THE PASSENGER OF THE ATLANTA
If this astounding news, instead of flying through the electric wires,
had simply arrived by post in the ordinary sealed envelope, Barbicane
would not have hesitated a moment. He would have held his tongue about
it, both as a measure of prudence, and in order not to have to
reconsider his plans. This telegram might be a cover for some jest,
especially as it came from a Frenchman. What human being would ever
have conceived the idea of such a journey? and, if such a person really
existed, he must be an idiot, whom one would shut up in a lunatic ward,
rather than within the walls of the projectile.
The contents of the dispatch, however, speedily became known; for the
telegraphic officials possessed but little discretion, and Michel
Ardan’s proposition ran at once throughout the several States of the
Union. Barbicane, had, therefore, no further motives for keeping
silence. Consequently, he called together such of his colleagues as
were at the moment in Tampa Town, and without any expression of his own
opinions simply read to them the laconic text itself. It was received
with every possible variety of expressions of doubt, incredulity, and
derision from every one, with the exception of J. T. Maston, who
exclaimed, “It is a grand idea, however!”
When Barbicane originally proposed to send a shot to the moon every one
looked upon the enterprise as simple and practicable enough—a mere
question of gunnery; but when a person, professing to be a reasonable
being, offered to take passage within the projectile, the whole thing
became a farce, or, in plainer language a humbug.
One question, however, remained. Did such a being exist? This telegram
flashed across the depths of the Atlantic, the designation of the
vessel on board which he was to take his passage, the date assigned for
his speedy arrival, all combined to impart a certain character of
reality to the proposal. They must get some clearer notion of the
matter. Scattered groups of inquirers at length condensed themselves
into a compact crowd, which made straight for the residence of
President Barbicane. That worthy individual was keeping quiet with the
intention of watching events as they arose. But he had forgotten to
take into account the public impatience; and it was with no pleasant
countenance that he watched the population of Tampa Town gathering
under his windows. The murmurs and vociferations below presently
obliged him to appear. He came forward, therefore, and on silence being
procured, a citizen put point-blank to him the following question: “Is
the person mentioned in the telegram, under the name of Michel Ardan,
on his way here? Yes or no.”
“Gentlemen,” replied Barbicane, “I know no more than you do.”
“We must know,” roared the impatient voices.
“Time will show,” calmly replied the president.
“Time has no business to keep a whole country in suspense,” replied the
orator. “Have you altered the plans of the projectile according to the
request of the telegram?”
“Not yet, gentlemen; but you are right! we must have better information
to go by. The telegraph must complete its information.”
“To the telegraph!” roared the crowd.
Barbicane descended; and heading the immense assemblage, led the way to
the telegraph office. A few minutes later a telegram was dispatched to
the secretary of the underwriters at Liverpool, requesting answers to
the following queries:
“About the ship Atlanta—when did she leave Europe? Had she on board a
Frenchman named Michel Ardan?”
Two hours afterward Barbicane received information too exact to leave
room for the smallest remaining doubt.
“The steamer Atlanta from Liverpool put to sea on the 2nd of October,
bound for Tampa Town, having on board a Frenchman borne on the list of
passengers by the name of Michel Ardan.”
That very evening he wrote to the house of Breadwill and Co.,
requesting them to suspend the casting of the projectile until the
receipt of further orders. On the 10th of October, at nine A.M., the
semaphores of the Bahama Canal signaled a thick smoke on the horizon.
Two hours later a large steamer exchanged signals with them. the name
of the Atlanta flew at once over Tampa Town. At four o’clock the
English vessel entered the Bay of Espiritu Santo. At five it crossed
the passage of Hillisborough Bay at full steam. At six she cast anchor
at Port Tampa. The anchor had scarcely caught the sandy bottom when
five hundred boats surrounded the Atlanta, and the steamer was taken by
assault. Barbicane was the first to set foot on deck, and in a voice of
which he vainly tried to conceal the emotion, called “Michel Ardan.”
“Here!” replied an individual perched on the poop.
Barbicane, with arms crossed, looked fixedly at the passenger of the
Atlanta.
