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 despatch, 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 motive 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._
Illustration: PRESIDENT BARBICANE AT HIS WINDOW.
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 despatched 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 afterwards Barbicane received information too exact to leave
room for the smallest remaining doubt.
"The steamer 'Atlanta' from Liverpool put to sea on the 2nd 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 20th October, at 9 a.m., the semaphores of the
Bahama Canal signalled 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 500 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 42 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 whisker 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-ploughed
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 shirt-collar, disclosing a robust neck; his cuffs
were invariably unbuttoned, through which appeared a pair of red hands.
Illustration: MICHEL ARDEN.
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.
Amongst 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 hair-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 pith figures which they sell for children's toys. In two
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 G. C.
"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 to 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. Amongst 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.