From the Earth to the moon; and, round the moon
by Jules Verne · English · Gutenberg #83 · 564,078 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: From the Earth to the moon; and, round the moon
Author: Jules Verne
Release date: September 1, 1993 [eBook #83]
Most recently updated: November 24, 2023
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/83
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FROM THE EARTH TO THE MOON; AND, ROUND THE MOON ***
[Illustration]
From the Earth to the Moon
by Jules Verne
Contents: From the Earth to the Moon
CHAPTER I. The Gun Club
CHAPTER II. President Barbicane’s Communication
CHAPTER III. Effect of the President’s Communication
CHAPTER IV. Reply From the Observatory of Cambridge
CHAPTER V. The Romance of the Moon
CHAPTER VI. The Permissive Limits of Ignorance and Belief in the United States
CHAPTER VII. The Hymn of the Cannon-Ball
CHAPTER VIII. History of the Cannon
CHAPTER IX. The Question of the Powders
CHAPTER X. One Enemy _v._ Twenty-Five Millions of Friends
CHAPTER XI. Florida and Texas
CHAPTER XII. Urbi et Orbi
CHAPTER XIII. Stones Hill
CHAPTER XIV. Pickaxe and Trowel
CHAPTER XV. The Fete of the Casting
CHAPTER XVI. The Columbiad
CHAPTER XVII. A Telegraphic Dispatch
CHAPTER XVIII. The Passenger of the Atlanta
CHAPTER XIX. A Monster Meeting
CHAPTER XX. Attack and Riposte
CHAPTER XXI. How A Frenchman Manages An Affair
CHAPTER XXII. The New Citizen of the United States
CHAPTER XXIII. The Projectile-Vehicle
CHAPTER XXIV. The Telescope of the Rocky Mountains
CHAPTER XXV. Final Details
CHAPTER XXVI. Fire!
CHAPTER XXVII. Foul Weather
CHAPTER XXVIII. A New Star
Contents: Round the Moon
PRELIMINARY CHAPTER—Recapitulating the First Part of
This Work, and Serving as a Preface to the Second
CHAPTER I. From Twenty Minutes Past Ten to Forty-Seven Minutes Past Ten P. M.
CHAPTER II. The First Half Hour
CHAPTER III. Their Place of Shelter
CHAPTER IV. A Little Algebra
CHAPTER V. The Cold of Space
CHAPTER VI. Question and Answer
CHAPTER VII. A Moment of Intoxication
CHAPTER VIII.At Seventy-Eight Thousand Five Hundred and Fourteen Leagues
CHAPTER IX. The Consequences of A Deviation
CHAPTER X. The Observers of the Moon
CHAPTER XI. Fancy and Reality
CHAPTER XII. Orographic Details
CHAPTER XIII. Lunar Landscapes
CHAPTER XIV. The Night of Three Hundred and Fifty-Four Hours and A Half
CHAPTER XV. Hyperbola or Parabola
CHAPTER XVI. The Southern Hemisphere
CHAPTER XVII. Tycho
CHAPTER XVIII. Grave Questions
CHAPTER XIX. A Struggle Against the Impossible
CHAPTER XX. The Soundings of the Susquehanna
CHAPTER XXI. J. T. Maston Recalled
CHAPTER XXII. Recovered From the Sea
CHAPTER XXIII. The End
FROM THE EARTH TO THE MOON
CHAPTER I.
THE GUN CLUB
During the War of the Rebellion, a new and influential club was
established in the city of Baltimore in the State of Maryland. It is
well known with what energy the taste for military matters became
developed among that nation of ship-owners, shopkeepers, and mechanics.
Simple tradesmen jumped their counters to become extemporized captains,
colonels, and generals, without having ever passed the School of
Instruction at West Point; nevertheless; they quickly rivaled their
compeers of the old continent, and, like them, carried off victories by
dint of lavish expenditure in ammunition, money, and men.
But the point in which the Americans singularly distanced the Europeans
was in the science of _gunnery_. Not, indeed, that their weapons
retained a higher degree of perfection than theirs, but that they
exhibited unheard-of dimensions, and consequently attained hitherto
unheard-of ranges. In point of grazing, plunging, oblique, or
enfilading, or point-blank firing, the English, French, and Prussians
have nothing to learn; but their cannon, howitzers, and mortars are
mere pocket-pistols compared with the formidable engines of the
American artillery.
This fact need surprise no one. The Yankees, the first mechanicians in
the world, are engineers—just as the Italians are musicians and the
Germans metaphysicians—by right of birth. Nothing is more natural,
therefore, than to perceive them applying their audacious ingenuity to
the science of gunnery. Witness the marvels of Parrott, Dahlgren, and
Rodman. The Armstrong, Palliser, and Beaulieu guns were compelled to
bow before their transatlantic rivals.
Now when an American has an idea, he directly seeks a second American
to share it. If there be three, they elect a president and two
secretaries. Given _four_, they name a keeper of records, and the
office is ready for work; _five_, they convene a general meeting, and
the club is fully constituted. So things were managed in Baltimore. The
inventor of a new cannon associated himself with the caster and the
borer. Thus was formed the nucleus of the “Gun Club.” In a single month
after its formation it numbered 1,833 effective members and 30,565
corresponding members.
One condition was imposed as a _sine quâ non_ upon every candidate for
admission into the association, and that was the condition of having
designed, or (more or less) perfected a cannon; or, in default of a
cannon, at least a firearm of some description. It may, however, be
mentioned that mere inventors of revolvers, fire-shooting carbines, and
similar small arms, met with little consideration. Artillerists always
commanded the chief place of favor.
The estimation in which these gentlemen were held, according to one of
the most scientific exponents of the Gun Club, was “proportional to the
masses of their guns, and in the direct ratio of the square of the
distances attained by their projectiles.”
The Gun Club once founded, it is easy to conceive the result of the
inventive genius of the Americans. Their military weapons attained
colossal proportions, and their projectiles, exceeding the prescribed
limits, unfortunately occasionally cut in two some unoffending
pedestrians. These inventions, in fact, left far in the rear the timid
instruments of European artillery.
It is but fair to add that these Yankees, brave as they have ever
proved themselves to be, did not confine themselves to theories and
formulae, but that they paid heavily, _in propriâ personâ_, for their
inventions. Among them were to be counted officers of all ranks, from
lieutenants to generals; military men of every age, from those who were
just making their _début_ in the profession of arms up to those who had
grown old in the gun-carriage. Many had found their rest on the field
of battle whose names figured in the “Book of Honor” of the Gun Club;
and of those who made good their return the greater proportion bore the
marks of their indisputable valor. Crutches, wooden legs, artificial
arms, steel hooks, caoutchouc jaws, silver craniums, platinum noses,
were all to be found in the collection; and it was calculated by the
great statistician Pitcairn that throughout the Gun Club there was not
quite one arm between four persons and two legs between six.
Nevertheless, these valiant artillerists took no particular account of
these little facts, and felt justly proud when the despatches of a
battle returned the number of victims at ten-fold the quantity of
projectiles expended.
One day, however—sad and melancholy day!—peace was signed between the
survivors of the war; the thunder of the guns gradually ceased, the
mortars were silent, the howitzers were muzzled for an indefinite
period, the cannon, with muzzles depressed, were returned into the
arsenal, the shot were repiled, all bloody reminiscences were effaced;
the cotton-plants grew luxuriantly in the well-manured fields, all
mourning garments were laid aside, together with grief; and the Gun
Club was relegated to profound inactivity.
Some few of the more advanced and inveterate theorists set themselves
again to work upon calculations regarding the laws of projectiles. They
reverted invariably to gigantic shells and howitzers of unparalleled
caliber. Still in default of practical experience what was the value of
mere theories? Consequently, the clubrooms became deserted, the
servants dozed in the antechambers, the newspapers grew mouldy on the
tables, sounds of snoring came from dark corners, and the members of
the Gun Club, erstwhile so noisy in their seances, were reduced to
silence by this disastrous peace and gave themselves up wholly to
dreams of a Platonic kind of artillery.
“This is horrible!” said Tom Hunter one evening, while rapidly
carbonizing his wooden legs in the fireplace of the smoking-room;
“nothing to do! nothing to look forward to! what a loathsome existence!
When again shall the guns arouse us in the morning with their
delightful reports?”
“Those days are gone by,” said jolly Bilsby, trying to extend his
missing arms. “It was delightful once upon a time! One invented a gun,
and hardly was it cast, when one hastened to try it in the face of the
enemy! Then one returned to camp with a word of encouragement from
Sherman or a friendly shake of the hand from McClellan. But now the
generals are gone back to their counters; and in place of projectiles,
they despatch bales of cotton. By Jove, the future of gunnery in
America is lost!”
“Ay! and no war in prospect!” continued the famous James T. Maston,
scratching with his steel hook his gutta-percha cranium. “Not a cloud
on the horizon! and that too at such a critical period in the progress
of the science of artillery! Yes, gentlemen! I who address you have
myself this very morning perfected a model (plan, section, elevation,
etc.) of a mortar destined to change all the conditions of warfare!”
“No! is it possible?” replied Tom Hunter, his thoughts reverting
involuntarily to a former invention of the Hon. J. T. Maston, by which,
at its first trial, he had succeeded in killing three hundred and
thirty-seven people.
“Fact!” replied he. “Still, what is the use of so many studies worked
out, so many difficulties vanquished? It’s mere waste of time! The New
World seems to have made up its mind to live in peace; and our
bellicose _Tribune_ predicts some approaching catastrophes arising out
of this scandalous increase of population.”
“Nevertheless,” replied Colonel Blomsberry, “they are always struggling
in Europe to maintain the principle of nationalities.”
“Well?”
“Well, there might be some field for enterprise down there; and if they
would accept our services—”
“What are you dreaming of?” screamed Bilsby; “work at gunnery for the
benefit of foreigners?”
“That would be better than doing nothing here,” returned the colonel.
“Quite so,” said J. T. Matson; “but still we need not dream of that
expedient.”
“And why not?” demanded the colonel.
“Because their ideas of progress in the Old World are contrary to our
American habits of thought. Those fellows believe that one can’t become
a general without having served first as an ensign; which is as much as
to say that one can’t point a gun without having first cast it
oneself!”
“Ridiculous!” replied Tom Hunter, whittling with his bowie-knife the
arms of his easy chair; “but if that be the case there, all that is
left for us is to plant tobacco and distill whale-oil.”
“What!” roared J. T. Maston, “shall we not employ these remaining years
of our life in perfecting firearms? Shall there never be a fresh
opportunity of trying the ranges of projectiles? Shall the air never
again be lighted with the glare of our guns? No international
difficulty ever arise to enable us to declare war against some
transatlantic power? Shall not the French sink one of our steamers, or
the English, in defiance of the rights of nations, hang a few of our
countrymen?”
“No such luck,” replied Colonel Blomsberry; “nothing of the kind is
likely to happen; and even if it did, we should not profit by it.
American susceptibility is fast declining, and we are all going to the
dogs.”
“It is too true,” replied J. T. Maston, with fresh violence; “there are
a thousand grounds for fighting, and yet we don’t fight. We save up our
arms and legs for the benefit of nations who don’t know what to do with
them! But stop—without going out of one’s way to find a cause for
war—did not North America once belong to the English?”
“Undoubtedly,” replied Tom Hunter, stamping his crutch with fury.
“Well, then,” replied J. T. Maston, “why should not England in her turn
belong to the Americans?”
“It would be but just and fair,” returned Colonel Blomsberry.
“Go and propose it to the President of the United States,” cried J. T.
Maston, “and see how he will receive you.”
“Bah!” growled Bilsby between the four teeth which the war had left
him; “that will never do!”
“By Jove!” cried J. T. Maston, “he mustn’t count on my vote at the next
election!”
“Nor on ours,” replied unanimously all the bellicose invalids.
“Meanwhile,” replied J. T. Maston, “allow me to say that, if I cannot
get an opportunity to try my new mortars on a real field of battle, I
shall say good-by to the members of the Gun Club, and go and bury
myself in the prairies of Arkansas!”
“In that case we will accompany you,” cried the others.
Matters were in this unfortunate condition, and the club was threatened
with approaching dissolution, when an unexpected circumstance occurred
to prevent so deplorable a catastrophe.
On the morrow after this conversation every member of the association
received a sealed circular couched in the following terms:
BALTIMORE, October 3. The president of the Gun Club has the honor to
inform his colleagues that, at the meeting of the 5th instant, he will
bring before them a communication of an extremely interesting nature.
He requests, therefore, that they will make it convenient to attend in
accordance with the present invitation. Very cordially, IMPEY
BARBICANE, P.G.C.
CHAPTER II.
PRESIDENT BARBICANE’S COMMUNICATION
On the 5th of October, at eight p.m., a dense crowd pressed toward the
saloons of the Gun Club at No. 21 Union Square. All the members of the
association resident in Baltimore attended the invitation of their
president. As regards the corresponding members, notices were delivered
by hundreds throughout the streets of the city, and, large as was the
great hall, it was quite inadequate to accommodate the crowd of
_savants_. They overflowed into the adjoining rooms, down the narrow
passages, into the outer courtyards. There they ran against the vulgar
herd who pressed up to the doors, each struggling to reach the front
ranks, all eager to learn the nature of the important communication of
President Barbicane; all pushing, squeezing, crushing with that perfect
freedom of action which is so peculiar to the masses when educated in
ideas of “self-government.”
On that evening a stranger who might have chanced to be in Baltimore
could not have gained admission for love or money into the great hall.
That was reserved exclusively for resident or corresponding members; no
one else could possibly have obtained a place; and the city magnates,
municipal councilors, and “select men” were compelled to mingle with
the mere townspeople in order to catch stray bits of news from the
interior.
Nevertheless the vast hall presented a curious spectacle. Its immense
area was singularly adapted to the purpose. Lofty pillars formed of
cannon, superposed upon huge mortars as a base, supported the fine
ironwork of the arches, a perfect piece of cast-iron lacework. Trophies
of blunderbuses, matchlocks, arquebuses, carbines, all kinds of
firearms, ancient and modern, were picturesquely interlaced against the
walls. The gas lit up in full glare myriads of revolvers grouped in the
form of lustres, while groups of pistols, and candelabra formed of
muskets bound together, completed this magnificent display of
brilliance. Models of cannon, bronze castings, sights covered with
dents, plates battered by the shots of the Gun Club, assortments of
rammers and sponges, chaplets of shells, wreaths of projectiles,
garlands of howitzers—in short, all the apparatus of the artillerist,
enchanted the eye by this wonderful arrangement and induced a kind of
belief that their real purpose was ornamental rather than deadly.
At the further end of the saloon the president, assisted by four
secretaries, occupied a large platform. His chair, supported by a
carved gun-carriage, was modeled upon the ponderous proportions of a
32-inch mortar. It was pointed at an angle of ninety degrees, and
suspended upon truncheons, so that the president could balance himself
upon it as upon a rocking-chair, a very agreeable fact in the very hot
weather. Upon the table (a huge iron plate supported upon six
carronades) stood an inkstand of exquisite elegance, made of a
beautifully chased Spanish piece, and a sonnette, which, when required,
could give forth a report equal to that of a revolver. During violent
debates this novel kind of bell scarcely sufficed to drown the clamor
of these excitable artillerists.
In front of the table benches arranged in zigzag form, like the
circumvallations of a retrenchment, formed a succession of bastions and
curtains set apart for the use of the members of the club; and on this
especial evening one might say, “All the world was on the ramparts.”
The president was sufficiently well known, however, for all to be
assured that he would not put his colleagues to discomfort without some
very strong motive.
Impey Barbicane was a man of forty years of age, calm, cold, austere;
of a singularly serious and self-contained demeanor, punctual as a
chronometer, of imperturbable temper and immovable character; by no
means chivalrous, yet adventurous withal, and always bringing practical
ideas to bear upon the very rashest enterprises; an essentially New
Englander, a Northern colonist, a descendant of the old anti-Stuart
Roundheads, and the implacable enemy of the gentlemen of the South,
those ancient cavaliers of the mother country. In a word, he was a
Yankee to the backbone.
Barbicane had made a large fortune as a timber merchant. Being
nominated director of artillery during the war, he proved himself
fertile in invention. Bold in his conceptions, he contributed
powerfully to the progress of that arm and gave an immense impetus to
experimental researches.
He was personage of the middle height, having, by a rare exception in
the Gun Club, all his limbs complete. His strongly marked features
seemed drawn by square and rule; and if it be true that, in order to
judge a man’s character one must look at his profile, Barbicane, so
examined, exhibited the most certain indications of energy, audacity,
and _sang-froid_.
At this moment he was sitting in his armchair, silent, absorbed, lost
in reflection, sheltered under his high-crowned hat—a kind of black
cylinder which always seems firmly screwed upon the head of an
American.
Just when the deep-toned clock in the great hall struck eight,
Barbicane, as if he had been set in motion by a spring, raised himself
up. A profound silence ensued, and the speaker, in a somewhat emphatic
tone of voice, commenced as follows:
“My brave, colleagues, too long already a paralyzing peace has plunged
the members of the Gun Club in deplorable inactivity. After a period of
years full of incidents we have been compelled to abandon our labors,
and to stop short on the road of progress. I do not hesitate to state,
baldly, that any war which would recall us to arms would be welcome!”
(_Tremendous applause!_) “But war, gentlemen, is impossible under
existing circumstances; and, however we may desire it, many years may
elapse before our cannon shall again thunder in the field of battle. We
must make up our minds, then, to seek in another train of ideas some
field for the activity which we all pine for.”
The meeting felt that the president was now approaching the critical
point, and redoubled their attention accordingly.
“For some months past, my brave colleagues,” continued Barbicane, “I
have been asking myself whether, while confining ourselves to our own
particular objects, we could not enter upon some grand experiment
worthy of the nineteenth century; and whether the progress of artillery
science would not enable us to carry it out to a successful issue. I
have been considering, working, calculating; and the result of my
studies is the conviction that we are safe to succeed in an enterprise
which to any other country would appear wholly impracticable. This
project, the result of long elaboration, is the object of my present
communication. It is worthy of yourselves, worthy of the antecedents of
the Gun Club; and it cannot fail to make some noise in the world.”
A thrill of excitement ran through the meeting.
Barbicane, having by a rapid movement firmly fixed his hat upon his
head, calmly continued his harangue:
“There is no one among you, my brave colleagues, who has not seen the
Moon, or, at least, heard speak of it. Don’t be surprised if I am about
to discourse to you regarding the Queen of the Night. It is perhaps
reserved for us to become the Columbuses of this unknown world. Only
enter into my plans, and second me with all your power, and I will lead
you to its conquest, and its name shall be added to those of the
thirty-six states which compose this Great Union.”
