenacity. Then he
cried, "Well--yes! Your honor 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 would 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 southeast. It was a favorable
change, and the Tankadere again bounded forward on this
mountainous sea, though the waves crossed each other, and
imparted shocks and countershocks 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 towards 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 saw 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 cross 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 current, 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, 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 help the pilot boat.
"Fire!" said Mr. Fogg. And the booming of the little cannon
resounded in the air.