Читать книгу Five Weeks in a Balloon - Jules Verne - Страница 18

chapter 8

Joe’s value—the Resolute’s commander—arrangements¹—Kennedy’s arsenal—the farewell dinner—departure on February 21—science sessions with the doctor—Duveyrier, Livingstone—specifics of air travel—Kennedy reduced to silence.

By about February 10 preparations were nearing completion, and the envelopes, one inside the other, were totally finished; their walls had been subjected to intense air pressure and had passed the test; this spoke well for their strength and bore witness to their painstaking manufacture.

Joe was beyond happiness; he beat a steady path from Greek St. to the Mitchells’ workshop, always bustling and beaming, eager to give the details of the business to anybody who didn’t ask, prouder than ever of going with his master. I even think that in showing off the lighter-than-air vehicle, talking up the doctor’s ideas or designs, and pointing him out through a partly open window or on his way down the street, the worthy lad earned a half-crown or two; but there’s no need to wrinkle your nose; he had every right to turn a little profit on the wonderment and curiosity of his age.

On February 16 the Resolute arrived and dropped anchor off Greenwich. A local vessel of some 860 tons burden,² she was propeller driven, made good time, and had been entrusted with replenishing Sir James Clark Ross’s supplies during his latest expedition to the polar regions. By reputation Commander Pennet was a genial chap, and he took a special interest in this journey, being a longtime fan of the doctor’s. This Pennet fellow was more of a scholar than a soldier, which didn’t keep his ship from carrying four short-bodied naval cannons, although they had never harmed a soul and went off only during peacetime ceremonies.

The Resolute’s hold had been arranged explicitly to house the lighter-than-air vehicle; she was loaded on board with the greatest care during the day of February 18; to avert any accidents, they stowed her deep in the ship; under Fergusson’s eyes they also lashed down the gondola and its accessories—the anchors, lines, and provisions, plus the water tanks that were to be filled on arrival.

To produce the hydrogen gas, they took on board ten barrels of sulfuric acid and ten of ground scrap iron. These amounts were more than enough, but it was essential to guard against possible losses. The mechanism designed for expanding the gas included some thirty casks, and the whole works were stowed deep in the hold.

These various preparations were complete by the evening of February 18. Two comfortably furnished cabins were waiting for Dr. Fergusson and his friend Kennedy. Swearing that he wasn’t going, the Scot made his way on board with an authentic hunter’s arsenal—two fine breech-loading, double-barreled shotguns and a top-of-the-line rifle from the factory of Purdey, Moore and Dickson in Edinburgh; with a weapon like this, a hunter wouldn’t be hard pressed to put a bullet in a mountain goat’s eye at 2,000 paces; in addition he had two Colt six-shooters for sudden surprises; his powder supply, cartridge pouch, shot, and bullets were ample for his needs but didn’t exceed the weight limits spelled out by the doctor.

The three travelers took up residence on board during the day of February 19; they were welcomed with pomp and circumstance by the captain and his officers, the doctor as cool as ever and concerned strictly with his expedition, Dick excited but trying not to show it, Joe bounding around and bursting with smart-aleck remarks; he quickly became the wit of the wardroom, where they saved him a place.

On February 20 the Royal Geographical Society threw a big farewell dinner for Dr. Fergusson and Kennedy. Commander Pennet and his officers were in attendance at this meal, which was very lively and heavily given over to toasting and well wishing; they drank to each other’s health and longevity often enough to guarantee every guest centuries of existence. Sir Francis M—— presided with emotional restraint, dignified as ever.

Much to his befuddlement, Dick Kennedy received a good share of these bacchic congratulations. After drinking to “Fergusson the fearless, the glory of all England,” they just had to drink to “Kennedy the courageous, his no-less-daring companion.”

Dick turned beet red, which they took for modesty: the clapping increased. Dick turned redder still.

A message from the Queen arrived during dessert; she presented her compliments to the two travelers and wished them every success in their undertaking.

Which called for a new round of toasts “to Her Most Gracious Majesty.”

At midnight, after fervent farewells and hearty handshakes, the guests took their leave.

The Resolute’s longboats were waiting by Westminster Bridge; the commander got in along with his passengers and officers, then the swift current of the Thames ferried them to Greenwich.

They all were on board by one o’clock and fast asleep.

By three o’clock the following day, February 21, the furnaces were throbbing; at five o’clock the crew weighed anchor, and under her propeller’s thrust, the Resolute headed for the mouth of the Thames.

No need to point out that conversations on board revolved entirely around Dr. Fergusson’s expedition. His looks and his words inspired such confidence, soon nobody other than the Scot doubted that his undertaking would succeed.