“Three cheers for the Moon!” roared the Gun Club, with one voice.
“The moon, gentlemen, has been carefully studied,” continued Barbicane;
“her mass, density, and weight; her constitution, motions, distance, as
well as her place in the solar system, have all been exactly
determined. Selenographic charts have been constructed with a
perfection which equals, if it does not even surpass, that of our
terrestrial maps. Photography has given us proofs of the incomparable
beauty of our satellite; all is known regarding the moon which
mathematical science, astronomy, geology, and optics can learn about
her. But up to the present moment no direct communication has been
established with her.”
A violent movement of interest and surprise here greeted this remark of
the speaker.
“Permit me,” he continued, “to recount to you briefly how certain
ardent spirits, starting on imaginary journeys, have penetrated the
secrets of our satellite. In the seventeenth century a certain David
Fabricius boasted of having seen with his own eyes the inhabitants of
the moon. In 1649 a Frenchman, one Jean Baudoin, published a ‘Journey
performed from the Earth to the Moon by Domingo Gonzalez,’ a Spanish
adventurer. At the same period Cyrano de Bergerac published that
celebrated ‘Journeys in the Moon’ which met with such success in
France. Somewhat later another Frenchman, named Fontenelle, wrote ‘The
Plurality of Worlds,’ a _chef-d’œuvre_ of its time. About 1835 a small
treatise, translated from the _New York American_, related how Sir John
Herschel, having been despatched to the Cape of Good Hope for the
purpose of making there some astronomical calculations, had, by means
of a telescope brought to perfection by means of internal lighting,
reduced the apparent distance of the moon to eighty yards! He then
distinctly perceived caverns frequented by hippopotami, green mountains
bordered by golden lace-work, sheep with horns of ivory, a white
species of deer and inhabitants with membranous wings, like bats. This
_brochure_, the work of an American named Locke, had a great sale. But,
to bring this rapid sketch to a close, I will only add that a certain
Hans Pfaal, of Rotterdam, launching himself in a balloon filled with a
gas extracted from nitrogen, thirty-seven times lighter than hydrogen,
reached the moon after a passage of nineteen hours. This journey, like
all previous ones, was purely imaginary; still, it was the work of a
popular American author—I mean Edgar Poe!”
“Cheers for Edgar Poe!” roared the assemblage, electrified by their
president’s words.
“I have now enumerated,” said Barbicane, “the experiments which I call
purely paper ones, and wholly insufficient to establish serious
relations with the Queen of the Night. Nevertheless, I am bound to add
that some practical geniuses have attempted to establish actual
communication with her. Thus, a few days ago, a German geometrician
proposed to send a scientific expedition to the steppes of Siberia.
There, on those vast plains, they were to describe enormous geometric
figures, drawn in characters of reflecting luminosity, among which was
the proposition regarding the ‘square of the hypothenuse,’ commonly
called the ‘_Ass’s Bridge_’ by the French. ‘Every intelligent being,’
said the geometrician, ‘must understand the scientific meaning of that
figure. The Selenites, do they exist, will respond by a similar figure;
and, a communication being thus once established, it will be easy to
form an alphabet which shall enable us to converse with the inhabitants
of the moon.’ So spoke the German geometrician; but his project was
never put into practice, and up to the present day there is no bond in
existence between the Earth and her satellite. It is reserved for the
practical genius of Americans to establish a communication with the
sidereal world. The means of arriving thither are simple, easy,
certain, infallible—and that is the purpose of my present proposal.”
A storm of acclamations greeted these words. There was not a single
person in the whole audience who was not overcome, carried away, lifted
out of himself by the speaker’s words!
Long-continued applause resounded from all sides.
As soon as the excitement had partially subsided, Barbicane resumed his
speech in a somewhat graver voice.
“You know,” said he, “what progress artillery science has made during
the last few years, and what a degree of perfection firearms of every
kind have reached. Moreover, you are well aware that, in general terms,
the resisting power of cannon and the expansive force of gunpowder are
practically unlimited. Well! starting from this principle, I ask myself
whether, supposing sufficient apparatus could be obtained constructed
upon the conditions of ascertained resistance, it might not be possible
to project a shot up to the moon?”
At these words a murmur of amazement escaped from a thousand panting
chests; then succeeded a moment of perfect silence, resembling that
profound stillness which precedes the bursting of a thunderstorm. In
point of fact, a thunderstorm did peal forth, but it was the thunder of
applause, or cries, and of uproar which made the very hall tremble. The
president attempted to speak, but could not. It was fully ten minutes
before he could make himself heard.
“Suffer me to finish,” he calmly continued. “I have looked at the
question in all its bearings, I have resolutely attacked it, and by
incontrovertible calculations I find that a projectile endowed with an
initial velocity of 12,000 yards per second, and aimed at the moon,
must necessarily reach it. I have the honor, my brave colleagues, to
propose a trial of this little experiment.”
CHAPTER III.
EFFECT OF THE PRESIDENT’S COMMUNICATION
It is impossible to describe the effect produced by the last words of
the honorable president—the cries, the shouts, the succession of roars,
hurrahs, and all the varied vociferations which the American language
is capable of supplying. It was a scene of indescribable confusion and
uproar. They shouted, they clapped, they stamped on the floor of the
hall. All the weapons in the museum discharged at once could not have
more violently set in motion the waves of sound. One need not be
surprised at this. There are some cannoneers nearly as noisy as their
own guns.
Barbicane remained calm in the midst of this enthusiastic clamor;
perhaps he was desirous of addressing a few more words to his
colleagues, for by his gestures he demanded silence, and his powerful
alarum was worn out by its violent reports. No attention, however, was
paid to his request. He was presently torn from his seat and passed
from the hands of his faithful colleagues into the arms of a no less
excited crowd.
Nothing can astound an American. It has often been asserted that the
word “impossible” is not a French one. People have evidently been
deceived by the dictionary. In America, all is easy, all is simple; and
as for mechanical difficulties, they are overcome before they arise.
Between Barbicane’s proposition and its realization no true Yankee
would have allowed even the semblance of a difficulty to be possible. A
thing with them is no sooner said than done.
The triumphal progress of the president continued throughout the
evening. It was a regular torchlight procession. Irish, Germans,
French, Scotch, all the heterogeneous units which make up the
population of Maryland shouted in their respective vernaculars; and the
“vivas,” “hurrahs,” and “bravos” were intermingled in inexpressible
enthusiasm.
Just at this crisis, as though she comprehended all this agitation
regarding herself, the moon shone forth with serene splendor, eclipsing
by her intense illumination all the surrounding lights. The Yankees all
turned their gaze toward her resplendent orb, kissed their hands,
called her by all kinds of endearing names. Between eight o’clock and
midnight one optician in Jones’-Fall Street made his fortune by the
sale of opera-glasses.
Midnight arrived, and the enthusiasm showed no signs of diminution. It
spread equally among all classes of citizens—men of science,
shopkeepers, merchants, porters, chair-men, as well as “greenhorns,”
were stirred in their innermost fibres. A national enterprise was at
stake. The whole city, high and low, the quays bordering the Patapsco,
the ships lying in the basins, disgorged a crowd drunk with joy, gin,
and whisky. Every one chattered, argued, discussed, disputed,
applauded, from the gentleman lounging upon the barroom settee with his
tumbler of sherry-cobbler before him down to the waterman who got drunk
upon his “knock-me-down” in the dingy taverns of Fell Point.
About two A.M., however, the excitement began to subside. President
Barbicane reached his house, bruised, crushed, and squeezed almost to a
mummy. Hercules could not have resisted a similar outbreak of
enthusiasm. The crowd gradually deserted the squares and streets. The
four railways from Philadelphia and Washington, Harrisburg and
Wheeling, which converge at Baltimore, whirled away the heterogeneous
population to the four corners of the United States, and the city
subsided into comparative tranquility.
On the following day, thanks to the telegraphic wires, five hundred
newspapers and journals, daily, weekly, monthly, or bi-monthly, all
took up the question. They examined it under all its different aspects,
physical, meteorological, economical, or moral, up to its bearings on
politics or civilization. They debated whether the moon was a finished
world, or whether it was destined to undergo any further
transformation. Did it resemble the earth at the period when the latter
was destitute as yet of an atmosphere? What kind of spectacle would its
hidden hemisphere present to our terrestrial spheroid? Granting that
the question at present was simply that of sending a projectile up to
the moon, every one must see that that involved the commencement of a
series of experiments. All must hope that some day America would
penetrate the deepest secrets of that mysterious orb; and some even
seemed to fear lest its conquest should not sensibly derange the
equilibrium of Europe.
The project once under discussion, not a single paragraph suggested a
doubt of its realization. All the papers, pamphlets, reports—all the
journals published by the scientific, literary, and religious societies
enlarged upon its advantages; and the Society of Natural History of
Boston, the Society of Science and Art of Albany, the Geographical and
Statistical Society of New York, the Philosophical Society of
Philadelphia, and the Smithsonian of Washington sent innumerable
letters of congratulation to the Gun Club, together with offers of
immediate assistance and money.
From that day forward Impey Barbicane became one of the greatest
citizens of the United States, a kind of Washington of science. A
single trait of feeling, taken from many others, will serve to show the
point which this homage of a whole people to a single individual
attained.
Some few days after this memorable meeting of the Gun Club, the manager
of an English company announced, at the Baltimore theatre, the
production of “Much ado about Nothing.” But the populace, seeing in
that title an allusion damaging to Barbicane’s project, broke into the
auditorium, smashed the benches, and compelled the unlucky director to
alter his playbill. Being a sensible man, he bowed to the public will
and replaced the offending comedy by “As you like it”; and for many
weeks he realized fabulous profits.
CHAPTER IV.
REPLY FROM THE OBSERVATORY OF CAMBRIDGE
Barbicane, however, lost not one moment amid all the enthusiasm of
which he had become the object. His first care was to reassemble his
colleagues in the board-room of the Gun Club. There, after some
discussion, it was agreed to consult the astronomers regarding the
astronomical part of the enterprise. Their reply once ascertained, they
could then discuss the mechanical means, and nothing should be wanting
to ensure the success of this great experiment.
A note couched in precise terms, containing special interrogatories,
was then drawn up and addressed to the Observatory of Cambridge in
Massachusetts. This city, where the first university of the United
States was founded, is justly celebrated for its astronomical staff.
There are to be found assembled all the most eminent men of science.
Here is to be seen at work that powerful telescope which enabled Bond
to resolve the nebula of Andromeda, and Clarke to discover the
satellite of Sirius. This celebrated institution fully justified on all
points the confidence reposed in it by the Gun Club. So, after two
days, the reply so impatiently awaited was placed in the hands of
President Barbicane.
It was couched in the following terms:
_The Director of the Cambridge Observatory to the President of the Gun
Club at Baltimore._
CAMBRIDGE, October 7. On the receipt of your favor of the 6th instant,
addressed to the Observatory of Cambridge in the name of the members of
the Baltimore Gun Club, our staff was immediately called together, and
it was judged expedient to reply as follows:
The questions which have been proposed to it are these—
“1. Is it possible to transmit a projectile up to the moon?
“2. What is the exact distance which separates the earth from its
satellite?
“3. What will be the period of transit of the projectile when endowed
with sufficient initial velocity? and, consequently, at what moment
ought it to be discharged in order that it may touch the moon at a
particular point?
“4. At what precise moment will the moon present herself in the most
favorable position to be reached by the projectile?
“5. What point in the heavens ought the cannon to be aimed at which is
intended to discharge the projectile?
“6. What place will the moon occupy in the heavens at the moment of the
projectile’s departure?”
Regarding the _first_ question, “Is it possible to transmit a
projectile up to the moon?”
_Answer._—Yes; provided it possess an initial velocity of 12,000 yards
per second; calculations prove that to be sufficient. In proportion as
we recede from the earth the action of gravitation diminishes in the
inverse ratio of the square of the distance; that is to say, _at three
times a given distance the action is nine times less._ Consequently,
the weight of a shot will decrease, and will become reduced to _zero_
at the instant that the attraction of the moon exactly counterpoises
that of the earth; that is to say at 47/52 of its passage. At that
instant the projectile will have no weight whatever; and, if it passes
that point, it will fall into the moon by the sole effect of the lunar
attraction. The _theoretical possibility_ of the experiment is
therefore absolutely demonstrated; its _success_ must depend upon the
power of the engine employed.
As to the _second_ question, “What is the exact distance which
separates the earth from its satellite?”
_Answer._—The moon does not describe a _circle_ round the earth, but
rather an _ellipse_, of which our earth occupies one of the _foci_; the
consequence, therefore, is, that at certain times it approaches nearer
to, and at others it recedes farther from, the earth; in astronomical
language, it is at one time in _apogee_, at another in _perigee_. Now
the difference between its greatest and its least distance is too
considerable to be left out of consideration. In point of fact, in its
apogee the moon is 247,552 miles, and in its perigee, 218,657 miles
only distant; a fact which makes a difference of 28,895 miles, or more
than one-ninth of the entire distance. The perigee distance, therefore,
is that which ought to serve as the basis of all calculations.
To the _third_ question:—
_Answer._—If the shot should preserve continuously its initial velocity
of 12,000 yards per second, it would require little more than nine
hours to reach its destination; but, inasmuch as that initial velocity
will be continually decreasing, it will occupy 300,000 seconds, that is
83hrs. 20m. in reaching the point where the attraction of the earth and
moon will be _in equilibrio_. From this point it will fall into the
moon in 50,000 seconds, or 13hrs. 53m. 20sec. It will be desirable,
therefore, to discharge it 97hrs. 13m. 20sec. before the arrival of the
moon at the point aimed at.
Regarding question _four_, “At what precise moment will the moon
present herself in the most favorable position, etc.?”
_Answer._—After what has been said above, it will be necessary, first
of all, to choose the period when the moon will be in perigee, and
_also_ the moment when she will be crossing the zenith, which latter
event will further diminish the entire distance by a length equal to
the radius of the earth, _i. e._ 3,919 miles; the result of which will
be that the final passage remaining to be accomplished will be 214,976
miles. But although the moon passes her perigee every month, she does
not reach the zenith always _at exactly the same moment_. She does not
appear under these two conditions simultaneously, except at long
intervals of time. It will be necessary, therefore, to wait for the
moment when her passage in perigee shall coincide with that in the
zenith. Now, by a fortunate circumstance, on the 4th of December in the
ensuing year the moon _will_ present these two conditions. At midnight
she will be in perigee, that is, at her shortest distance from the
earth, and at the same moment she will be crossing the zenith.
On the _fifth_ question, “At what point in the heavens ought the cannon
to be aimed?”
_Answer._—The preceding remarks being admitted, the cannon ought to be
pointed to the zenith of the place. Its fire, therefore, will be
perpendicular to the plane of the horizon; and the projectile will
soonest pass beyond the range of the terrestrial attraction. But, in
order that the moon should reach the zenith of a given place, it is
necessary that the place should not exceed in latitude the declination
of the luminary; in other words, it must be comprised within the
degrees 0° and 28° of lat. N. or S. In every other spot the fire must
necessarily be oblique, which would seriously militate against the
success of the experiment.
As to the _sixth_ question, “What place will the moon occupy in the
heavens at the moment of the projectile’s departure?”
_Answer._—At the moment when the projectile shall be discharged into
space, the moon, which travels daily forward 13° 10′ 35″, will be
distant from the zenith point by four times that quantity, _i. e._ by
52° 41′ 20″, a space which corresponds to the path which she will
describe during the entire journey of the projectile. But, inasmuch as
it is equally necessary to take into account the deviation which the
rotary motion of the earth will impart to the shot, and as the shot
cannot reach the moon until after a deviation equal to 16 radii of the
earth, which, calculated upon the moon’s orbit, are equal to about
eleven degrees, it becomes necessary to add these eleven degrees to
those which express the retardation of the moon just mentioned: that is
to say, in round numbers, about sixty-four degrees. Consequently, at
the moment of firing the visual radius applied to the moon will
describe, with the vertical line of the place, an angle of sixty-four
degrees.
These are our answers to the questions proposed to the Observatory of
Cambridge by the members of the Gun Club:—
To sum up—
1st. The cannon ought to be planted in a country situated between 0°
and 28° of N. or S. lat.
2nd. It ought to be pointed directly toward the zenith of the place.
3rd. The projectile ought to be propelled with an initial velocity of
12,000 yards per second.
4th. It ought to be discharged at 10hrs. 46m. 40sec. of the 1st of
December of the ensuing year.
5th. It will meet the moon four days after its discharge, precisely at
midnight on the 4th of December, at the moment of its transit across
the zenith.
The members of the Gun Club ought, therefore, without delay, to
commence the works necessary for such an experiment, and to be prepared
to set to work at the moment determined upon; for, if they should
suffer this 4th of December to go by, they will not find the moon again
under the same conditions of perigee and of zenith until eighteen years
and eleven days afterward.
The staff of the Cambridge Observatory place themselves entirely at
their disposal in respect of all questions of theoretical astronomy;
and herewith add their congratulations to those of all the rest of
America. For the Astronomical Staff, J. M. BELFAST, _Director of the
Observatory of Cambridge._
CHAPTER V.
THE ROMANCE OF THE MOON
An observer endued with an infinite range of vision, and placed in that
unknown center around which the entire world revolves, might have
beheld myriads of atoms filling all space during the chaotic epoch of
the universe. Little by little, as ages went on, a change took place; a
general law of attraction manifested itself, to which the hitherto
errant atoms became obedient: these atoms combined together chemically
according to their affinities, formed themselves into molecules, and
composed those nebulous masses with which the depths of the heavens are
strewed. These masses became immediately endued with a rotary motion
around their own central point. This center, formed of indefinite
molecules, began to revolve around its own axis during its gradual
condensation; then, following the immutable laws of mechanics, in
proportion as its bulk diminished by condensation, its rotary motion
became accelerated, and these two effects continuing, the result was
the formation of one principal star, the center of the nebulous mass.
By attentively watching, the observer would then have perceived the
other molecules of the mass, following the example of this central
star, become likewise condensed by gradually accelerated rotation, and
gravitating round it in the shape of innumerable stars. Thus was formed
the _Nebulæ_, of which astronomers have reckoned up nearly 5,000.
Among these 5,000 nebulæ there is one which has received the name of
the Milky Way, and which contains eighteen millions of stars, each of
which has become the center of a solar world.
