THE MOON-VOYAGE.
CONTAINING
"FROM THE EARTH TO THE MOON,"
AND
"ROUND THE MOON."
BY
JULES VERNE,
AUTHOR OF "TWENTY THOUSAND LEAGUES UNDER THE SEA,"
"AMONG THE CANNIBALS," ETC.
ILLUSTRATED BY HENRY AUSTIN.
* * * * *
CONTENTS.
"FROM THE EARTH TO THE MOON."
I. THE GUN CLUB
II. PRESIDENT BARBICANE'S COMMUNICATION
III. EFFECT OF PRESIDENT BARBICANE'S COMMUNICATION
IV. ANSWER FROM THE CAMBRIDGE OBSERVATORY
V. THE ROMANCE OF THE MOON
VI. WHAT IT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO IGNORE AND WHAT IS NO LONGER ALLOWED TO
BE BELIEVED IN THE UNITED STATES
VII. THE HYMN OF THE CANNON-BALL
VIII. HISTORY OF THE CANNON
IX. THE QUESTION OF POWDERS
X. ONE ENEMY AGAINST TWENTY-FIVE MILLIONS OF FRIENDS
XI. FLORIDA AND TEXAS
XII. "URBI ET ORBI"
XIII. STONY HILL
XIV. PICKAXE AND TROWEL
XV. THE CEREMONY OF THE CASTING
XVI. THE COLUMBIAD
XVII. A TELEGRAM
XVIII. THE PASSENGER OF THE ATLANTA
XIX. A MEETING
XX. THRUST AND PARRY
XXI. HOW A FRENCHMAN SETTLES AN AFFAIR
XXII. THE NEW CITIZEN OF THE UNITED STATES
XXIII. THE PROJECTILE COMPARTMENT
XXIV. THE TELESCOPE OF THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS
XXV. FINAL DETAILS
XXVI. FIRE
XXVII. CLOUDY WEATHER
XXVIII. A NEW STAR
* * * * *
"ROUND THE MOON."
PRELIMINARY CHAPTER. CONTAINING A SHORT ACCOUNT OF THE FIRST PART OF
THIS WORK TO SERVE AS PREFACE TO THE SECOND
I. FROM 10.20 P.M. TO 10.47 P.M.
II. THE FIRST HALF-HOUR
III. TAKING POSSESSION
IV. A LITTLE ALGEBRA
V. THE TEMPERATURE OF SPACE
VI. QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS
VII. A MOMENT OF INTOXICATION
VIII. AT SEVENTY-EIGHT THOUSAND ONE HUNDRED AND FOURTEEN LEAGUES
IX. THE CONSEQUENCES OF DEVIATION
X. THE OBSERVERS OF THE MOON
XI. IMAGINATION AND REALITY
XII. OROGRAPHICAL DETAILS
XIII. LUNAR LANDSCAPES
XIV. A NIGHT OF THREE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-FOUR HOURS AND A HALF
XV. HYPERBOLA OR PARABOLA
XVI. THE SOUTHERN HEMISPHERE
XVII. TYCHO
XVIII. GRAVE QUESTIONS
XIX. A STRUGGLE WITH THE IMPOSSIBLE
XX. THE SOUNDINGS OF THE SUSQUEHANNA
XXI. J.T. MASTON CALLED IN
XXII. PICKED UP
XXIII. THE END
* * * * *
FROM THE EARTH TO THE MOON.
* * * * *
CHAPTER I.
THE GUN CLUB.
During the Federal war in the United States a new and very influential
club was established in the city of Baltimore, Maryland. It is well
known with what energy the military instinct was developed amongst that
nation of shipowners, shopkeepers, and mechanics. Mere tradesmen jumped
their counters to become extempore captains, colonels, and generals
without having passed the Military School at West Point; they soon
rivalled their colleagues of the old continent, and, like them, gained
victories by dint of lavishing bullets, millions, and men.