During the voyage’s long, idle hours, the doctor taught an honest-to-goodness course in geography down in the officers’ quarters. The young fellows were enthralled by the discoveries made over the last forty years in Africa; he told them about the exploring parties of Barth, Burton, Speke, and Grant; he painted them a portrait of that mysterious region scientists were freely investigating from every direction. In the north young Duveyrier was exploring the Sahara and bringing Tuareg chieftains back to Paris. Under the urging of the French government, a couple of expeditions were in preparation, one southbound and one westbound, the two planning to intersect in Timbuktu. Farther south the tireless Livingstone was drawing still closer to the equator, and since March 1862 he’d been going up the Ruvuma River together with Mackenzie. The nineteenth century would certainly not end without Africa revealing the secrets buried for 6,000 years in her bosom.

The Resolute

Dr. Fergusson aroused his audience’s particular interest when he gave them the details of his journey’s preparations; they insisted on double-checking his calculations; they argued about them, and the doctor was happy to participate in the debate.

On the whole they were amazed at the relatively limited number of provisions he was taking along. One of the officers questioned the doctor about this one day.

“That surprises you?” Fergusson responded.

“Definitely.”

“But how long do you think my journey will take? Months? That’s where you’re quite wrong; if it dragged on, we’d be done for, we wouldn’t make it. Please understand that it’s no more than 3,500 miles—make that 4,000 miles—from Zanzibar to the Senegal coastline.³ Now then, traveling day and night at the rate of 240 miles⁴ every twelve hours (nowhere near the speed of our railway trains), it will take seven days to cross Africa.”

“But then you wouldn’t be able to see anything, or take topographical readings, or scout out the countryside.”

“And yet,” the doctor replied, “if I’m in control of my balloon, if I go up and down at will, I can call a halt whenever it suits me, especially when the air currents are so strong that they threaten to carry me off.”

“And you’ll run into some,” Commander Pennet said. “There are hurricanes that go over 240 miles per hour.”

“See?” the doctor shot back. “At that kind of speed, you’d cross Africa in twelve hours; you’d wake up in Zanzibar and go to bed in Saint-Louis.”

“But,” another officer resumed, “could a balloon be swept along at that speed?”

“One already has,” Fergusson replied.

“And the balloon held up?”

“Perfectly. It happened in 1804 at the time of Napoleon’s coronation. In Paris at eleven at night, the balloonist Garnerin launched a lighter-than-air vehicle that bore the following inscription printed in gold letters: Paris, the 25th day in the Month of Frost during the 13th year of the French Revolutionary Calendar, coronation of the Emperor Napoleon by His Holiness Pope Pius VII. At five o’clock the next morning, the citizens of Rome saw the same balloon soar over the Vatican, cross the Roman Campagna, and splash down in Lake Bracciano. Therefore, gentlemen, a balloon can withstand such speeds.”

“A balloon, yes; but a man …” Kennedy ventured to say.

“A man as well! Because a balloon is always motionless in relation to the surrounding air; it isn’t the balloon that moves, it’s the mass of air itself; accordingly, if you light a candle inside your gondola, the flame won’t flicker. A balloonist riding in Garnerin’s vehicle wouldn’t suffer in the slightest from her velocity. But I don’t hold with such high-speed experiments, and if I can hitch up to some tree or crag during the night, I’ll do so without fail. In any case we’re taking enough provisions to last us two months, and there’s nothing to prevent our crack hunter from furnishing us with plenty of game when we’re on the ground.”

“Ah, Mr. Kennedy! You’ll squeeze off some prize-winning shots!” a young midshipman said, looking at the Scot with envious eyes.

“Not to mention,” another went on, “that you’ll have all the glory as well as all the fun!”

“Gentlemen …,” the hunter replied, “I truly appreciate … your compliments … but I don’t deserve such …”

“Huh?” everybody interrupted. “Aren’t you going too?”

“I’m not going.”

“You won’t be leaving with Dr. Fergusson?”

“I not only won’t be leaving with him, I’ve come along to stop him at the eleventh hour.”

All eyes turned to the doctor.

“Pay him no mind,” he replied in his calm way. “There’s no need to discuss this; deep down he’s perfectly aware that he’s going.”

“I swear by St. Patrick—” Kennedy exclaimed.⁵

“Don’t swear another word, Dick old friend; you’ve been measured, you’ve been weighed—you, your powder, firearms, and bullets; so there’s nothing more to say.”

And in fact, from that day until their arrival in Zanzibar, Dick didn’t reopen his mouth; he had nothing more to say on this subject or any other. Not one word.