If the observer had then specially directed his attention to one of the
more humble and less brilliant of these stellar bodies, a star of the
fourth class, that which is arrogantly called the Sun, all the
phenomena to which the formation of the Universe is to be ascribed
would have been successively fulfilled before his eyes. In fact, he
would have perceived this sun, as yet in the gaseous state, and
composed of moving molecules, revolving round its axis in order to
accomplish its work of concentration. This motion, faithful to the laws
of mechanics, would have been accelerated with the diminution of its
volume; and a moment would have arrived when the centrifugal force
would have overpowered the centripetal, which causes the molecules all
to tend toward the center.
Another phenomenon would now have passed before the observer’s eye, and
the molecules situated on the plane of the equator, escaping like a
stone from a sling of which the cord had suddenly snapped, would have
formed around the sun sundry concentric rings resembling that of
Saturn. In their turn, again, these rings of cosmical matter, excited
by a rotary motion about the central mass, would have been broken up
and decomposed into secondary nebulosities, that is to say, into
planets. Similarly he would have observed these planets throw off one
or more rings each, which became the origin of the secondary bodies
which we call satellites.
Thus, then, advancing from atom to molecule, from molecule to nebulous
mass, from that to principal star, from star to sun, from sun to
planet, and hence to satellite, we have the whole series of
transformations undergone by the heavenly bodies during the first days
of the world.
Now, of those attendant bodies which the sun maintains in their
elliptical orbits by the great law of gravitation, some few in turn
possess satellites. Uranus has eight, Saturn eight, Jupiter four,
Neptune possibly three, and the Earth one. This last, one of the least
important of the entire solar system, we call the Moon; and it is she
whom the daring genius of the Americans professed their intention of
conquering.
The moon, by her comparative proximity, and the constantly varying
appearances produced by her several phases, has always occupied a
considerable share of the attention of the inhabitants of the earth.
From the time of Thales of Miletus, in the fifth century B.C., down to
that of Copernicus in the fifteenth and Tycho Brahé in the sixteenth
century A.D., observations have been from time to time carried on with
more or less correctness, until in the present day the altitudes of the
lunar mountains have been determined with exactitude. Galileo explained
the phenomena of the lunar light produced during certain of her phases
by the existence of mountains, to which he assigned a mean altitude of
27,000 feet. After him Hévelius, an astronomer of Dantzic, reduced the
highest elevations to 15,000 feet; but the calculations of Riccioli
brought them up again to 21,000 feet.
At the close of the eighteenth century Herschel, armed with a powerful
telescope, considerably reduced the preceding measurements. He assigned
a height of 11,400 feet to the maximum elevations, and reduced the mean
of the different altitudes to little more than 2,400 feet. But
Herschel’s calculations were in their turn corrected by the
observations of Halley, Nasmyth, Bianchini, Gruithuysen, and others;
but it was reserved for the labors of Boeer and Maedler finally to
solve the question. They succeeded in measuring 1,905 different
elevations, of which six exceed 15,000 feet, and twenty-two exceed
14,400 feet. The highest summit of all towers to a height of 22,606
feet above the surface of the lunar disc. At the same period the
examination of the moon was completed. She appeared completely riddled
with craters, and her essentially volcanic character was apparent at
each observation. By the absence of refraction in the rays of the
planets occulted by her we conclude that she is absolutely devoid of an
atmosphere. The absence of air entails the absence of water. It became,
therefore, manifest that the Selenites, to support life under such
conditions, must possess a special organization of their own, must
differ remarkably from the inhabitants of the earth.
At length, thanks to modern art, instruments of still higher perfection
searched the moon without intermission, not leaving a single point of
her surface unexplored; and notwithstanding that her diameter measures
2,150 miles, her surface equals the one-fifteenth part of that of our
globe, and her bulk the one-forty-ninth part of that of the terrestrial
spheroid—not one of her secrets was able to escape the eyes of the
astronomers; and these skillful men of science carried to an even
greater degree their prodigious observations.
Thus they remarked that, during full moon, the disc appeared scored in
certain parts with white lines; and, during the phases, with black. On
prosecuting the study of these with still greater precision, they
succeeded in obtaining an exact account of the nature of these lines.
They were long and narrow furrows sunk between parallel ridges,
bordering generally upon the edges of the craters. Their length varied
between ten and 100 miles, and their width was about 1,600 yards.
Astronomers called them chasms, but they could not get any further.
Whether these chasms were the dried-up beds of ancient rivers or not
they were unable thoroughly to ascertain.
The Americans, among others, hoped one day or other to determine this
geological question. They also undertook to examine the true nature of
that system of parallel ramparts discovered on the moon’s surface by
Gruithuysen, a learned professor of Munich, who considered them to be
“a system of fortifications thrown up by the Selenitic engineers.”
These two points, yet obscure, as well as others, no doubt, could not
be definitely settled except by direct communication with the moon.
Regarding the degree of intensity of its light, there was nothing more
to learn on this point. It was known that it is 300,000 times weaker
than that of the sun, and that its heat has no appreciable effect upon
the thermometer. As to the phenomenon known as the “ashy light,” it is
explained naturally by the effect of the transmission of the solar rays
from the earth to the moon, which give the appearance of completeness
to the lunar disc, while it presents itself under the crescent form
during its first and last phases.
Such was the state of knowledge acquired regarding the earth’s
satellite, which the Gun Club undertook to perfect in all its aspects,
cosmographic, geological, political, and moral.
CHAPTER VI.
PERMISSIVE LIMITS OF IGNORANCE AND BELIEF IN THE UNITED STATES
The immediate result of Barbicane’s proposition was to place upon the
orders of the day all the astronomical facts relative to the Queen of
the Night. Everybody set to work to study assiduously. One would have
thought that the moon had just appeared for the first time, and that no
one had ever before caught a glimpse of her in the heavens. The papers
revived all the old anecdotes in which the “sun of the wolves” played a
part; they recalled the influences which the ignorance of past ages
ascribed to her; in short, all America was seized with selenomania, or
had become moon-mad.
The scientific journals, for their part, dealt more especially with the
questions which touched upon the enterprise of the Gun Club. The letter
of the Observatory of Cambridge was published by them, and commented
upon with unreserved approval.
Until that time most people had been ignorant of the mode in which the
distance which separates the moon from the earth is calculated. They
took advantage of this fact to explain to them that this distance was
obtained by measuring the parallax of the moon. The term parallax
proving “caviare to the general,” they further explained that it meant
the angle formed by the inclination of two straight lines drawn from
either extremity of the earth’s radius to the moon. On doubts being
expressed as to the correctness of this method, they immediately proved
that not only was the mean distance 234,347 miles, but that astronomers
could not possibly be in error in their estimate by more than seventy
miles either way.
To those who were not familiar with the motions of the moon, they
demonstrated that she possesses two distinct motions, the first being
that of rotation upon her axis, the second being that of revolution
round the earth, accomplishing both together in an equal period of
time, that is to say, in twenty-seven and one-third days.
The motion of rotation is that which produces day and night on the
surface of the moon; save that there is only one day and one night in
the lunar month, each lasting three hundred and fifty-four and
one-third hours. But, happily for her, the face turned toward the
terrestrial globe is illuminated by it with an intensity equal to that
of fourteen moons. As to the other face, always invisible to us, it has
of necessity three hundred and fifty-four hours of absolute night,
tempered only by that “pale glimmer which falls upon it from the
stars.”
Some well-intentioned, but rather obstinate persons, could not at first
comprehend how, if the moon displays invariably the same face to the
earth during her revolution, she can describe one turn round herself.
To such they answered, “Go into your dining-room, and walk round the
table in such a way as to always keep your face turned toward the
center; by the time you will have achieved one complete round you will
have completed one turn around yourself, since your eye will have
traversed successively every point of the room. Well, then, the room is
the heavens, the table is the earth, and the moon is yourself.” And
they would go away delighted.
So, then the moon displays invariably the same face to the earth;
nevertheless, to be quite exact, it is necessary to add that, in
consequence of certain fluctuations of north and south, and of west and
east, termed her libration, she permits rather more than half, that is
to say, five-sevenths, to be seen.
As soon as the ignoramuses came to understand as much as the director
of the observatory himself knew, they began to worry themselves
regarding her revolution round the earth, whereupon twenty scientific
reviews immediately came to the rescue. They pointed out to them that
the firmament, with its infinitude of stars, may be considered as one
vast dial-plate, upon which the moon travels, indicating the true time
to all the inhabitants of the earth; that it is during this movement
that the Queen of Night exhibits her different phases; that the moon is
_full_ when she is in _opposition_ with the sun, that is when the three
bodies are on the same straight line, the earth occupying the center;
that she is _new_ when she is in _conjunction_ with the sun, that is,
when she is between it and the earth; and, lastly that she is in her
_first_ or _last_ quarter, when she makes with the sun and the earth an
angle of which she herself occupies the apex.
Regarding the altitude which the moon attains above the horizon, the
letter of the Cambridge Observatory had said all that was to be said in
this respect. Every one knew that this altitude varies according to the
latitude of the observer. But the only zones of the globe in which the
moon passes the zenith, that is, the point directly over the head of
the spectator, are of necessity comprised between the twenty-eighth
parallels and the equator. Hence the importance of the advice to try
the experiment upon some point of that part of the globe, in order that
the projectile might be discharged perpendicularly, and so the soonest
escape the action of gravitation. This was an essential condition to
the success of the enterprise, and continued actively to engage the
public attention.
Regarding the path described by the moon in her revolution round the
earth, the Cambridge Observatory had demonstrated that this path is a
re-entering curve, not a perfect circle, but an ellipse, of which the
earth occupies one of the _foci_. It was also well understood that it
is farthest removed from the earth during its _apogee_, and approaches
most nearly to it at its _perigee_.
Such was then the extent of knowledge possessed by every American on
the subject, and of which no one could decently profess ignorance.
Still, while these principles were being rapidly disseminated many
errors and illusory fears proved less easy to eradicate.
For instance, some worthy persons maintained that the moon was an
ancient comet which, in describing its elongated orbit round the sun,
happened to pass near the earth, and became confined within her circle
of attraction. These drawing-room astronomers professed to explain the
charred aspect of the moon—a disaster which they attributed to the
intensity of the solar heat; only, on being reminded that comets have
an atmosphere, and that the moon has little or none, they were fairly
at a loss for a reply.
Others again, belonging to the doubting class, expressed certain fears
as to the position of the moon. They had heard it said that, according
to observations made in the time of the Caliphs, her revolution had
become accelerated in a certain degree. Hence they concluded, logically
enough, that an acceleration of motion ought to be accompanied by a
corresponding diminution in the distance separating the two bodies; and
that, supposing the double effect to be continued to infinity, the moon
would end by one day falling into the earth. However, they became
reassured as to the fate of future generations on being apprised that,
according to the calculations of Laplace, this acceleration of motion
is confined within very restricted limits, and that a proportional
diminution of speed will be certain to succeed it. So, then, the
stability of the solar system would not be deranged in ages to come.
There remains but the third class, the superstitious. These worthies
were not content merely to rest in ignorance; they must know all about
things which had no existence whatever, and as to the moon, they had
long known all about her. One set regarded her disc as a polished
mirror, by means of which people could see each other from different
points of the earth and interchange their thoughts. Another set
pretended that out of one thousand new moons that had been observed,
nine hundred and fifty had been attended with remarkable disturbances,
such as cataclysms, revolutions, earthquakes, the deluge, etc. Then
they believed in some mysterious influence exercised by her over human
destinies—that every Selenite was attached to some inhabitant of the
earth by a tie of sympathy; they maintained that the entire vital
system is subject to her control, etc. But in time the majority
renounced these vulgar errors, and espoused the true side of the
question. As for the Yankees, they had no other ambition than to take
possession of this new continent of the sky, and to plant upon the
summit of its highest elevation the star- spangled banner of the United
States of America.
CHAPTER VII.
THE HYMN OF THE CANNON-BALL
The Observatory of Cambridge in its memorable letter had treated the
question from a purely astronomical point of view. The mechanical part
still remained.
President Barbicane had, without loss of time, nominated a working
committee of the Gun Club. The duty of this committee was to resolve
the three grand questions of the cannon, the projectile, and the
powder. It was composed of four members of great technical knowledge,
Barbicane (with a casting vote in case of equality), General Morgan,
Major Elphinstone, and J. T. Maston, to whom were confided the
functions of secretary. On the 8th of October the committee met at the
house of President Barbicane, 3 Republican Street. The meeting was
opened by the president himself.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “we have to resolve one of the most important
problems in the whole of the noble science of gunnery. It might appear,
perhaps, the most logical course to devote our first meeting to the
discussion of the engine to be employed. Nevertheless, after mature
consideration, it has appeared to me that the question of the
projectile must take precedence of that of the cannon, and that the
dimensions of the latter must necessarily depend on those of the
former.”
“Suffer me to say a word,” here broke in J. T. Maston. Permission
having been granted, “Gentlemen,” said he with an inspired accent, “our
president is right in placing the question of the projectile above all
others. The ball we are about to discharge at the moon is our
ambassador to her, and I wish to consider it from a moral point of
view. The cannon-ball, gentlemen, to my mind, is the most magnificent
manifestation of human power. If Providence has created the stars and
the planets, man has called the cannon-ball into existence. Let
Providence claim the swiftness of electricity and of light, of the
stars, the comets, and the planets, of wind and sound—we claim to have
invented the swiftness of the cannon-ball, a hundred times superior to
that of the swiftest horses or railway train. How glorious will be the
moment when, infinitely exceeding all hitherto attained velocities, we
shall launch our new projectile with the rapidity of seven miles a
second! Shall it not, gentlemen—shall it not be received up there with
the honors due to a terrestrial ambassador?”
Overcome with emotion the orator sat down and applied himself to a huge
plate of sandwiches before him.
“And now,” said Barbicane, “let us quit the domain of poetry and come
direct to the question.”
“By all means,” replied the members, each with his mouth full of
sandwich.
“The problem before us,” continued the president, “is how to
communicate to a projectile a velocity of 12,000 yards per second. Let
us at present examine the velocities hitherto attained. General Morgan
will be able to enlighten us on this point.”
“And the more easily,” replied the general, “that during the war I was
a member of the committee of experiments. I may say, then, that the
100-pounder Dahlgrens, which carried a distance of 5,000 yards,
impressed upon their projectile an initial velocity of 500 yards a
second. The Rodman Columbiad threw a shot weighing half a ton a
distance of six miles, with a velocity of 800 yards per second—a result
which Armstrong and Palisser have never obtained in England.”
“This,” replied Barbicane, “is, I believe, the maximum velocity ever
attained?”
“It is so,” replied the general.
“Ah!” groaned J. T. Maston, “if my mortar had not burst—”
“Yes,” quietly replied Barbicane, “but it did burst. We must take,
then, for our starting point, this velocity of 800 yards. We must
increase it twenty-fold. Now, reserving for another discussion the
means of producing this velocity, I will call your attention to the
dimensions which it will be proper to assign to the shot. You
understand that we have nothing to do here with projectiles weighing at
most but half a ton.”
“Why not?” demanded the major.
“Because the shot,” quickly replied J. T. Maston, “must be big enough
to attract the attention of the inhabitants of the moon, if there are
any?”
“Yes,” replied Barbicane, “and for another reason more important
still.”
“What mean you?” asked the major.
“I mean that it is not enough to discharge a projectile, and then take
no further notice of it; we must follow it throughout its course, up to
the moment when it shall reach its goal.”
“What?” shouted the general and the major in great surprise.
“Undoubtedly,” replied Barbicane composedly, “or our experiment would
produce no result.”
“But then,” replied the major, “you will have to give this projectile
enormous dimensions.”
“No! Be so good as to listen. You know that optical instruments have
acquired great perfection; with certain instruments we have succeeded
in obtaining enlargements of 6,000 times and reducing the moon to
within forty miles’ distance. Now, at this distance, any objects sixty
feet square would be perfectly visible.
“If, then, the penetrative power of telescopes has not been further
increased, it is because that power detracts from their light; and the
moon, which is but a reflecting mirror, does not give back sufficient
light to enable us to perceive objects of lesser magnitude.”
“Well, then, what do you propose to do?” asked the general. “Would you
give your projectile a diameter of sixty feet?”
“Not so.”
“Do you intend, then, to increase the luminous power of the moon?”
“Exactly so. If I can succeed in diminishing the density of the
atmosphere through which the moon’s light has to travel I shall have
rendered her light more intense. To effect that object it will be
enough to establish a telescope on some elevated mountain. That is what
we will do.”
“I give it up,” answered the major. “You have such a way of simplifying
things. And what enlargement do you expect to obtain in this way?”
“One of 48,000 times, which should bring the moon within an apparent
distance of five miles; and, in order to be visible, objects need not
have a diameter of more than nine feet.”
“So, then,” cried J. T. Maston, “our projectile need not be more than
nine feet in diameter.”
“Let me observe, however,” interrupted Major Elphinstone, “this will
involve a weight such as—”
“My dear major,” replied Barbicane, “before discussing its weight
permit me to enumerate some of the marvels which our ancestors have
achieved in this respect. I don’t mean to pretend that the science of
gunnery has not advanced, but it is as well to bear in mind that during
the middle ages they obtained results more surprising, I will venture
to say, than ours. For instance, during the siege of Constantinople by
Mahomet II., in 1453, stone shot of 1,900 pounds weight were employed.
At Malta, in the time of the knights, there was a gun of the fortress
of St. Elmo which threw a projectile weighing 2,500 pounds. And, now,
what is the extent of what we have seen ourselves? Armstrong guns
discharging shot of 500 pounds, and the Rodman guns projectiles of half
a ton! It seems, then, that if projectiles have gained in range, they
have lost far more in weight. Now, if we turn our efforts in that
direction, we ought to arrive, with the progress on science, at ten
times the weight of the shot of Mahomet II. and the Knights of Malta.”
“Clearly,” replied the major; “but what metal do you calculate upon
employing?”
“Simply cast iron,” said General Morgan.
“But,” interrupted the major, “since the weight of a shot is
proportionate to its volume, an iron ball of nine feet in diameter
would be of tremendous weight.”
“Yes, if it were solid, not if it were hollow.”
“Hollow? then it would be a shell?”
“Yes, a shell,” replied Barbicane; “decidely it must be. A solid shot
of 108 inches would weigh more than 200,000 pounds, a weight evidently
far too great. Still, as we must reserve a certain stability for our
projectile, I propose to give it a weight of 20,000 pounds.”