But where Americans singularly surpassed Europeans was in the science of
ballistics, or of throwing massive weapons by the use of an engine; not
that their arms attained a higher degree of perfection, but they were of
unusual dimensions, and consequently of hitherto unknown ranges. The
English, French, and Prussians have nothing to learn about flank,
running, enfilading, or point-blank firing; but their cannon, howitzers,
and mortars are mere pocket-pistols compared with the formidable engines
of American artillery.
This fact ought to astonish no one. The Yankees, the first mechanicians
in the world, are born engineers, just as Italians are musicians and
Germans metaphysicians. Thence nothing more natural than to see them
bring their audacious ingenuity to bear on the science of ballistics.
Hence those gigantic cannon, much less useful than sewing-machines, but
quite as astonishing, and much more admired. The marvels of this style
by Parrott, Dahlgren, and Rodman are well known. There was nothing left
the Armstrongs, Pallisers, and Treuille de Beaulieux but to bow before
their transatlantic rivals.
Therefore during the terrible struggle between Northerners and
Southerners, artillerymen were in great request; the Union newspapers
published their inventions with enthusiasm, and there was no little
tradesman nor _naïf_ "booby" who did not bother his head day and night
with calculations about impossible trajectory engines.
Now when an American has an idea he seeks another American to share it.
If they are three, they elect a president and two secretaries. Given
four, they elect a clerk, and a company is established. Five convoke a
general meeting, and the club is formed. It thus happened at Baltimore.
The first man who invented a new cannon took into partnership the first
man who cast it and the first man that bored it. Such was the nucleus of
the Gun Club. One month after its formation it numbered eighteen hundred
and thirty-three effective members, and thirty thousand five hundred and
seventy-five corresponding members.
One condition was imposed as a _sine quâ non_ upon every one who wished
to become a member--that of having invented, or at least perfected, a
cannon; or, in default of a cannon, a firearm of some sort. But, to tell
the truth, mere inventors of fifteen-barrelled rifles, revolvers, or
sword-pistols did not enjoy much consideration. Artillerymen were always
preferred to them in every circumstance.
"The estimation in which they are held," said one day a learned orator
of the Gun Club, "is in proportion to the size of their cannon, and in
direct ratio to the square of distance attained by their projectiles!"
A little more and it would have been Newton's law of gravitation applied
to moral order.
Once the Gun Club founded, it can be easily imagined its effect upon the
inventive genius of the Americans. War-engines took colossal
proportions, and projectiles launched beyond permitted distances cut
inoffensive pedestrians to pieces. All these inventions left the timid
instruments of European artillery far behind them. This may be estimated
by the following figures:--
Formerly, "in the good old times," a thirty-six pounder, at a distance
of three hundred feet, would cut up thirty-six horses, attacked in
flank, and sixty-eight men. The art was then in its infancy.
Projectiles have since made their way. The Rodman gun that sent a
projectile weighing half a ton a distance of seven miles could easily
have cut up a hundred and fifty horses and three hundred men. There was
some talk at the Gun Club of making a solemn experiment with it. But if
the horses consented to play their part, the men unfortunately were
wanting.
However that may be, the effect of these cannon was very deadly, and at
each discharge the combatants fell like ears before a scythe. After such
projectiles what signified the famous ball which, at Coutras, in 1587,
disabled twenty-five men; and the one which, at Zorndorff, in 1758,
killed forty fantassins; and in 1742, Kesseldorf's Austrian cannon, of
which every shot levelled seventy enemies with the ground? What was the
astonishing firing at Jena or Austerlitz, which decided the fate of the
battle? During the Federal war much more wonderful things had been seen.
At the battle of Gettysburg, a conical projectile thrown by a
rifle-barrel cut up a hundred and seventy-three Confederates, and at the
passage of the Potomac a Rodman ball sent two hundred and fifteen
Southerners into an evidently better world. A formidable mortar must
also be mentioned, invented by J.T. Maston, a distinguished member and
perpetual secretary of the Gun Club, the result of which was far more
deadly, seeing that, at its trial shot, it killed three hundred and
thirty-seven persons--by bursting, it is true.