He was a man of about forty-two years of age, of large build, but
slightly round-shouldered. His massive head momentarily shook a shock
of reddish hair, which resembled a lion’s mane. His face was short with
a broad forehead, and furnished with a moustache as bristly as a cat’s,
and little patches of yellowish whiskers upon full cheeks. Round,
wildish eyes, slightly near-sighted, completed a physiognomy
essentially feline. His nose was firmly shaped, his mouth particularly
sweet in expression, high forehead, intelligent and furrowed with
wrinkles like a newly-plowed field. The body was powerfully developed
and firmly fixed upon long legs. Muscular arms, and a general air of
decision gave him the appearance of a hardy, jolly, companion. He was
dressed in a suit of ample dimensions, loose neckerchief, open
shirtcollar, disclosing a robust neck; his cuffs were invariably
unbuttoned, through which appeared a pair of red hands.
On the bridge of the steamer, in the midst of the crowd, he bustled to
and fro, never still for a moment, “dragging his anchors,” as the
sailors say, gesticulating, making free with everybody, biting his
nails with nervous avidity. He was one of those originals which nature
sometimes invents in the freak of a moment, and of which she then
breaks the mould.
Among other peculiarities, this curiosity gave himself out for a
sublime ignoramus, “like Shakespeare,” and professed supreme contempt
for all scientific men. Those “fellows,” as he called them, “are only
fit to mark the points, while we play the game.” He was, in fact, a
thorough Bohemian, adventurous, but not an adventurer; a hare-brained
fellow, a kind of Icarus, only possessing relays of wings. For the
rest, he was ever in scrapes, ending invariably by falling on his feet,
like those little figures which they sell for children’s toys. In a few
words, his motto was “I have my opinions,” and the love of the
impossible constituted his ruling passion.
Such was the passenger of the Atlanta, always excitable, as if boiling
under the action of some internal fire by the character of his physical
organization. If ever two individuals offered a striking contrast to
each other, these were certainly Michel Ardan and the Yankee Barbicane;
both, moreover, being equally enterprising and daring, each in his own
way.
The scrutiny which the president of the Gun Club had instituted
regarding this new rival was quickly interrupted by the shouts and
hurrahs of the crowd. The cries became at last so uproarious, and the
popular enthusiasm assumed so personal a form, that Michel Ardan, after
having shaken hands some thousands of times, at the imminent risk of
leaving his fingers behind him, was fain at last to make a bolt for his
cabin.
Barbicane followed him without uttering a word.
“You are Barbicane, I suppose?” said Michel Ardan, in a tone of voice
in which he would have addressed a friend of twenty years’ standing.
“Yes,” replied the president of the Gun Club.
“All right! how d’ye do, Barbicane? how are you getting on—pretty well?
that’s right.”
“So,” said Barbicane without further preliminary, “you are quite
determined to go.”
“Quite decided.”
“Nothing will stop you?”
“Nothing. Have you modified your projectile according to my telegram.”
“I waited for your arrival. But,” asked Barbicane again, “have you
carefully reflected?”
“Reflected? have I any time to spare? I find an opportunity of making a
tour in the moon, and I mean to profit by it. There is the whole gist
of the matter.”
Barbicane looked hard at this man who spoke so lightly of his project
with such complete absence of anxiety. “But, at least,” said he, “you
have some plans, some means of carrying your project into execution?”
“Excellent, my dear Barbicane; only permit me to offer one remark: My
wish is to tell my story once for all, to everybody, and then have done
with it; then there will be no need for recapitulation. So, if you have
no objection, assemble your friends, colleagues, the whole town, all
Florida, all America if you like, and to-morrow I shall be ready to
explain my plans and answer any objections whatever that may be
advanced. You may rest assured I shall wait without stirring. Will that
suit you?”
“All right,” replied Barbicane.
So saying, the president left the cabin and informed the crowd of the
proposal of Michel Ardan. His words were received with clappings of
hands and shouts of joy. They had removed all difficulties. To-morrow
every one would contemplate at his ease this European hero. However,
some of the spectators, more infatuated than the rest, would not leave
the deck of the Atlanta. They passed the night on board. Among others
J. T. Maston got his hook fixed in the combing of the poop, and it
pretty nearly required the capstan to get it out again.
“He is a hero! a hero!” he cried, a theme of which he was never tired
of ringing the changes; “and we are only like weak, silly women,
compared with this European!”
As to the president, after having suggested to the visitors it was time
to retire, he re-entered the passenger’s cabin, and remained there till
the bell of the steamer made it midnight.
But then the two rivals in popularity shook hands heartily and parted
on terms of intimate friendship.