“What, then, will be the thickness of the sides?” asked the major.
“If we follow the usual proportion,” replied Morgan, “a diameter of 108
inches would require sides of two feet thickness, or less.”
“That would be too much,” replied Barbicane; “for you will observe that
the question is not that of a shot intended to pierce an iron plate; it
will suffice to give it sides strong enough to resist the pressure of
the gas. The problem, therefore, is this—What thickness ought a
cast-iron shell to have in order not to weight more than 20,000 pounds?
Our clever secretary will soon enlighten us upon this point.”
“Nothing easier.” replied the worthy secretary of the committee; and,
rapidly tracing a few algebraical formulae upon paper, among which _n_2
and _x_2 frequently appeared, he presently said:
“The sides will require a thickness of less than two inches.”
“Will that be enough?” asked the major doubtfully.
“Clearly not!” replied the president.
“What is to be done, then?” said Elphinstone, with a puzzled air.
“Employ another metal instead of iron.”
“Copper?” said Morgan.
“No! that would be too heavy. I have better than that to offer.”
“What then?” asked the major.
“Aluminum!” replied Barbicane.
“Aluminum?” cried his three colleagues in chorus.
“Unquestionably, my friends. This valuable metal possesses the
whiteness of silver, the indestructibility of gold, the tenacity of
iron, the fusibility of copper, the lightness of glass. It is easily
wrought, is very widely distributed, forming the base of most of the
rocks, is three times lighter than iron, and seems to have been created
for the express purpose of furnishing us with the material for our
projectile.”
“But, my dear president,” said the major, “is not the cost price of
aluminum extremely high?”
“It was so at its first discovery, but it has fallen now to nine
dollars a pound.”
“But still, nine dollars a pound!” replied the major, who was not
willing readily to give in; “even that is an enormous price.”
“Undoubtedly, my dear major; but not beyond our reach.”
“What will the projectile weigh then?” asked Morgan.
“Here is the result of my calculations,” replied Barbicane. “A shot of
108 inches in diameter, and twelve inches in thickness, would weigh, in
cast-iron, 67,440 pounds; cast in aluminum, its weight will be reduced
to 19,250 pounds.”
“Capital!” cried the major; “but do you know that, at nine dollars a
pound, this projectile will cost—”
“One hundred and seventy-three thousand and fifty dollars ($173,050). I
know it quite well. But fear not, my friends; the money will not be
wanting for our enterprise. I will answer for it. Now what say you to
aluminum, gentlemen?”
“Adopted!” replied the three members of the committee. So ended the
first meeting. The question of the projectile was definitely settled.
CHAPTER VIII.
HISTORY OF THE CANNON
The resolutions passed at the last meeting produced a great effect out
of doors. Timid people took fright at the idea of a shot weighing
20,000 pounds being launched into space; they asked what cannon could
ever transmit a sufficient velocity to such a mighty mass. The minutes
of the second meeting were destined triumphantly to answer such
questions. The following evening the discussion was renewed.
“My dear colleagues,” said Barbicane, without further preamble, “the
subject now before us is the construction of the engine, its length,
its composition, and its weight. It is probable that we shall end by
giving it gigantic dimensions; but however great may be the
difficulties in the way, our mechanical genius will readily surmount
them. Be good enough, then, to give me your attention, and do not
hesitate to make objections at the close. I have no fear of them. The
problem before us is how to communicate an initial force of 12,000
yards per second to a shell of 108 inches in diameter, weighing 20,000
pounds. Now when a projectile is launched into space, what happens to
it? It is acted upon by three independent forces: the resistance of the
air, the attraction of the earth, and the force of impulsion with which
it is endowed. Let us examine these three forces. The resistance of the
air is of little importance. The atmosphere of the earth does not
exceed forty miles. Now, with the given rapidity, the projectile will
have traversed this in five seconds, and the period is too brief for
the resistance of the medium to be regarded otherwise than as
insignificant. Proceding, then, to the attraction of the earth, that
is, the weight of the shell, we know that this weight will diminish in
the inverse ratio of the square of the distance. When a body left to
itself falls to the surface of the earth, it falls five feet in the
first second; and if the same body were removed 257,542 miles further
off, in other words, to the distance of the moon, its fall would be
reduced to about half a line in the first second. That is almost
equivalent to a state of perfect rest. Our business, then, is to
overcome progressively this action of gravitation. The mode of
accomplishing that is by the force of impulsion.”
“There’s the difficulty,” broke in the major.
“True,” replied the president; “but we will overcome that, for the
force of impulsion will depend on the length of the engine and the
powder employed, the latter being limited only by the resisting power
of the former. Our business, then, to-day is with the dimensions of the
cannon.”
“Now, up to the present time,” said Barbicane, “our longest guns have
not exceeded twenty-five feet in length. We shall therefore astonish
the world by the dimensions we shall be obliged to adopt. It must
evidently be, then, a gun of great range, since the length of the piece
will increase the detention of the gas accumulated behind the
projectile; but there is no advantage in passing certain limits.”
“Quite so,” said the major. “What is the rule in such a case?”
“Ordinarily the length of a gun is twenty to twenty-five times the
diameter of the shot, and its weight two hundred and thirty-five to two
hundred and forty times that of the shot.”
“That is not enough,” cried J. T. Maston impetuously.
“I agree with you, my good friend; and, in fact, following this
proportion for a projectile nine feet in diameter, weighing 30,000
pounds, the gun would only have a length of two hundred and twenty-
five feet, and a weight of 7,200,000 pounds.”
“Ridiculous!” rejoined Maston. “As well take a pistol.”
“I think so too,” replied Barbicane; “that is why I propose to
quadruple that length, and to construct a gun of nine hundred feet.”
The general and the major offered some objections; nevertheless, the
proposition, actively supported by the secretary, was definitely
adopted.
“But,” said Elphinstone, “what thickness must we give it?”
“A thickness of six feet,” replied Barbicane.
“You surely don’t think of mounting a mass like that upon a carriage?”
asked the major.
“It would be a superb idea, though,” said Maston.
“But impracticable,” replied Barbicane. “No, I think of sinking this
engine in the earth alone, binding it with hoops of wrought iron, and
finally surrounding it with a thick mass of masonry of stone and
cement. The piece once cast, it must be bored with great precision, so
as to preclude any possible windage. So there will be no loss whatever
of gas, and all the expansive force of the powder will be employed in
the propulsion.”
“One simple question,” said Elphinstone: “is our gun to be rifled?”
“No, certainly not,” replied Barbicane; “we require an enormous initial
velocity; and you are well aware that a shot quits a rifled gun less
rapidly than it does a smooth-bore.”
“True,” rejoined the major.
The committee here adjourned for a few minutes to tea and sandwiches.
On the discussion being renewed, “Gentlemen,” said Barbicane, “we must
now take into consideration the metal to be employed. Our cannon must
be possessed of great tenacity, great hardness, be infusible by heat,
indissoluble, and inoxidable by the corrosive action of acids.”
“There is no doubt about that,” replied the major; “and as we shall
have to employ an immense quantity of metal, we shall not be at a loss
for choice.”
“Well, then,” said Morgan, “I propose the best alloy hitherto known,
which consists of one hundred parts of copper, twelve of tin, and six
of brass.”
“I admit,” replied the president, “that this composition has yielded
excellent results, but in the present case it would be too expensive,
and very difficult to work. I think, then, that we ought to adopt a
material excellent in its way and of low price, such as cast iron. What
is your advice, major?”
“I quite agree with you,” replied Elphinstone.
“In fact,” continued Barbicane, “cast iron costs ten times less than
bronze; it is easy to cast, it runs readily from the moulds of sand, it
is easy of manipulation, it is at once economical of money and of time.
In addition, it is excellent as a material, and I well remember that
during the war, at the siege of Atlanta, some iron guns fired one
thousand rounds at intervals of twenty minutes without injury.”
“Cast iron is very brittle, though,” replied Morgan.
“Yes, but it possesses great resistance. I will now ask our worthy
secretary to calculate the weight of a cast-iron gun with a bore of
nine feet and a thickness of six feet of metal.”
“In a moment,” replied Maston. Then, dashing off some algebraical
formulae with marvelous facility, in a minute or two he declared the
following result:
“The cannon will weigh 68,040 tons. And, at two cents a pound, it will
cost—”
“Two million five hundred and ten thousand seven hundred and one
dollars.”
Maston, the major, and the general regarded Barbicane with uneasy
looks.
“Well, gentlemen,” replied the president, “I repeat what I said
yesterday. Make yourselves easy; the millions will not be wanting.”
With this assurance of their president the committee separated, after
having fixed their third meeting for the following evening.
CHAPTER IX.
THE QUESTION OF THE POWDERS
There remained for consideration merely the question of powders. The
public awaited with interest its final decision. The size of the
projectile, the length of the cannon being settled, what would be the
quantity of powder necessary to produce impulsion?
It is generally asserted that gunpowder was invented in the fourteenth
century by the monk Schwartz, who paid for his grand discovery with his
life. It is, however, pretty well proved that this story ought to be
ranked among the legends of the middle ages. Gunpowder was not invented
by any one; it was the lineal successor of the Greek fire, which, like
itself, was composed of sulfur and saltpeter. Few persons are
acquainted with the mechanical power of gunpowder. Now this is
precisely what is necessary to be understood in order to comprehend the
importance of the question submitted to the committee.
A litre of gunpowder weighs about two pounds; during combustion it
produces 400 litres of gas. This gas, on being liberated and acted upon
by temperature raised to 2,400 degrees, occupies a space of 4,000
litres: consequently the volume of powder is to the volume of gas
produced by its combustion as 1 to 4,000. One may judge, therefore, of
the tremendous pressure on this gas when compressed within a space
4,000 times too confined. All this was, of course, well known to the
members of the committee when they met on the following evening.
The first speaker on this occasion was Major Elphinstone, who had been
the director of the gunpowder factories during the war.
“Gentlemen,” said this distinguished chemist, “I begin with some
figures which will serve as the basis of our calculation. The old
24-pounder shot required for its discharge sixteen pounds of powder.”
“You are certain of this amount?” broke in Barbicane.
“Quite certain,” replied the major. “The Armstrong cannon employs only
seventy-five pounds of powder for a projectile of eight hundred pounds,
and the Rodman Columbiad uses only one hundred and sixty pounds of
powder to send its half ton shot a distance of six miles. These facts
cannot be called in question, for I myself raised the point during the
depositions taken before the committee of artillery.”
“Quite true,” said the general.
“Well,” replied the major, “these figures go to prove that the quantity
of powder is not increased with the weight of the shot; that is to say,
if a 24-pounder shot requires sixteen pounds of powder;—in other words,
if in ordinary guns we employ a quantity of powder equal to two-thirds
of the weight of the projectile, this proportion is not constant.
Calculate, and you will see that in place of three hundred and
thirty-three pounds of powder, the quantity is reduced to no more than
one hundred and sixty pounds.”
“What are you aiming at?” asked the president.
“If you push your theory to extremes, my dear major,” said J. T.
Maston, “you will get to this, that as soon as your shot becomes
sufficiently heavy you will not require any powder at all.”
“Our friend Maston is always at his jokes, even in serious matters,”
cried the major; “but let him make his mind easy, I am going presently
to propose gunpowder enough to satisfy his artillerist’s propensities.
I only keep to statistical facts when I say that, during the war, and
for the very largest guns, the weight of the powder was reduced, as the
result of experience, to a tenth part of the weight of the shot.”
“Perfectly correct,” said Morgan; “but before deciding the quantity of
powder necessary to give the impulse, I think it would be as well—”
“We shall have to employ a large-grained powder,” continued the major;
“its combustion is more rapid than that of the small.”
“No doubt about that,” replied Morgan; “but it is very destructive, and
ends by enlarging the bore of the pieces.”
“Granted; but that which is injurious to a gun destined to perform long
service is not so to our Columbiad. We shall run no danger of an
explosion; and it is necessary that our powder should take fire
instantaneously in order that its mechanical effect may be complete.”
“We must have,” said Maston, “several touch-holes, so as to fire it at
different points at the same time.”
“Certainly,” replied Elphinstone; “but that will render the working of
the piece more difficult. I return then to my large-grained powder,
which removes those difficulties. In his Columbiad charges Rodman
employed a powder as large as chestnuts, made of willow charcoal,
simply dried in cast- iron pans. This powder was hard and glittering,
left no trace upon the hand, contained hydrogen and oxygen in large
proportion, took fire instantaneously, and, though very destructive,
did not sensibly injure the mouth-piece.”
Up to this point Barbicane had kept aloof from the discussion; he left
the others to speak while he himself listened; he had evidently got an
idea. He now simply said, “Well, my friends, what quantity of powder do
you propose?”
The three members looked at one another.
“Two hundred thousand pounds.” at last said Morgan.
“Five hundred thousand,” added the major.
“Eight hundred thousand,” screamed Maston.
A moment of silence followed this triple proposal; it was at last
broken by the president.
“Gentlemen,” he quietly said, “I start from this principle, that the
resistance of a gun, constructed under the given conditions, is
unlimited. I shall surprise our friend Maston, then, by stigmatizing
his calculations as timid; and I propose to double his 800,000 pounds
of powder.”
“Sixteen hundred thousand pounds?” shouted Maston, leaping from his
seat.
“Just so.”
“We shall have to come then to my ideal of a cannon half a mile long;
for you see 1,600,000 pounds will occupy a space of about 20,000 cubic
feet; and since the contents of your cannon do not exceed 54,000 cubic
feet, it would be half full; and the bore will not be more than long
enough for the gas to communicate to the projectile sufficient
impulse.”
“Nevertheless,” said the president, “I hold to that quantity of powder.
Now, 1,600,000 pounds of powder will create 6,000,000,000 litres of
gas. Six thousand millions! You quite understand?”
“What is to be done then?” said the general.
“The thing is very simple; we must reduce this enormous quantity of
powder, while preserving to it its mechanical power.”
“Good; but by what means?”
“I am going to tell you,” replied Barbicane quietly.
“Nothing is more easy than to reduce this mass to one quarter of its
bulk. You know that curious cellular matter which constitutes the
elementary tissues of vegetable? This substance is found quite pure in
many bodies, especially in cotton, which is nothing more than the down
of the seeds of the cotton plant. Now cotton, combined with cold nitric
acid, become transformed into a substance eminently insoluble,
combustible, and explosive. It was first discovered in 1832, by
Braconnot, a French chemist, who called it xyloidine. In 1838 another
Frenchman, Pelouze, investigated its different properties, and finally,
in 1846, Schonbein, professor of chemistry at Bale, proposed its
employment for purposes of war. This powder, now called pyroxyle, or
fulminating cotton, is prepared with great facility by simply plunging
cotton for fifteen minutes in nitric acid, then washing it in water,
then drying it, and it is ready for use.”
“Nothing could be more simple,” said Morgan.
“Moreover, pyroxyle is unaltered by moisture—a valuable property to us,
inasmuch as it would take several days to charge the cannon. It ignites
at 170 degrees in place of 240, and its combustion is so rapid that one
may set light to it on the top of the ordinary powder, without the
latter having time to ignite.”
“Perfect!” exclaimed the major.
“Only it is more expensive.”
“What matter?” cried J. T. Maston.
“Finally, it imparts to projectiles a velocity four times superior to
that of gunpowder. I will even add, that if we mix it with one-eighth
of its own weight of nitrate of potassium, its expansive force is again
considerably augmented.”
“Will that be necessary?” asked the major.
“I think not,” replied Barbicane. “So, then, in place of 1,600,000
pounds of powder, we shall have but 400,000 pounds of fulminating
cotton; and since we can, without danger, compress 500 pounds of cotton
into twenty-seven cubic feet, the whole quantity will not occupy a
height of more than 180 feet within the bore of the Columbiad. In this
way the shot will have more than 700 feet of bore to traverse under a
force of 6,000,000,000 litres of gas before taking its flight toward
the moon.”
At this juncture J. T. Maston could not repress his emotion; he flung
himself into the arms of his friend with the violence of a projectile,
and Barbicane would have been stove in if he had not been boom-proof.
This incident terminated the third meeting of the committee.
Barbicane and his bold colleagues, to whom nothing seemed impossible,
had succeeding in solving the complex problems of projectile, cannon,
and powder. Their plan was drawn up, and it only remained to put it
into execution.
“A mere matter of detail, a bagatelle,” said J. T. Maston.
CHAPTER X.
ONE ENEMY _v._ TWENTY-FIVE MILLIONS OF FRIENDS
The American public took a lively interest in the smallest details of
the enterprise of the Gun Club. It followed day by day the discussion
of the committee. The most simple preparations for the great
experiment, the questions of figures which it involved, the mechanical
difficulties to be resolved—in one word, the entire plan of work—roused
the popular excitement to the highest pitch.
The purely scientific attraction was suddenly intensified by the
following incident:
We have seen what legions of admirers and friends Barbicane’s project
had rallied round its author. There was, however, one single individual
alone in all the States of the Union who protested against the attempt
of the Gun Club. He attacked it furiously on every opportunity, and
human nature is such that Barbicane felt more keenly the opposition of
that one man than he did the applause of all the others. He was well
aware of the motive of this antipathy, the origin of this solitary
enmity, the cause of its personality and old standing, and in what
rivalry of self-love it had its rise.
This persevering enemy the president of the Gun Club had never seen.
Fortunate that it was so, for a meeting between the two men would
certainly have been attended with serious consequences. This rival was
a man of science, like Barbicane himself, of a fiery, daring, and
violent disposition; a pure Yankee. His name was Captain Nicholl; he
lived at Philadelphia.
Most people are aware of the curious struggle which arose during the
Federal war between the guns and armor of iron-plated ships. The result
was the entire reconstruction of the navy of both the continents; as
the one grew heavier, the other became thicker in proportion. The
Merrimac, the Monitor, the Tennessee, the Weehawken discharged enormous
projectiles themselves, after having been armor-clad against the
projectiles of others. In fact they did to others that which they would
not they should do to them—that grand principle of immortality upon
which rests the whole art of war.
Now if Barbicane was a great founder of shot, Nicholl was a great
forger of plates; the one cast night and day at Baltimore, the other
forged day and night at Philadelphia. As soon as ever Barbicane
invented a new shot, Nicholl invented a new plate; each followed a
current of ideas essentially opposed to the other. Happily for these
citizens, so useful to their country, a distance of from fifty to sixty
miles separated them from one another, and they had never yet met.