What can be added to these figures, so eloquent in themselves? Nothing.
So the following calculation obtained by the statistician Pitcairn will
be admitted without contestation: by dividing the number of victims
fallen under the projectiles by that of the members of the Gun Club, he
found that each one of them had killed, on his own account, an average
of two thousand three hundred and seventy-five men and a fraction.
By considering such a result it will be seen that the single
preoccupation of this learned society was the destruction of humanity
philanthropically, and the perfecting of firearms considered as
instruments of civilisation. It was a company of Exterminating Angels,
at bottom the best fellows in the world.
It must be added that these Yankees, brave as they have ever proved
themselves, did not confine themselves to formulae, but sacrificed
themselves to their theories. Amongst them might be counted officers of
every rank, those who had just made their _début_ in the profession of
arms, and those who had grown old on their gun-carriage. Many whose
names figured in the book of honour of the Gun Club remained on the
field of battle, and of those who came back the greater part bore marks
of their indisputable valour. Crutches, wooden legs, articulated arms,
hands with hooks, gutta-percha jaws, silver craniums, platinum noses,
nothing was wanting to the collection; and the above-mentioned Pitcairn
likewise calculated that in the Gun Club there was not quite one arm
amongst every four persons, and only two legs amongst six.
But these valiant artillerymen paid little heed to such small matters,
and felt justly proud when the report of a battle stated the number of
victims at tenfold the quantity of projectiles expended.
One day, however, a sad and lamentable day, peace was signed by the
survivors of the war, the noise of firing gradually ceased, the mortars
were silent, the howitzers were muzzled for long enough, and the cannon,
with muzzles depressed, were stored in the arsenals, the shots were
piled up in the parks, the bloody reminiscences were effaced, cotton
shrubs grew magnificently on the well-manured fields, mourning garments
began to be worn-out, as well as sorrow, and the Gun Club had nothing
whatever to do.
Certain old hands, inveterate workers, still went on with their
calculations in ballistics; they still imagined gigantic bombs and
unparalleled howitzers. But what was the use of vain theories that could
not be put in practice? So the saloons were deserted, the servants slept
in the antechambers, the newspapers grew mouldy on the tables, from dark
corners issued sad snores, and the members of the Gun Club, formerly so
noisy, now reduced to silence by the disastrous peace, slept the sleep
of Platonic artillery!
"This is distressing," said brave Tom Hunter, whilst his wooden legs
were carbonising at the fireplace of the smoking-room. "Nothing to do!
Nothing to look forward to! What a tiresome existence! Where is the time
when cannon awoke you every morning with its joyful reports?"
"That time is over," answered dandy Bilsby, trying to stretch the arms
he had lost. "There was some fun then! You invented an howitzer, and it
was hardly cast before you ran to try it on the enemy; then you went
back to the camp with an encouragement from Sherman, or a shake of the
hands from MacClellan! But now the generals have gone back to their
counters, and instead of cannon-balls they expedite inoffensive cotton
bales! Ah, by Saint Barb! the future of artillery is lost to America!"
"Yes, Bilsby," cried Colonel Blomsberry, "it is too bad! One fine
morning you leave your tranquil occupations, you are drilled in the use
of arms, you leave Baltimore for the battle-field, you conduct yourself
like a hero, and in two years, three years at the latest, you are
obliged to leave the fruit of so many fatigues, to go to sleep in
deplorable idleness, and keep your hands in your pockets."
The valiant colonel would have found it very difficult to give such a
proof of his want of occupation, though it was not the pockets that were
wanting.
"And no war in prospect, then," said the famous J.T. Maston, scratching
his gutta-percha cranium with his steel hook; "there is not a cloud on
the horizon now that there is so much to do in the science of artillery!