Which of these two inventors had the advantage over the other it was
difficult to decide from the results obtained. By last accounts,
however, it would seem that the armor-plate would in the end have to
give way to the shot; nevertheless, there were competent judges who had
their doubts on the point.
At the last experiment the cylindro-conical projectiles of Barbicane
stuck like so many pins in the Nicholl plates. On that day the
Philadelphia iron-forger then believed himself victorious, and could
not evince contempt enough for his rival; but when the other afterward
substituted for conical shot simple 600-pound shells, at very moderate
velocity, the captain was obliged to give in. In fact, these
projectiles knocked his best metal plate to shivers.
Matters were at this stage, and victory seemed to rest with the shot,
when the war came to an end on the very day when Nicholl had completed
a new armor-plate of wrought steel. It was a masterpiece of its kind,
and bid defiance to all the projectiles of the world. The captain had
it conveyed to the Polygon at Washington, challenging the president of
the Gun Club to break it. Barbicane, peace having been declared,
declined to try the experiment.
Nicholl, now furious, offered to expose his plate to the shock of any
shot, solid, hollow, round, or conical. Refused by the president, who
did not choose to compromise his last success.
Nicholl, disgusted by this obstinacy, tried to tempt Barbicane by
offering him every chance. He proposed to fix the plate within two
hundred yards of the gun. Barbicane still obstinate in refusal. A
hundred yards? Not even seventy-five!
“At fifty then!” roared the captain through the newspapers. “At
twenty-five yards! and I’ll stand behind!”
Barbicane returned for answer that, even if Captain Nicholl would be so
good as to stand in front, he would not fire any more.
Nicholl could not contain himself at this reply; threw out hints of
cowardice; that a man who refused to fire a cannon-shot was pretty near
being afraid of it; that artillerists who fight at six miles distance
are substituting mathematical formulae for individual courage.
To these insinuations Barbicane returned no answer; perhaps he never
heard of them, so absorbed was he in the calculations for his great
enterprise.
When his famous communication was made to the Gun Club, the captain’s
wrath passed all bounds; with his intense jealousy was mingled a
feeling of absolute impotence. How was he to invent anything to beat
this 900-feet Columbiad? What armor-plate could ever resist a
projectile of 30,000 pounds weight? Overwhelmed at first under this
violent shock, he by and by recovered himself, and resolved to crush
the proposal by weight of his arguments.
He then violently attacked the labors of the Gun Club, published a
number of letters in the newspapers, endeavored to prove Barbicane
ignorant of the first principles of gunnery. He maintained that it was
absolutely impossible to impress upon any body whatever a velocity of
12,000 yards per second; that even with such a velocity a projectile of
such a weight could not transcend the limits of the earth’s atmosphere.
Further still, even regarding the velocity to be acquired, and granting
it to be sufficient, the shell could not resist the pressure of the gas
developed by the ignition of 1,600,000 pounds of powder; and supposing
it to resist that pressure, it would be less able to support that
temperature; it would melt on quitting the Columbiad, and fall back in
a red-hot shower upon the heads of the imprudent spectators.
Barbicane continued his work without regarding these attacks.
Nicholl then took up the question in its other aspects. Without
touching upon its uselessness in all points of view, he regarded the
experiment as fraught with extreme danger, both to the citizens, who
might sanction by their presence so reprehensible a spectacle, and also
to the towns in the neighborhood of this deplorable cannon. He also
observed that if the projectile did not succeed in reaching its
destination (a result absolutely impossible), it must inevitably fall
back upon the earth, and that the shock of such a mass, multiplied by
the square of its velocity, would seriously endanger every point of the
globe. Under the circumstances, therefore, and without interfering with
the rights of free citizens, it was a case for the intervention of
Government, which ought not to endanger the safety of all for the
pleasure of one individual.
In spite of all his arguments, however, Captain Nicholl remained alone
in his opinion. Nobody listened to him, and he did not succeed in
alienating a single admirer from the president of the Gun Club. The
latter did not even take the pains to refute the arguments of his
rival.
Nicholl, driven into his last entrenchments, and not able to fight
personally in the cause, resolved to fight with money. He published,
therefore, in the Richmond _Inquirer_ a series of wagers, conceived in
these terms, and on an increasing scale:
No. 1 ($1,000).—That the necessary funds for the experiment of the Gun
Club will not be forthcoming.
No. 2 ($2,000).—That the operation of casting a cannon of 900 feet is
impracticable, and cannot possibly succeed.
No. 3 ($3,000).—That is it impossible to load the Columbiad, and that
the pyroxyle will take fire spontaneously under the pressure of the
projectile.
No. 4 ($4,000).—That the Columbiad will burst at the first fire.
No. 5 ($5,000).—That the shot will not travel farther than six miles,
and that it will fall back again a few seconds after its discharge.
It was an important sum, therefore, which the captain risked in his
invincible obstinacy. He had no less than $15,000 at stake.
Notwithstanding the importance of the challenge, on the 19th of May he
received a sealed packet containing the following superbly laconic
reply:
“BALTIMORE, October 19.
”Done.
”BARBICANE.”
CHAPTER XI.
FLORIDA AND TEXAS
One question remained yet to be decided; it was necessary to choose a
favorable spot for the experiment. According to the advice of the
Observatory of Cambridge, the gun must be fired perpendicularly to the
plane of the horizon, that is to say, toward the zenith. Now the moon
does not traverse the zenith, except in places situated between 0° and
28° of latitude. It became, then, necessary to determine exactly that
spot on the globe where the immense Columbiad should be cast.
On the 20th of October, at a general meeting of the Gun Club, Barbicane
produced a magnificent map of the United States. “Gentlemen,” said he,
in opening the discussion, “I presume that we are all agreed that this
experiment cannot and ought not to be tried anywhere but within the
limits of the soil of the Union. Now, by good fortune, certain
frontiers of the United States extend downward as far as the 28th
parallel of the north latitude. If you will cast your eye over this
map, you will see that we have at our disposal the whole of the
southern portion of Texas and Florida.”
It was finally agreed, then, that the Columbiad must be cast on the
soil of either Texas or Florida. The result, however, of this decision
was to create a rivalry entirely without precedent between the
different towns of these two States.
The 28th parallel, on reaching the American coast, traverses the
peninsula of Florida, dividing it into two nearly equal portions. Then,
plunging into the Gulf of Mexico, it subtends the arc formed by the
coast of Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana; then skirting Texas, off
which it cuts an angle, it continues its course over Mexico, crosses
the Sonora, Old California, and loses itself in the Pacific Ocean. It
was, therefore, only those portions of Texas and Florida which were
situated below this parallel which came within the prescribed
conditions of latitude.
Florida, in its southern part, reckons no cities of importance; it is
simply studded with forts raised against the roving Indians. One
solitary town, Tampa Town, was able to put in a claim in favor of its
situation.
In Texas, on the contrary, the towns are much more numerous and
important. Corpus Christi, in the county of Nueces, and all the cities
situated on the Rio Bravo, Laredo, Comalites, San Ignacio on the Web,
Rio Grande City on the Starr, Edinburgh in the Hidalgo, Santa Rita,
Elpanda, Brownsville in the Cameron, formed an imposing league against
the pretensions of Florida. So, scarcely was the decision known, when
the Texan and Floridan deputies arrived at Baltimore in an incredibly
short space of time. From that very moment President Barbicane and the
influential members of the Gun Club were besieged day and night by
formidable claims. If seven cities of Greece contended for the honor of
having given birth to a Homer, here were two entire States threatening
to come to blows about the question of a cannon.
The rival parties promenaded the streets with arms in their hands; and
at every occasion of their meeting a collision was to be apprehended
which might have been attended with disastrous results. Happily the
prudence and address of President Barbicane averted the danger. These
personal demonstrations found a division in the newspapers of the
different States. The New York _Herald_ and the _Tribune_ supported
Texas, while the _Times_ and the _American Review_ espoused the cause
of the Floridan deputies. The members of the Gun Club could not decide
to which to give the preference.
Texas produced its array of twenty-six counties; Florida replied that
twelve counties were better than twenty-six in a country only one-sixth
part of the size.
Texas plumed itself upon its 330,000 natives; Florida, with a far
smaller territory, boasted of being much more densely populated with
56,000.
The Texans, through the columns of the _Herald_ claimed that some
regard should be had to a State which grew the best cotton in all
America, produced the best green oak for the service of the navy, and
contained the finest oil, besides iron mines, in which the yield was
fifty per cent. of pure metal.
To this the _American Review_ replied that the soil of Florida,
although not equally rich, afforded the best conditions for the
moulding and casting of the Columbiad, consisting as it did of sand and
argillaceous earth.
“That may be all very well,” replied the Texans; “but you must first
get to this country. Now the communications with Florida are difficult,
while the coast of Texas offers the bay of Galveston, which possesses a
circumference of fourteen leagues, and is capable of containing the
navies of the entire world!”
“A pretty notion truly,” replied the papers in the interest of Florida,
“that of Galveston bay _below the 29th parallel!_ Have we not got the
bay of Espiritu Santo, opening precisely upon _the 28th degree_, and by
which ships can reach Tampa Town by direct route?”
“A fine bay; half choked with sand!”
“Choked yourselves!” returned the others.
Thus the war went on for several days, when Florida endeavored to draw
her adversary away on to fresh ground; and one morning the _Times_
hinted that, the enterprise being essentially American, it ought not to
be attempted upon other than purely American territory.
To these words Texas retorted, “American! are we not as much so as you?
Were not Texas and Florida both incorporated into the Union in 1845?”
“Undoubtedly,” replied the _Times_; “but we have belonged to the
Americans ever since 1820.”
“Yes!” returned the _Tribune_; “after having been Spaniards or English
for two hundred years, you were sold to the United States for five
million dollars!”
“Well! and why need we blush for that? Was not Louisiana bought from
Napoleon in 1803 at the price of sixteen million dollars?”
“Scandalous!” roared the Texas deputies. “A wretched little strip of
country like Florida to dare to compare itself to Texas, who, in place
of selling herself, asserted her own independence, drove out the
Mexicans in March 2, 1846, and declared herself a federal republic
after the victory gained by Samuel Houston, on the banks of the San
Jacinto, over the troops of Santa Anna!—a country, in fine, which
voluntarily annexed itself to the United States of America!”
“Yes; because it was afraid of the Mexicans!” replied Florida.
“Afraid!” From this moment the state of things became intolerable. A
sanguinary encounter seemed daily imminent between the two parties in
the streets of Baltimore. It became necessary to keep an eye upon the
deputies.
President Barbicane knew not which way to look. Notes, documents,
letters full of menaces showered down upon his house. Which side ought
he to take? As regarded the appropriation of the soil, the facility of
communication, the rapidity of transport, the claims of both States
were evenly balanced. As for political prepossessions, they had nothing
to do with the question.
This dead block had existed for some little time, when Barbicane
resolved to get rid of it all at once. He called a meeting of his
colleagues, and laid before them a proposition which, it will be seen,
was profoundly sagacious.
“On carefully considering,” he said, “what is going on now between
Florida and Texas, it is clear that the same difficulties will recur
with all the towns of the favored State. The rivalry will descend from
State to city, and so on downward. Now Texas possesses eleven towns
within the prescribed conditions, which will further dispute the honor
and create us new enemies, while Florida has only one. I go in,
therefore, for Florida and Tampa Town.”
This decision, on being made known, utterly crushed the Texan deputies.
Seized with an indescribable fury, they addressed threatening letters
to the different members of the Gun Club by name. The magistrates had
but one course to take, and they took it. They chartered a special
train, forced the Texans into it whether they would or no; and they
quitted the city with a speed of thirty miles an hour.
Quickly, however, as they were despatched, they found time to hurl one
last and bitter sarcasm at their adversaries.
Alluding to the extent of Florida, a mere peninsula confined between
two seas, they pretended that it could never sustain the shock of the
discharge, and that it would “bust up” at the very first shot.
“Very well, let it bust up!” replied the Floridans, with a brevity of
the days of ancient Sparta.
CHAPTER XII.
URBI ET ORBI
The astronomical, mechanical, and topographical difficulties resolved,
finally came the question of finance. The sum required was far too
great for any individual, or even any single State, to provide the
requisite millions.
President Barbicane undertook, despite of the matter being a purely
American affair, to render it one of universal interest, and to request
the financial co-operation of all peoples. It was, he maintained, the
right and duty of the whole earth to interfere in the affairs of its
satellite. The subscription opened at Baltimore extended properly to
the whole world—_Urbi et orbi_.
This subscription was successful beyond all expectation;
notwithstanding that it was a question not of lending but of giving the
money. It was a purely disinterested operation in the strictest sense
of the term, and offered not the slightest chance of profit.
The effect, however, of Barbicane’s communication was not confined to
the frontiers of the United States; it crossed the Atlantic and
Pacific, invading simultaneously Asia and Europe, Africa and Oceanica.
The observatories of the Union placed themselves in immediate
communication with those of foreign countries. Some, such as those of
Paris, Petersburg, Berlin, Stockholm, Hamburg, Malta, Lisbon, Benares,
Madras, and others, transmitted their good wishes; the rest maintained
a prudent silence, quietly awaiting the result. As for the observatory
at Greenwich, seconded as it was by the twenty- two astronomical
establishments of Great Britain, it spoke plainly enough. It boldly
denied the possibility of success, and pronounced in favor of the
theories of Captain Nicholl. But this was nothing more than mere
English jealousy.
On the 8th of October President Barbicane published a manifesto full of
enthusiasm, in which he made an appeal to “all persons of good will
upon the face of the earth.” This document, translated into all
languages, met with immense success.
Subscription lists were opened in all the principal cities of the
Union, with a central office at the Baltimore Bank, 9 Baltimore Street.
In addition, subscriptions were received at the following banks in the
different states of the two continents:
At Vienna, with S. M. de Rothschild.
At Petersburg, Stieglitz and Co.
At Paris, The Credit Mobilier.
At Stockholm, Tottie and Arfuredson.
At London, N. M. Rothschild and Son.
At Turin, Ardouin and Co.
At Berlin, Mendelssohn.
At Geneva, Lombard, Odier and Co.
At Constantinople, The Ottoman Bank.
At Brussels, J. Lambert.
At Madrid, Daniel Weisweller.
At Amsterdam, Netherlands Credit Co.
At Rome, Torlonia and Co.
At Lisbon, Lecesne.
At Copenhagen, Private Bank.
At Rio de Janeiro, Private Bank.
At Montevideo, Private Bank.
At Valparaiso and Lima, Thomas la Chambre and Co.
At Mexico, Martin Daran and Co.
Three days after the manifesto of President Barbicane $4,000,000 were
paid into the different towns of the Union. With such a balance the Gun
Club might begin operations at once. But some days later advices were
received to the effect that foreign subscriptions were being eagerly
taken up. Certain countries distinguished themselves by their
liberality; others untied their purse-strings with less facility—a
matter of temperament. Figures are, however, more eloquent than words,
and here is the official statement of the sums which were paid in to
the credit of the Gun Club at the close of the subscription.
Russia paid in as her contingent the enormous sum of 368,733 roubles.
No one need be surprised at this, who bears in mind the scientific
taste of the Russians, and the impetus which they have given to
astronomical studies—thanks to their numerous observatories.
France began by deriding the pretensions of the Americans. The moon
served as a pretext for a thousand stale puns and a score of ballads,
in which bad taste contested the palm with ignorance. But as formerly
the French paid before singing, so now they paid after having had their
laugh, and they subscribed for a sum of 1,253,930 francs. At that price
they had a right to enjoy themselves a little.
Austria showed herself generous in the midst of her financial crisis.
Her public contributions amounted to the sum of 216,000 florins—a
perfect godsend.
Fifty-two thousand rix-dollars were the remittance of Sweden and
Norway; the amount is large for the country, but it would undoubtedly
have been considerably increased had the subscription been opened in
Christiana simultaneously with that at Stockholm. For some reason or
other the Norwegians do not like to send their money to Sweden.
Prussia, by a remittance of 250,000 thalers, testified her high
approval of the enterprise.
Turkey behaved generously; but she had a personal interest in the
matter. The moon, in fact, regulates the cycle of her years and her
fast of Ramadan. She could not do less than give 1,372,640 piastres;
and she gave them with an eagerness which denoted, however, some
pressure on the part of the government.
Belgium distinguished herself among the second-rate states by a grant
of 513,000 francs—about two centimes per head of her population.
Holland and her colonies interested themselves to the extent of 110,000
florins, only demanding an allowance of five per cent. discount for
paying ready money.
Denmark, a little contracted in territory, gave nevertheless 9,000
ducats, proving her love for scientific experiments.
The Germanic Confederation pledged itself to 34,285 florins. It was
impossible to ask for more; besides, they would not have given it.
Though very much crippled, Italy found 200,000 lire in the pockets of
her people. If she had had Venetia she would have done better; but she
had not.
The States of the Church thought that they could not send less than
7,040 Roman crowns; and Portugal carried her devotion to science as far
as 30,000 cruzados. It was the widow’s mite—eighty-six piastres; but
self-constituted empires are always rather short of money.
Two hundred and fifty-seven francs, this was the modest contribution of
Switzerland to the American work. One must freely admit that she did
not see the practical side of the matter. It did not seem to her that
the mere despatch of a shot to the moon could possibly establish any
relation of affairs with her; and it did not seem prudent to her to
embark her capital in so hazardous an enterprise. After all, perhaps
she was right.
As to Spain, she could not scrape together more than 110 reals. She
gave as an excuse that she had her railways to finish. The truth is,
that science is not favorably regarded in that country, it is still in
a backward state; and moreover, certain Spaniards, not by any means the
least educated, did not form a correct estimate of the bulk of the
projectile compared with that of the moon. They feared that it would
disturb the established order of things. In that case it were better to
keep aloof; which they did to the tune of some reals.
There remained but England; and we know the contemptuous antipathy with
which she received Barbicane’s proposition. The English have but one
soul for the whole twenty-six millions of inhabitants which Great
Britain contains. They hinted that the enterprise of the Gun Club was
contrary to the “principle of non-intervention.” And they did not
subscribe a single farthing.
At this intimation the Gun Club merely shrugged its shoulders and
returned to its great work. When South America, that is to say, Peru,
Chili, Brazil, the provinces of La Plata and Columbia, had poured forth
their quota into their hands, the sum of $300,000, it found itself in
possession of a considerable capital, of which the following is a
statement:
United States subscriptions, . . $4,000,000
Foreign subscriptions . . . . . . . $1,446,675
——————
Total, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . $5,446,675
Such was the sum which the public poured into the treasury of the Gun
Club.