I myself finished this very morning a diagram with plan, basin, and
elevation of a mortar destined to change the laws of warfare!"
"Indeed!" replied Tom Hunter, thinking involuntarily of the Honourable
J.T. Maston's last essay.
"Indeed!" answered Maston. "But what is the use of the good results of
such studies and so many difficulties conquered? It is mere waste of
time. The people of the New World seem determined to live in peace, and
our bellicose _Tribune_ has gone as far as to predict approaching
catastrophes due to the scandalous increase of population!"
"Yet, Maston," said Colonel Blomsberry, "they are always fighting in
Europe to maintain the principle of nationalities!"
"What of that?"
"Why, there might be something to do over there, and if they accepted
our services--"
"What are you thinking of?" cried Bilsby. "Work at ballistics for the
benefit of foreigners!"
"Perhaps that would be better than not doing it at all," answered the
colonel.
"Doubtless," said J.T. Maston, "it would be better, but such an
expedient cannot be thought of."
"Why so?" asked the colonel.
"Because their ideas of advancement would be contrary to all our
American customs. Those folks seem to think that you cannot be a
general-in-chief without having served as second lieutenant, which comes
to the same as saying that no one can point a gun that has not cast one.
Now that is simply--"
"Absurd!" replied Tom Hunter, whittling the arms of his chair with his
bowie-knife; "and as things are so, there is nothing left for us but to
plant tobacco or distil whale-oil!"
"What!" shouted J.T. Maston, "shall we not employ these last years of
our existence in perfecting firearms? Will not a fresh opportunity
present itself to try the ranges of our projectiles? Will the atmosphere
be no longer illuminated by the lightning of our cannons? Won't some
international difficulty crop up that will allow us to declare war
against some transatlantic power? Won't France run down one of our
steamers, or won't England, in defiance of the rights of nations, hang
up three or four of our countrymen?"
"No, Maston," answered Colonel Blomsberry; "no such luck! No, not one of
those incidents will happen; and if one did, it would be of no use to
us. American sensitiveness is declining daily, and we are going to the
dogs!"
"Yes, we are growing quite humble," replied Bilsby.
"And we are humiliated!" answered Tom Hunter.
"All that is only too true," replied J.T. Maston, with fresh vehemence.
"There are a thousand reasons for fighting floating about, and still we
don't fight! We economise legs and arms, and that to the profit of folks
that don't know what to do with them. Look here, without looking any
farther for a motive for war, did not North America formerly belong to
the English?"
"Doubtless," answered Tom Hunter, angrily poking the fire with the end
of his crutch.
"Well," replied J.T. Maston, "why should not England in its turn belong
to the Americans?"
"It would be but justice," answered Colonel Blomsberry.
"Go and propose that to the President of the United States," cried J.T.
Maston, "and see what sort of a reception you would get."
"It would not be a bad reception," murmured Bilsby between the four
teeth he had saved from battle.
"I'faith," cried J.T. Maston, "they need not count upon my vote in the
next elections."
"Nor upon ours," answered with common accord these bellicose invalids.
"In the meantime," continued J.T. Maston, "and to conclude, if they do
not furnish me with the opportunity of trying my new mortar on a real
battle-field, I shall send in my resignation as member of the Gun Club,
and I shall go and bury myself in the backwoods of Arkansas."
"We will follow you there," answered the interlocutors of the
enterprising J.T. Maston.
Things had come to that pass, and the club, getting more excited, was
menaced with approaching dissolution, when an unexpected event came to
prevent so regrettable a catastrophe.
The very day after the foregoing conversation each member of the club
received a circular couched in these terms:--
"Baltimore, October 3rd.
"The president of the Gun Club has the honour to inform his colleagues
that at the meeting on the 5th ultimo he will make them a communication
of an extremely interesting nature. He therefore begs that they, to the
suspension of all other business, will attend, in accordance with the
present invitation,
"Their devoted colleague,
"IMPEY BARBICANE, P.G.C."