Let no one be surprised at the vastness of the amount. The work of
casting, boring, masonry, the transport of workmen, their establishment
in an almost uninhabited country, the construction of furnaces and
workshops, the plant, the powder, the projectile, and incipient
expenses, would, according to the estimates, absorb nearly the whole.
Certain cannon-shots in the Federal war cost one thousand dollars
apiece. This one of President Barbicane, unique in the annals of
gunnery, might well cost five thousand times more.
On the 20th of October a contract was entered into with the manufactory
at Coldspring, near New York, which during the war had furnished the
largest Parrott, cast-iron guns. It was stipulated between the
contracting parties that the manufactory of Coldspring should engage to
transport to Tampa Town, in southern Florida, the necessary materials
for casting the Columbiad. The work was bound to be completed at latest
by the 15th of October following, and the cannon delivered in good
condition under penalty of a forfeit of one hundred dollars a day to
the moment when the moon should again present herself under the same
conditions—that is to say, in eighteen years and eleven days.
The engagement of the workmen, their pay, and all the necessary details
of the work, devolved upon the Coldspring Company.
This contract, executed in duplicate, was signed by Barbicane,
president of the Gun Club, of the one part, and T. Murchison director
of the Coldspring manufactory, of the other, who thus executed the deed
on behalf of their respective principals.
CHAPTER XIII.
STONES HILL
When the decision was arrived at by the Gun Club, to the disparagement
of Texas, every one in America, where reading is a universal
acquirement, set to work to study the geography of Florida. Never
before had there been such a sale for works like “Bertram’s Travels in
Florida,” “Roman’s Natural History of East and West Florida,”
“William’s Territory of Florida,” and “Cleland on the Cultivation of
the Sugar-Cane in Florida.” It became necessary to issue fresh editions
of these works.
Barbicane had something better to do than to read. He desired to see
things with his own eyes, and to mark the exact position of the
proposed gun. So, without a moment’s loss of time, he placed at the
disposal of the Cambridge Observatory the funds necessary for the
construction of a telescope, and entered into negotiations with the
house of Breadwill and Co., of Albany, for the construction of an
aluminum projectile of the required size. He then quitted Baltimore,
accompanied by J. T. Maston, Major Elphinstone, and the manager of the
Coldspring factory.
On the following day, the four fellow-travelers arrived at New Orleans.
There they immediately embarked on board the _Tampico_, a despatch-boat
belonging to the Federal navy, which the government had placed at their
disposal; and, getting up steam, the banks of Louisiana speedily
disappeared from sight.
The passage was not long. Two days after starting, the _Tampico_,
having made four hundred and eighty miles, came in sight of the coast
of Florida. On a nearer approach Barbicane found himself in view of a
low, flat country of somewhat barren aspect. After coasting along a
series of creeks abounding in lobsters and oysters, the _Tampico_
entered the bay of Espiritu Santo, where she finally anchored in a
small natural harbor, formed by the _embouchure_ of the River
Hillisborough, at seven P.M., on the 22d of October.
Our four passengers disembarked at once. “Gentlemen,” said Barbicane,
“we have no time to lose; tomorrow we must obtain horses, and proceed
to reconnoiter the country.”
Barbicane had scarcely set his foot on shore when three thousand of the
inhabitants of Tampa Town came forth to meet him, an honor due to the
president who had signalized their country by his choice.
Declining, however, every kind of ovation, Barbicane ensconced himself
in a room of the Franklin Hotel.
On the morrow some of the small horses of the Spanish breed, full of
vigor and of fire, stood snorting under his windows; but instead of
four steeds, here were fifty, together with their riders. Barbicane
descended with his three fellow- travelers; and much astonished were
they all to find themselves in the midst of such a cavalcade. He
remarked that every horseman carried a carbine slung across his
shoulders and pistols in his holsters.
On expressing his surprise at these preparations, he was speedily
enlightened by a young Floridan, who quietly said:
“Sir, there are Seminoles there.”
“What do you mean by Seminoles?”
“Savages who scour the prairies. We thought it best, therefore, to
escort you on your road.”
“Pooh!” cried J. T. Maston, mounting his steed.
“All right,” said the Floridan; “but it is true enough, nevertheless.”
“Gentlemen,” answered Barbicane, “I thank you for your kind attention;
but it is time to be off.”
It was five A.M. when Barbicane and his party, quitting Tampa Town,
made their way along the coast in the direction of Alifia Creek. This
little river falls into Hillisborough Bay twelve miles above Tampa
Town. Barbicane and his escort coasted along its right bank to the
eastward. Soon the waves of the bay disappeared behind a bend of rising
ground, and the Floridan “champagne” alone offered itself to view.
Florida, discovered on Palm Sunday, in 1512, by Juan Ponce de Leon, was
originally named _Pascha Florida_. It little deserved that designation,
with its dry and parched coasts. But after some few miles of tract the
nature of the soil gradually changes and the country shows itself
worthy of the name. Cultivated plains soon appear, where are united all
the productions of the northern and tropical floras, terminating in
prairies abounding with pineapples and yams, tobacco, rice,
cotton-plants, and sugar-canes, which extend beyond reach of sight,
flinging their riches broadcast with careless prodigality.
Barbicane appeared highly pleased on observing the progressive
elevation of the land; and in answer to a question of J. T. Maston,
replied:
“My worthy friend, we cannot do better than sink our Columbiad in these
high grounds.”
“To get nearer the moon, perhaps?” said the secretary of the Gun Club.
“Not exactly,” replied Barbicane, smiling; “do you not see that among
these elevated plateaus we shall have a much easier work of it? No
struggles with the water-springs, which will save us long expensive
tubings; and we shall be working in daylight instead of down a deep and
narrow well. Our business, then, is to open our trenches upon ground
some hundreds of yards above the level of the sea.”
“You are right, sir,” struck in Murchison, the engineer; “and, if I
mistake not, we shall ere long find a suitable spot for our purpose.”
“I wish we were at the first stroke of the pickaxe,” said the
president.
“And I wish we were at the _last_,” cried J. T. Maston.
About ten A.M. the little band had crossed a dozen miles. To fertile
plains succeeded a region of forests. There perfumes of the most varied
kinds mingled together in tropical profusion. These almost impenetrable
forests were composed of pomegranates, orange-trees, citrons, figs,
olives, apricots, bananas, huge vines, whose blossoms and fruits
rivaled each other in color and perfume. Beneath the odorous shade of
these magnificent trees fluttered and warbled a little world of
brilliantly plumaged birds.
J. T. Maston and the major could not repress their admiration on
finding themselves in the presence of the glorious beauties of this
wealth of nature. President Barbicane, however, less sensitive to these
wonders, was in haste to press forward; the very luxuriance of the
country was displeasing to him. They hastened onward, therefore, and
were compelled to ford several rivers, not without danger, for they
were infested with huge alligators from fifteen to eighteen feet long.
Maston courageously menaced them with his steel hook, but he only
succeeded in frightening some pelicans and teal, while tall flamingos
stared stupidly at the party.
At length these denizens of the swamps disappeared in their turn;
smaller trees became thinly scattered among less dense thickets—a few
isolated groups detached in the midst of endless plains over which
ranged herds of startled deer.
“At last,” cried Barbicane, rising in his stirrups, “here we are at the
region of pines!”
“Yes! and of savages too,” replied the major.
In fact, some Seminoles had just came in sight upon the horizon; they
rode violently backward and forward on their fleet horses, brandishing
their spears or discharging their guns with a dull report. These
hostile demonstrations, however, had no effect upon Barbicane and his
companions.
They were then occupying the center of a rocky plain, which the sun
scorched with its parching rays. This was formed by a considerable
elevation of the soil, which seemed to offer to the members of the Gun
Club all the conditions requisite for the construction of their
Columbiad.
“Halt!” said Barbicane, reining up. “Has this place any local
appellation?”
“It is called Stones Hill,” replied one of the Floridans.
Barbicane, without saying a word, dismounted, seized his instruments,
and began to note his position with extreme exactness. The little band,
drawn up in the rear, watched his proceedings in profound silence.
At this moment the sun passed the meridian. Barbicane, after a few
moments, rapidly wrote down the result of his observations, and said:
“This spot is situated eighteen hundred feet above the level of the
sea, in 27° 7′ N. lat. and 5° 7′ W. long. of the meridian of
Washington. It appears to me by its rocky and barren character to offer
all the conditions requisite for our experiment. On that plain will be
raised our magazines, workshops, furnaces, and workmen’s huts; and
here, from this very spot,” said he, stamping his foot on the summit of
Stones Hill, “hence shall our projectile take its flight into the
regions of the Solar World.”
CHAPTER XIV.
PICKAXE AND TROWEL
The same evening Barbicane and his companions returned to Tampa Town;
and Murchison, the engineer, re-embarked on board the Tampico for New
Orleans. His object was to enlist an army of workmen, and to collect
together the greater part of the materials. The members of the Gun Club
remained at Tampa Town, for the purpose of setting on foot the
preliminary works by the aid of the people of the country.
Eight days after its departure, the Tampico returned into the bay of
Espiritu Santo, with a whole flotilla of steamboats. Murchison had
succeeded in assembling together fifteen hundred artisans. Attracted by
the high pay and considerable bounties offered by the Gun Club, he had
enlisted a choice legion of stokers, iron-founders, lime-burners,
miners, brickmakers, and artisans of every trade, without distinction
of color. As many of these people brought their families with them,
their departure resembled a perfect emigration.
On the 31st of October, at ten o’clock in the morning, the troop
disembarked on the quays of Tampa Town; and one may imagine the
activity which pervaded that little town, whose population was thus
doubled in a single day.
During the first few days they were busy discharging the cargo brought
by the flotilla, the machines, and the rations, as well as a large
number of huts constructed of iron plates, separately pieced and
numbered. At the same period Barbicane laid the first sleepers of a
railway fifteen miles in length, intended to unite Stones Hill with
Tampa Town. On the first of November Barbicane quitted Tampa Town with
a detachment of workmen; and on the following day the whole town of
huts was erected round Stones Hill. This they enclosed with palisades;
and in respect of energy and activity, it might have been mistaken for
one of the great cities of the Union. Everything was placed under a
complete system of discipline, and the works were commenced in most
perfect order.
The nature of the soil having been carefully examined, by means of
repeated borings, the work of excavation was fixed for the 4th of
November.
On that day Barbicane called together his foremen and addressed them as
follows: “You are well aware, my friends, of the object with which I
have assembled you together in this wild part of Florida. Our business
is to construct a cannon measuring nine feet in its interior diameter,
six feet thick, and with a stone revetment of nineteen and a half feet
in thickness. We have, therefore, a well of sixty feet in diameter to
dig down to a depth of nine hundred feet. This great work must be
completed within eight months, so that you have 2,543,400 cubic feet of
earth to excavate in 255 days; that is to say, in round numbers, 2,000
cubic feet per day. That which would present no difficulty to a
thousand navvies working in open country will be of course more
troublesome in a comparatively confined space. However, the thing must
be done, and I reckon for its accomplishment upon your courage as much
as upon your skill.”
At eight o’clock the next morning the first stroke of the pickaxe was
struck upon the soil of Florida; and from that moment that prince of
tools was never inactive for one moment in the hands of the excavators.
The gangs relieved each other every three hours.
On the 4th of November fifty workmen commenced digging, in the very
center of the enclosed space on the summit of Stones Hill, a circular
hole sixty feet in diameter. The pickaxe first struck upon a kind of
black earth, six inches in thickness, which was speedily disposed of.
To this earth succeeded two feet of fine sand, which was carefully laid
aside as being valuable for serving the casting of the inner mould.
After the sand appeared some compact white clay, resembling the chalk
of Great Britain, which extended down to a depth of four feet. Then the
iron of the picks struck upon the hard bed of the soil; a kind of rock
formed of petrified shells, very dry, very solid, and which the picks
could with difficulty penetrate. At this point the excavation exhibited
a depth of six and a half feet and the work of the masonry was begun.
At the bottom of the excavation they constructed a wheel of oak, a kind
of circle strongly bolted together, and of immense strength. The center
of this wooden disc was hollowed out to a diameter equal to the
exterior diameter of the Columbiad. Upon this wheel rested the first
layers of the masonry, the stones of which were bound together by
hydraulic cement, with irresistible tenacity. The workmen, after laying
the stones from the circumference to the center, were thus enclosed
within a kind of well twenty-one feet in diameter. When this work was
accomplished, the miners resumed their picks and cut away the rock from
underneath the wheel itself, taking care to support it as they advanced
upon blocks of great thickness. At every two feet which the hole gained
in depth they successively withdrew the blocks. The wheel then sank
little by little, and with it the massive ring of masonry, on the upper
bed of which the masons labored incessantly, always reserving some vent
holes to permit the escape of gas during the operation of the casting.
This kind of work required on the part of the workmen extreme nicety
and minute attention. More than one, in digging underneath the wheel,
was dangerously injured by the splinters of stone. But their ardor
never relaxed, night or day. By day they worked under the rays of the
scorching sun; by night, under the gleam of the electric light. The
sounds of the picks against the rock, the bursting of mines, the
grinding of the machines, the wreaths of smoke scattered through the
air, traced around Stones Hill a circle of terror which the herds of
buffaloes and the war parties of the Seminoles never ventured to pass.
Nevertheless, the works advanced regularly, as the steam-cranes
actively removed the rubbish. Of unexpected obstacles there was little
account; and with regard to foreseen difficulties, they were speedily
disposed of.
At the expiration of the first month the well had attained the depth
assigned for that lapse of time, namely, 112 feet. This depth was
doubled in December, and trebled in January.
During the month of February the workmen had to contend with a sheet of
water which made its way right across the outer soil. It became
necessary to employ very powerful pumps and compressed-air engines to
drain it off, so as to close up the orifice from whence it issued; just
as one stops a leak on board ship. They at last succeeded in getting
the upper hand of these untoward streams; only, in consequence of the
loosening of the soil, the wheel partly gave way, and a slight partial
settlement ensued. This accident cost the life of several workmen.
No fresh occurrence thenceforward arrested the progress of the
operation; and on the tenth of June, twenty days before the expiration
of the period fixed by Barbicane, the well, lined throughout with its
facing of stone, had attained the depth of 900 feet. At the bottom the
masonry rested upon a massive block measuring thirty feet in thickness,
while on the upper portion it was level with the surrounding soil.
President Barbicane and the members of the Gun Club warmly
congratulated their engineer Murchison; the cyclopean work had been
accomplished with extraordinary rapidity.
During these eight months Barbicane never quitted Stones Hill for a
single instant. Keeping ever close by the work of excavation, he busied
himself incessantly with the welfare and health of his workpeople, and
was singularly fortunate in warding off the epidemics common to large
communities of men, and so disastrous in those regions of the globe
which are exposed to the influences of tropical climates.
Many workmen, it is true, paid with their lives for the rashness
inherent in these dangerous labors; but these mishaps are impossible to
be avoided, and they are classed among the details with which the
Americans trouble themselves but little. They have in fact more regard
for human nature in general than for the individual in particular.
Nevertheless, Barbicane professed opposite principles to these, and put
them in force at every opportunity. So, thanks to his care, his
intelligence, his useful intervention in all difficulties, his
prodigious and humane sagacity, the average of accidents did not exceed
that of transatlantic countries, noted for their excessive
precautions—France, for instance, among others, where they reckon about
one accident for every two hundred thousand francs of work.
CHAPTER XV.
THE FETE OF THE CASTING
During the eight months which were employed in the work of excavation
the preparatory works of the casting had been carried on simultaneously
with extreme rapidity. A stranger arriving at Stones Hill would have
been surprised at the spectacle offered to his view.
At 600 yards from the well, and circularly arranged around it as a
central point, rose 1,200 reverberating ovens, each six feet in
diameter, and separated from each other by an interval of three feet.
The circumference occupied by these 1,200 ovens presented a length of
two miles. Being all constructed on the same plan, each with its high
quadrangular chimney, they produced a most singular effect.
It will be remembered that on their third meeting the committee had
decided to use cast iron for the Columbiad, and in particular the white
description. This metal, in fact, is the most tenacious, the most
ductile, and the most malleable, and consequently suitable for all
moulding operations; and when smelted with pit coal, is of superior
quality for all engineering works requiring great resisting power, such
as cannon, steam boilers, hydraulic presses, and the like.
Cast iron, however, if subjected to only one single fusion, is rarely
sufficiently homogeneous; and it requires a second fusion completely to
refine it by dispossessing it of its last earthly deposits. So long
before being forwarded to Tampa Town, the iron ore, molten in the great
furnaces of Coldspring, and brought into contact with coal and silicium
heated to a high temperature, was carburized and transformed into cast
iron. After this first operation, the metal was sent on to Stones Hill.
They had, however, to deal with 136,000,000 pounds of iron, a quantity
far too costly to send by railway. The cost of transport would have
been double that of material. It appeared preferable to freight vessels
at New York, and to load them with the iron in bars. This, however,
required not less than sixty- eight vessels of 1,000 tons, a veritable
fleet, which, quitting New York on the 3rd of May, on the 10th of the
same month ascended the Bay of Espiritu Santo, and discharged their
cargoes, without dues, in the port at Tampa Town. Thence the iron was
transported by rail to Stones Hill, and about the middle of January
this enormous mass of metal was delivered at its destination.
It will easily be understood that 1,200 furnaces were not too many to
melt simultaneously these 60,000 tons of iron. Each of these furnaces
contained nearly 140,000 pounds weight of metal. They were all built
after the model of those which served for the casting of the Rodman
gun; they were trapezoidal in shape, with a high elliptical arch. These
furnaces, constructed of fireproof brick, were especially adapted for
burning pit coal, with a flat bottom upon which the iron bars were
laid. This bottom, inclined at an angle of 25 degrees, allowed the
metal to flow into the receiving troughs; and the 1,200 converging
trenches carried the molten metal down to the central well.
The day following that on which the works of the masonry and boring had
been completed, Barbicane set to work upon the central mould. His
object now was to raise within the center of the well, and with a
coincident axis, a cylinder 900 feet high, and nine feet in diameter,
which should exactly fill up the space reserved for the bore of the
Columbiad. This cylinder was composed of a mixture of clay and sand,
with the addition of a little hay and straw. The space left between the
mould and the masonry was intended to be filled up by the molten metal,
which would thus form the walls six feet in thickness. This cylinder,
in order to maintain its equilibrium, had to be bound by iron bands,
and firmly fixed at certain intervals by cross-clamps fastened into the
stone lining; after the castings these would be buried in the block of
metal, leaving no external projection.
This operation was completed on the 8th of July, and the run of the
metal was fixed for the following day.
“This _fete_ of the casting will be a grand ceremony,” said J. T.
Maston to his friend Barbicane.
“Undoubtedly,” said Barbicane; “but it will not be a public _fete_“
“What! will you not open the gates of the enclosure to all comers?”
“I must be very careful, Maston. The casting of the Columbiad is an
extremely delicate, not to say a dangerous operation, and I should
prefer its being done privately. At the discharge of the projectile, a
_fete_ if you like—till then, no!”
The president was right. The operation involved unforeseen dangers,
which a great influx of spectators would have hindered him from
averting. It was necessary to preserve complete freedom of movement. No
one was admitted within the enclosure except a delegation of members of
the Gun Club, who had made the voyage to Tampa Town. Among these was
the brisk Bilsby, Tom Hunter, Colonel Blomsberry, Major Elphinstone,
General Morgan, and the rest of the lot to whom the casting of the
Columbiad was a matter of personal interest. J. T. Maston became their
cicerone. He omitted no point of detail; he conducted them throughout
the magazines, workshops, through the midst of the engines, and
compelled them to visit the whole 1,200 furnaces one after the other.
At the end of the twelve-hundredth visit they were pretty well knocked
up.
The casting was to take place at twelve o’clock precisely. The previous
evening each furnace had been charged with 114,000 pounds weight of
metal in bars disposed cross-ways to each other, so as to allow the hot
air to circulate freely between them. At daybreak the 1,200 chimneys
vomited their torrents of flame into the air, and the ground was
agitated with dull tremblings. As many pounds of metal as there were to
cast, so many pounds of coal were there to burn. Thus there were 68,000
tons of coal which projected in the face of the sun a thick curtain of
smoke. The heat soon became insupportable within the circle of
furnaces, the rumbling of which resembled the rolling of thunder. The
powerful ventilators added their continuous blasts and saturated with
oxygen the glowing plates. The operation, to be successful, required to
be conducted with great rapidity. On a signal given by a cannon-shot
each furnace was to give vent to the molten iron and completely to
empty itself. These arrangements made, foremen and workmen waited the
preconcerted moment with an impatience mingled with a certain amount of
emotion. Not a soul remained within the enclosure. Each superintendent
took his post by the aperture of the run.
Barbicane and his colleagues, perched on a neighboring eminence,
assisted at the operation. In front of them was a piece of artillery
ready to give fire on the signal from the engineer. Some minutes before
midday the first driblets of metal began to flow; the reservoirs filled
little by little; and, by the time that the whole melting was
completely accomplished, it was kept in abeyance for a few minutes in
order to facilitate the separation of foreign substances.
Twelve o’clock struck! A gunshot suddenly pealed forth and shot its
flame into the air. Twelve hundred melting-troughs were simultaneously
opened and twelve hundred fiery serpents crept toward the central well,
unrolling their incandescent curves. There, down they plunged with a
terrific noise into a depth of 900 feet. It was an exciting and a
magnificent spectacle. The ground trembled, while these molten waves,
launching into the sky their wreaths of smoke, evaporated the moisture
of the mould and hurled it upward through the vent-holes of the stone
lining in the form of dense vapor-clouds. These artificial clouds
unrolled their thick spirals to a height of 1,000 yards into the air. A
savage, wandering somewhere beyond the limits of the horizon, might
have believed that some new crater was forming in the bosom of Florida,
although there was neither any eruption, nor typhoon, nor storm, nor
struggle of the elements, nor any of those terrible phenomena which
nature is capable of producing. No, it was man alone who had produced
these reddish vapors, these gigantic flames worthy of a volcano itself,
these tremendous vibrations resembling the shock of an earthquake,
these reverberations rivaling those of hurricanes and storms; and it
was his hand which precipitated into an abyss, dug by himself, a whole
Niagara of molten metal!
CHAPTER XVI.
THE COLUMBIAD
Had the casting succeeded? They were reduced to mere conjecture. There
was indeed every reason to expect success, since the mould has absorbed
the entire mass of the molten metal; still some considerable time must
elapse before they could arrive at any certainty upon the matter.
The patience of the members of the Gun Club was sorely tried during
this period of time. But they could do nothing. J. T. Maston escaped
roasting by a miracle. Fifteen days after the casting an immense column
of smoke was still rising in the open sky and the ground burned the
soles of the feet within a radius of two hundred feet round the summit
of Stones Hill. It was impossible to approach nearer. All they could do
was to wait with what patience they might.
“Here we are at the 10th of August,” exclaimed J. T. Maston one
morning, “only four months to the 1st of December! We shall never be
ready in time!” Barbicane said nothing, but his silence covered serious
irritation.
However, daily observations revealed a certain change going on in the
state of the ground. About the 15th of August the vapors ejected had
sensibly diminished in intensity and thickness. Some days afterward the
earth exhaled only a slight puff of smoke, the last breath of the
monster enclosed within its circle of stone. Little by little the belt
of heat contracted, until on the 22nd of August, Barbicane, his
colleagues, and the engineer were enabled to set foot on the iron sheet
which lay level upon the summit of Stones Hill.
“At last!” exclaimed the president of the Gun Club, with an immense
sigh of relief.
The work was resumed the same day. They proceeded at once to extract
the interior mould, for the purpose of clearing out the boring of the
piece. Pickaxes and boring irons were set to work without intermission.
The clayey and sandy soils had acquired extreme hardness under the
action of the heat; but, by the aid of the machines, the rubbish on
being dug out was rapidly carted away on railway wagons; and such was
the ardor of the work, so persuasive the arguments of Barbicane’s
dollars, that by the 3rd of September all traces of the mould had
entirely disappeared.
Immediately the operation of boring was commenced; and by the aid of
powerful machines, a few weeks later, the inner surface of the immense
tube had been rendered perfectly cylindrical, and the bore of the piece
had acquired a thorough polish.
At length, on the 22d of September, less than a twelvemonth after
Barbicane’s original proposition, the enormous weapon, accurately
bored, and exactly vertically pointed, was ready for work. There was
only the moon now to wait for; and they were pretty sure that she would
not fail in the rendezvous.
The ecstasy of J. T. Maston knew no bounds, and he narrowly escaped a
frightful fall while staring down the tube. But for the strong hand of
Colonel Blomsberry, the worthy secretary, like a modern Erostratus,
would have found his death in the depths of the Columbiad.
The cannon was then finished; there was no possible doubt as to its
perfect completion. So, on the 6th of October, Captain Nicholl opened
an account between himself and President Barbicane, in which he debited
himself to the latter in the sum of two thousand dollars. One may
believe that the captain’s wrath was increased to its highest point,
and must have made him seriously ill. However, he had still three bets
of three, four, and five thousand dollars, respectively; and if he
gained two out of these, his position would not be very bad. But the
money question did not enter into his calculations; it was the success
of his rival in casting a cannon against which iron plates sixty feet
thick would have been ineffectual, that dealt him a terrible blow.
After the 23rd of September the enclosure of Stones hill was thrown
open to the public; and it will be easily imagined what was the
concourse of visitors to this spot! There was an incessant flow of
people to and from Tampa Town and the place, which resembled a
procession, or rather, in fact, a pilgrimage.
It was already clear to be seen that, on the day of the experiment
itself, the aggregate of spectators would be counted by millions; for
they were already arriving from all parts of the earth upon this narrow
strip of promontory. Europe was emigrating to America.
Up to that time, however, it must be confessed, the curiosity of the
numerous comers was but scantily gratified. Most had counted upon
witnessing the spectacle of the casting, and they were treated to
nothing but smoke. This was sorry food for hungry eyes; but Barbicane
would admit no one to that operation. Then ensued grumbling,
discontent, murmurs; they blamed the president, taxed him with
dictatorial conduct. His proceedings were declared “un-American.” There
was very nearly a riot round Stones Hill; but Barbicane remained
inflexible. When, however, the Columbiad was entirely finished, this
state of closed doors could no longer be maintained; besides it would
have been bad taste, and even imprudence, to affront the public
feeling. Barbicane, therefore, opened the enclosure to all comers; but,
true to his practical disposition, he determined to coin money out of
the public curiosity.
It was something, indeed, to be enabled to contemplate this immense
Columbiad; but to descend into its depths, this seemed to the Americans
the _ne plus ultra_ of earthly felicity. Consequently, there was not
one curious spectator who was not willing to give himself the treat of
visiting the interior of this great metallic abyss. Baskets suspended
from steam-cranes permitted them to satisfy their curiosity. There was
a perfect mania. Women, children, old men, all made it a point of duty
to penetrate the mysteries of the colossal gun. The fare for the
descent was fixed at five dollars per head; and despite this high
charge, during the two months which preceded the experiment, the influx
of visitors enabled the Gun Club to pocket nearly five hundred thousand
dollars!
It is needless to say that the first visitors of the Columbiad were the
members of the Gun Club. This privilege was justly reserved for that
illustrious body. The ceremony took place on the 25th of September. A
basket of honor took down the president, J. T. Maston, Major
Elphinstone, General Morgan, Colonel Blomsberry, and other members of
the club, to the number of ten in all. How hot it was at the bottom of
that long tube of metal! They were half suffocated. But what delight!
What ecstasy! A table had been laid with six covers on the massive
stone which formed the bottom of the Columbiad, and lighted by a jet of
electric light resembling that of day itself. Numerous exquisite
dishes, which seemed to descend from heaven, were placed successively
before the guests, and the richest wines of France flowed in profusion
during this splendid repast, served nine hundred feet beneath the
surface of the earth!
The festival was animated, not to say somewhat noisy. Toasts flew
backward and forward. They drank to the earth and to her satellite, to
the Gun Club, the Union, the Moon, Diana, Phoebe, Selene, the “peaceful
courier of the night!” All the hurrahs, carried upward upon the
sonorous waves of the immense acoustic tube, arrived with the sound of
thunder at its mouth; and the multitude ranged round Stones Hill
heartily united their shouts with those of the ten revelers hidden from
view at the bottom of the gigantic Columbiad.
J. T. Maston was no longer master of himself. Whether he shouted or
gesticulated, ate or drank most, would be a difficult matter to
determine. At all events, he would not have given his place up for an
empire, “not even if the cannon—loaded, primed, and fired at that very
moment—were to blow him in pieces into the planetary world.”
CHAPTER XVII.
A TELEGRAPHIC DISPATCH
The great works undertaken by the Gun Club had now virtually come to an
end; and two months still remained before the day for the discharge of
the shot to the moon. To the general impatience these two months
appeared as long as years! Hitherto the smallest details of the
operation had been daily chronicled by the journals, which the public
devoured with eager eyes.
Just at this moment a circumstance, the most unexpected, the most
extraordinary and incredible, occurred to rouse afresh their panting
spirits, and to throw every mind into a state of the most violent
excitement.
One day, the 30th of September, at 3:47 P.M., a telegram, transmitted
by cable from Valentia (Ireland) to Newfoundland and the American
Mainland, arrived at the address of President Barbicane.
The president tore open the envelope, read the dispatch, and, despite
his remarkable powers of self-control, his lips turned pale and his
eyes grew dim, on reading the twenty words of this telegram.
Here is the text of the dispatch, which figures now in the archives of
the Gun Club:
FRANCE, PARIS,
30 September, 4 A.M.
Barbicane, Tampa Town, Florida, United States.
Substitute for your spherical shell a cylindro-conical projectile.
I shall go inside. Shall arrive by steamer Atlanta.
MICHEL ARDAN.
CHAPTER XVIII.
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.
CHAPTER XIX.
A MONSTER MEETING
On the following day Barbicane, fearing that indiscreet questions might
be put to Michel Ardan, was desirous of reducing the number of the
audience to a few of the initiated, his own colleagues for instance. He
might as well have tried to check the Falls of Niagara! he was
compelled, therefore, to give up the idea, and let his new friend run
the chances of a public conference. The place chosen for this monster
meeting was a vast plain situated in the rear of the town. In a few
hours, thanks to the help of the shipping in port, an immense roofing
of canvas was stretched over the parched prairie, and protected it from
the burning rays of the sun. There three hundred thousand people braved
for many hours the stifling heat while awaiting the arrival of the
Frenchman. Of this crowd of spectators a first set could both see and
hear; a second set saw badly and heard nothing at all; and as for the
third, it could neither see nor hear anything at all. At three o’clock
Michel Ardan made his appearance, accompanied by the principal members
of the Gun Club. He was supported on his right by President Barbicane,
and on his left by J. T. Maston, more radiant than the midday sun, and
nearly as ruddy. Ardan mounted a platform, from the top of which his
view extended over a sea of black hats.
He exhibited not the slightest embarrassment; he was just as gay,
familiar, and pleasant as if he were at home. To the hurrahs which
greeted him he replied by a graceful bow; then, waving his hands to
request silence, he spoke in perfectly correct English as follows:
“Gentlemen, despite the very hot weather I request your patience for a
short time while I offer some explanations regarding the projects which
seem to have so interested you. I am neither an orator nor a man of
science, and I had no idea of addressing you in public; but my friend
Barbicane has told me that you would like to hear me, and I am quite at
your service. Listen to me, therefore, with your six hundred thousand
ears, and please excuse the faults of the speaker. Now pray do not
forget that you see before you a perfect ignoramus whose ignorance goes
so far that he cannot even understand the difficulties! It seemed to
him that it was a matter quite simple, natural, and easy to take one’s
place in a projectile and start for the moon! That journey must be
undertaken sooner or later; and, as for the mode of locomotion adopted,
it follows simply the law of progress. Man began by walking on
all-fours; then, one fine day, on two feet; then in a carriage; then in
a stage-coach; and lastly by railway. Well, the projectile is the
vehicle of the future, and the planets themselves are nothing else! Now
some of you, gentlemen, may imagine that the velocity we propose to
impart to it is extravagant. It is nothing of the kind. All the stars
exceed it in rapidity, and the earth herself is at this moment carrying
us round the sun at three times as rapid a rate, and yet she is a mere
lounger on the way compared with many others of the planets! And her
velocity is constantly decreasing. Is it not evident, then, I ask you,
that there will some day appear velocities far greater than these, of
which light or electricity will probably be the mechanical agent?
“Yes, gentlemen,” continued the orator, “in spite of the opinions of
certain narrow-minded people, who would shut up the human race upon
this globe, as within some magic circle which it must never outstep, we
shall one day travel to the moon, the planets, and the stars, with the
same facility, rapidity, and certainty as we now make the voyage from
Liverpool to New York! Distance is but a relative expression, and must
end by being reduced to zero.”
The assembly, strongly predisposed as they were in favor of the French
hero, were slightly staggered at this bold theory. Michel Ardan
perceived the fact.
“Gentlemen,” he continued with a pleasant smile, “you do not seem quite
convinced. Very good! Let us reason the matter out. Do you know how
long it would take for an express train to reach the moon? Three
hundred days; no more! And what is that? The distance is no more than
nine times the circumference of the earth; and there are no sailors or
travelers, of even moderate activity, who have not made longer journeys
than that in their lifetime. And now consider that I shall be only
ninety- seven hours on my journey. Ah! I see you are reckoning that the
moon is a long way off from the earth, and that one must think twice
before making the experiment. What would you say, then, if we were
talking of going to Neptune, which revolves at a distance of more than
two thousand seven hundred and twenty millions of miles from the sun!
And yet what is that compared with the distance of the fixed stars,
some of which, such as Arcturus, are billions of miles distant from us?
And then you talk of the distance which separates the planets from the
sun! And there are people who affirm that such a thing as distance
exists. Absurdity, folly, idiotic nonsense! Would you know what I think
of our own solar universe? Shall I tell you my theory? It is very
simple! In my opinion the solar system is a solid homogeneous body; the
planets which compose it are in actual contact with each other; and
whatever space exists between them is nothing more than the space which
separates the molecules of the densest metal, such as silver, iron, or
platinum! I have the right, therefore, to affirm, and I repeat, with
the conviction which must penetrate all your minds, ‘Distance is but an
empty name; distance does not really exist!’”
“Hurrah!” cried one voice (need it be said it was that of J. T.
Maston). “Distance does not exist!” And overcome by the energy of his
movements, he nearly fell from the platform to the ground. He just
escaped a severe fall, which would have proved to him that distance was
by no means an empty name.
“Gentlemen,” resumed the orator, “I repeat that the distance between
the earth and her satellite is a mere trifle, and undeserving of
serious consideration. I am convinced that before twenty years are over
one-half of our earth will have paid a visit to the moon. Now, my
worthy friends, if you have any question to put to me, you will, I
fear, sadly embarrass a poor man like myself; still I will do my best
to answer you.”
Up to this point the president of the Gun Club had been satisfied with
the turn which the discussion had assumed. It became now, however,
desirable to divert Ardan from questions of a practical nature, with
which he was doubtless far less conversant. Barbicane, therefore,
hastened to get in a word, and began by asking his new friend whether
he thought that the moon and the planets were inhabited.
“You put before me a great problem, my worthy president,” replied the
orator, smiling. “Still, men of great intelligence, such as Plutarch,
Swedenborg, Bernardin de St. Pierre, and others have, if I mistake not,
pronounced in the affirmative. Looking at the question from the natural
philosopher’s point of view, I should say that nothing useless existed
in the world; and, replying to your question by another, I should
venture to assert, that if these worlds are habitable, they either are,
have been, or will be inhabited.”
“No one could answer more logically or fairly,” replied the president.
“The question then reverts to this: Are these worlds habitable? For my
own part I believe they are.”
“For myself, I feel certain of it,” said Michel Ardan.
“Nevertheless,” retorted one of the audience, “there are many arguments
against the habitability of the worlds. The conditions of life must
evidently be greatly modified upon the majority of them. To mention
only the planets, we should be either broiled alive in some, or frozen
to death in others, according as they are more or less removed from the
sun.”
“I regret,” replied Michel Ardan, “that I have not the honor of
personally knowing my contradictor, for I would have attempted to
answer him. His objection has its merits, I admit; but I think we may
successfully combat it, as well as all others which affect the
habitability of other worlds. If I were a natural philosopher, I would
tell him that if less of caloric were set in motion upon the planets
which are nearest to the sun, and more, on the contrary, upon those
which are farthest removed from it, this simple fact would alone
suffice to equalize the heat, and to render the temperature of those
worlds supportable by beings organized like ourselves. If I were a
naturalist, I would tell him that, according to some illustrious men of
science, nature has furnished us with instances upon the earth of
animals existing under very varying conditions of life; that fish
respire in a medium fatal to other animals; that amphibious creatures
possess a double existence very difficult of explanation; that certain
denizens of the seas maintain life at enormous depths, and there
support a pressure equal to that of fifty or sixty atmospheres without
being crushed; that several aquatic insects, insensible to temperature,
are met with equally among boiling springs and in the frozen plains of
the Polar Sea; in fine, that we cannot help recognizing in nature a
diversity of means of operation oftentimes incomprehensible, but not
the less real. If I were a chemist, I would tell him that the
aerolites, bodies evidently formed exteriorly of our terrestrial globe,
have, upon analysis, revealed indisputable traces of carbon, a
substance which owes its origin solely to organized beings, and which,
according to the experiments of Reichenbach, must necessarily itself
have been endued with animation. And lastly, were I a theologian, I
would tell him that the scheme of the Divine Redemption, according to
St. Paul, seems to be applicable, not merely to the earth, but to all
the celestial worlds. But, unfortunately, I am neither theologian, nor
chemist, nor naturalist, nor philosopher; therefore, in my absolute
ignorance of the great laws which govern the universe, I confine myself
to saying in reply, ‘I do not know whether the worlds are inhabited or
not: and since I do not know, I am going to see!’”
Whether Michel Ardan’s antagonist hazarded any further arguments or not
it is impossible to say, for the uproarious shouts of the crowd would
not allow any expression of opinion to gain a hearing. On silence being
restored, the triumphant orator contented himself with adding the
following remarks:
“Gentlemen, you will observe that I have but slightly touched upon this
great question. There is another altogether different line of argument
in favor of the habitability of the stars, which I omit for the
present. I only desire to call attention to one point. To those who
maintain that the planets are _not_ inhabited one may reply: You might
be perfectly in the right, if you could only show that the earth is the
best possible world, in spite of what Voltaire has said. She has but
_one_ satellite, while Jupiter, Uranus, Saturn, Neptune have each
several, an advantage by no means to be despised. But that which
renders our own globe so uncomfortable is the inclination of its axis
to the plane of its orbit. Hence the inequality of days and nights;
hence the disagreeable diversity of the seasons. On the surface of our
unhappy spheroid we are always either too hot or too cold; we are
frozen in winter, broiled in summer; it is the planet of rheumatism,
coughs, bronchitis; while on the surface of Jupiter, for example, where
the axis is but slightly inclined, the inhabitants may enjoy uniform
temperatures. It possesses zones of perpetual springs, summers,
autumns, and winters; every Jovian may choose for himself what climate
he likes, and there spend the whole of his life in security from all
variations of temperature. You will, I am sure, readily admit this
superiority of Jupiter over our own planet, to say nothing of his
years, which each equal twelve of ours! Under such auspices and such
marvelous conditions of existence, it appears to me that the
inhabitants of so fortunate a world must be in every respect superior
to ourselves. All we require, in order to attain such perfection, is
the mere trifle of having an axis of rotation less inclined to the
plane of its orbit!”
“Hurrah!” roared an energetic voice, “let us unite our efforts, invent
the necessary machines, and rectify the earth’s axis!”
A thunder of applause followed this proposal, the author of which was,
of course, no other than J. T. Maston. And, in all probability, if the
truth must be told, if the Yankees could only have found a point of
application for it, they would have constructed a lever capable of
raising the earth and rectifying its axis. It was just this deficiency
which baffled these daring mechanicians.
CHAPTER XX.
ATTACK AND RIPOSTE
As soon as the excitement had subsided, the following words were heard
uttered in a strong and determined voice:
“Now that the speaker has favored us with so much imagination, would he
be so good as to return to his subject, and give us a little practical
view of the question?”
All eyes were directed toward the person who spoke. He was a little
dried-up man, of an active figure, with an American “goatee” beard.
Profiting by the different movements in the crowd, he had managed by
degrees to gain the front row of spectators. There, with arms crossed
and stern gaze, he watched the hero of the meeting. After having put
his question he remained silent, and appeared to take no notice of the
thousands of looks directed toward himself, nor of the murmur of
disapprobation excited by his words. Meeting at first with no reply, he
repeated his question with marked emphasis, adding, “We are here to
talk about the _moon_ and not about the _earth_.”
“You are right, sir,” replied Michel Ardan; “the discussion has become
irregular. We will return to the moon.”
“Sir,” said the unknown, “you pretend that our satellite is inhabited.
Very good, but if Selenites do exist, that race of beings assuredly
must live without breathing, for—I warn you for your own sake—there is
not the smallest particle of air on the surface of the moon.”
At this remark Ardan pushed up his shock of red hair; he saw that he
was on the point of being involved in a struggle with this person upon
the very gist of the whole question. He looked sternly at him in his
turn and said:
“Oh! so there is no air in the moon? And pray, if you are so good, who
ventures to affirm that?
“The men of science.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Sir,” replied Michel, “pleasantry apart, I have a profound respect for
men of science who do possess science, but a profound contempt for men
of science who do not.”
“Do you know any who belong to the latter category?”
“Decidedly. In France there are some who maintain that, mathematically,
a bird cannot possibly fly; and others who demonstrate theoretically
that fishes were never made to live in water.”
“I have nothing to do with persons of that description, and I can
quote, in support of my statement, names which you cannot refuse
deference to.”
“Then, sir, you will sadly embarrass a poor ignorant, who, besides,
asks nothing better than to learn.”
“Why, then, do you introduce scientific questions if you have never
studied them?” asked the unknown somewhat coarsely.
“For the reason that ‘he is always brave who never suspects danger.’ I
know nothing, it is true; but it is precisely my very weakness which
constitutes my strength.”
“Your weakness amounts to folly,” retorted the unknown in a passion.
“All the better,” replied our Frenchman, “if it carries me up to the
moon.”
Barbicane and his colleagues devoured with their eyes the intruder who
had so boldly placed himself in antagonism to their enterprise. Nobody
knew him, and the president, uneasy as to the result of so free a
discussion, watched his new friend with some anxiety. The meeting began
to be somewhat fidgety also, for the contest directed their attention
to the dangers, if not the actual impossibilities, of the proposed
expedition.
“Sir,” replied Ardan’s antagonist, “there are many and incontrovertible
reasons which prove the absence of an atmosphere in the moon. I might
say that, _a priori_, if one ever did exist, it must have been absorbed
by the earth; but I prefer to bring forward indisputable facts.”
“Bring them forward then, sir, as many as you please.”
“You know,” said the stranger, “that when any luminous rays cross a
medium such as the air, they are deflected out of the straight line; in
other words, they undergo refraction. Well! When stars are occulted by
the moon, their rays, on grazing the edge of her disc, exhibit not the
least deviation, nor offer the slightest indication of refraction. It
follows, therefore, that the moon cannot be surrounded by an
atmosphere.
“In point of fact,” replied Ardan, “this is your chief, if not your
_only_ argument; and a really scientific man might be puzzled to answer
it. For myself, I will simply say that it is defective, because it
assumes that the angular diameter of the moon has been completely
determined, which is not the case. But let us proceed. Tell me, my dear
sir, do you admit the existence of volcanoes on the moon’s surface?”
“Extinct, yes! In activity, no!”
“These volcanoes, however, were at one time in a state of activity?”
“True, but, as they furnish themselves the oxygen necessary for
combustion, the mere fact of their eruption does not prove the presence
of an atmosphere.”
“Proceed again, then; and let us set aside this class of arguments in
order to come to direct observations. In 1715 the astronomers Louville
and Halley, watching the eclipse of the 3rd of May, remarked some very
extraordinary scintillations. These jets of light, rapid in nature, and
of frequent recurrence, they attributed to thunderstorms generated in
the lunar atmosphere.”
“In 1715,” replied the unknown, “the astronomers Louville and Halley
mistook for lunar phenomena some which were purely terrestrial, such as
meteoric or other bodies which are generated in our own atmosphere.
This was the scientific explanation at the time of the facts; and that
is my answer now.”
“On again, then,” replied Ardan; “Herschel, in 1787, observed a great
number of luminous points on the moon’s surface, did he not?”
“Yes! but without offering any solution of them. Herschel himself never
inferred from them the necessity of a lunar atmosphere. And I may add
that Baeer and Maedler, the two great authorities upon the moon, are
quite agreed as to the entire absence of air on its surface.”
A movement was here manifest among the assemblage, who appeared to be
growing excited by the arguments of this singular personage.
“Let us proceed,” replied Ardan, with perfect coolness, “and come to
one important fact. A skillful French astronomer, M. Laussedat, in
watching the eclipse of July 18, 1860, probed that the horns of the
lunar crescent were rounded and truncated. Now, this appearance could
only have been produced by a deviation of the solar rays in traversing
the atmosphere of the moon. There is no other possible explanation of
the facts.”
“But is this established as a fact?”
“Absolutely certain!”
A counter-movement here took place in favor of the hero of the meeting,
whose opponent was now reduced to silence. Ardan resumed the
conversation; and without exhibiting any exultation at the advantage he
had gained, simply said:
“You see, then, my dear sir, we must not pronounce with absolute
positiveness against the existence of an atmosphere in the moon. That
atmosphere is, probably, of extreme rarity; nevertheless at the present
day science generally admits that it exists.”
“Not in the mountains, at all events,” returned the unknown, unwilling
to give in.
“No! but at the bottom of the valleys, and not exceeding a few hundred
feet in height.”
“In any case you will do well to take every precaution, for the air
will be terribly rarified.”
“My good sir, there will always be enough for a solitary individual;
besides, once arrived up there, I shall do my best to economize, and
not to breathe except on grand occasions!”
A tremendous roar of laughter rang in the ears of the mysterious
interlocutor, who glared fiercely round upon the assembly.
“Then,” continued Ardan, with a careless air, “since we are in accord
regarding the presence of a certain atmosphere, we are forced to admit
the presence of a certain quantity of water. This is a happy
consequence for me. Moreover, my amiable contradictor, permit me to
submit to you one further observation. We only know _one_ side of the
moon’s disc; and if there is but little air on the face presented to
us, it is possible that there is plenty on the one turned away from
us.”
“And for what reason?”
“Because the moon, under the action of the earth’s attraction, has
assumed the form of an egg, which we look at from the smaller end.
Hence it follows, by Hausen’s calculations, that its center of gravity
is situated in the other hemisphere. Hence it results that the great
mass of air and water must have been drawn away to the other face of
our satellite during the first days of its creation.”
“Pure fancies!” cried the unknown.
“No! Pure theories! which are based upon the laws of mechanics, and it
seems difficult to me to refute them. I appeal then to this meeting,
and I put it to them whether life, such as exists upon the earth, is
possible on the surface of the moon?”
Three hundred thousand auditors at once applauded the proposition.
Ardan’s opponent tried to get in another word, but he could not obtain
a hearing. Cries and menaces fell upon him like hail.
“Enough! enough!” cried some.
“Drive the intruder off!” shouted others.
“Turn him out!” roared the exasperated crowd.
But he, holding firmly on to the platform, did not budge an inch, and
let the storm pass on, which would soon have assumed formidable
proportions, if Michel Ardan had not quieted it by a gesture. He was
too chivalrous to abandon his opponent in an apparent extremity.
“You wished to say a few more words?” he asked, in a pleasant voice.
“Yes, a thousand; or rather, no, only one! If you persevere in your
enterprise, you must be a—”
“Very rash person! How can you treat me as such? me, who have demanded
a cylindro-conical projectile, in order to prevent turning round and
round on my way like a squirrel?”
“But, unhappy man, the dreadful recoil will smash you to pieces at your
starting.”
“My dear contradictor, you have just put your finger upon the true and
only difficulty; nevertheless, I have too good an opinion of the
industrial genius of the Americans not to believe that they will
succeed in overcoming it.”
“But the heat developed by the rapidity of the projectile in crossing
the strata of air?”
“Oh! the walls are thick, and I shall soon have crossed the
atmosphere.”
“But victuals and water?”
“I have calculated for a twelvemonth’s supply, and I shall be only four
days on the journey.”
“But for air to breathe on the road?”
“I shall make it by a chemical process.”
“But your fall on the moon, supposing you ever reach it?”
“It will be six times less dangerous than a sudden fall upon the earth,
because the weight will be only one-sixth as great on the surface of
the moon.”
“Still it will be enough to smash you like glass!”
“What is to prevent my retarding the shock by means of rockets
conveniently placed, and lighted at the right moment?”
“But after all, supposing all difficulties surmounted, all obstacles
removed, supposing everything combined to favor you, and granting that
you may arrive safe and sound in the moon, how will you come back?”
“I am not coming back!”
At this reply, almost sublime in its very simplicity, the assembly
became silent. But its silence was more eloquent than could have been
its cries of enthusiasm. The unknown profited by the opportunity and
once more protested:
“You will inevitably kill yourself!” he cried; “and your death will be
that of a madman, useless even to science!”
“Go on, my dear unknown, for truly your prophecies are most agreeable!”
“It really is too much!” cried Michel Ardan’s adversary. “I do not know
why I should continue so frivolous a discussion! Please yourself about
this insane expedition! We need not trouble ourselves about you!”
“Pray don’t stand upon ceremony!”
“No! another person is responsible for your act.”
“Who, may I ask?” demanded Michel Ardan in an imperious tone.
“The ignoramus who organized this equally absurd and impossible
experiment!”
The attack was direct. Barbicane, ever since the interference of the
unknown, had been making fearful efforts of self-control; now, however,
seeing himself directly attacked, he could restrain himself no longer.
He rose suddenly, and was rushing upon the enemy who thus braved him to
the face, when all at once he found himself separated from him.
The platform was lifted by a hundred strong arms, and the president of
the Gun Club shared with Michel Ardan triumphal honors. The shield was
heavy, but the bearers came in continuous relays, disputing,
struggling, even fighting among themselves in their eagerness to lend
their shoulders to this demonstration.
However, the unknown had not profited by the tumult to quit his post.
Besides he could not have done it in the midst of that compact crowd.
There he held on in the front row with crossed arms, glaring at
President Barbicane.
The shouts of the immense crowd continued at their highest pitch
throughout this triumphant march. Michel Ardan took it all with evident
pleasure. His face gleamed with delight. Several times the platform
seemed seized with pitching and rolling like a weatherbeaten ship. But
the two heros of the meeting had good sea-legs. They never stumbled;
and their vessel arrived without dues at the port of Tampa Town.
Michel Ardan managed fortunately to escape from the last embraces of
his vigorous admirers. He made for the Hotel Franklin, quickly gained
his chamber, and slid under the bedclothes, while an army of a hundred
thousand men kept watch under his windows.
During this time a scene, short, grave, and decisive, took place
between the mysterious personage and the president of the Gun Club.
Barbicane, free at last, had gone straight at his adversary.
“Come!” he said shortly.
The other followed him on the quay; and the two presently found
themselves alone at the entrance of an open wharf on Jones’ Fall.
The two enemies, still mutually unknown, gazed at each other.
“Who are you?” asked Barbicane.
“Captain Nicholl!”
“So I suspected. Hitherto chance has never thrown you in my way.”
“I am come for that purpose.”
“You have insulted me.”
“Publicly!”
“And you will answer to me for this insult?”
“At this very moment.”
“No! I desire that all that passes between us shall be secret. Their is
a wood situated three miles from Tampa, the wood of Skersnaw. Do you
know it?”
“I know it.”
“Will you be so good as to enter it to-morrow morning at five o’clock,
on one side?”
“Yes! if you will enter at the other side at the same hour.”
“And you will not forget your rifle?” said Barbicane.
“No more than you will forget yours?” replied Nicholl.
These words having been coldly spoken, the president of the Gun Club
and the captain parted. Barbicane returned to his lodging; but instead
of snatching a few hours of repose, he passed the night in endeavoring
to discover a means of evading the recoil of the projectile, and
resolving the difficult problem proposed by Michel Ardan during the
discussion at the meeting.
CHAPTER XXI.
HOW A FRENCHMAN MANAGES AN AFFAIR
While the contract of this duel was being discussed by the president
and the captain—this dreadful, savage duel, in which each adversary
became a man-hunter—Michel Ardan was resting from the fatigues of his
triumph. Resting is hardly an appropriate expression, for American beds
rival marble or granite tables for hardness.
Ardan was sleeping, then, badly enough, tossing about between the
cloths which served him for sheets, and he was dreaming of making a
more comfortable couch in his projectile when a frightful noise
disturbed his dreams. Thundering blows shook his door. They seemed to
be caused by some iron instrument. A great deal of loud talking was
distinguishable in this racket, which was rather too early in the
morning. “Open the door,” some one shrieked, “for heaven’s sake!” Ardan
saw no reason for complying with a demand so roughly expressed.
However, he got up and opened the door just as it was giving way before
the blows of this determined visitor. The secretary of the Gun Club
burst into the room. A bomb could not have made more noise or have
entered the room with less ceremony.
“Last night,” cried J. T. Maston, _ex abrupto_, “our president was
publicly insulted during the meeting. He provoked his adversary, who is
none other than Captain Nicholl! They are fighting this morning in the
wood of Skersnaw. I heard all the particulars from the mouth of
Barbicane himself. If he is killed, then our scheme is at an end. We
must prevent his duel; and one man alone has enough influence over
Barbicane to stop him, and that man is Michel Ardan.”
While J. T. Maston was speaking, Michel Ardan, without interrupting
him, had hastily put on his clothes; and, in less than two minutes, the
two friends were making for the suburbs of Tampa Town with rapid
strides.
It was during this walk that Maston told Ardan the state of the case.
He told him the real causes of the hostility between Barbicane and
Nicholl; how it was of old date, and why, thanks to unknown friends,
the president and the captain had, as yet, never met face to face. He
added that it arose simply from a rivalry between iron plates and shot,
and, finally, that the scene at the meeting was only the
long-wished-for opportunity for Nicholl to pay off an old grudge.
Nothing is more dreadful than private duels in America. The two
adversaries attack each other like wild beasts. Then it is that they
might well covet those wonderful properties of the Indians of the
prairies—their quick intelligence, their ingenious cunning, their scent
of the enemy. A single mistake, a moment’s hesitation, a single false
step may cause death. On these occasions Yankees are often accompanied
by their dogs, and keep up the struggle for hours.
“What demons you are!” cried Michel Ardan, when his companion had
depicted this scene to him with much energy.
“Yes, we are,” replied J. T. modestly; “but we had better make haste.”
Though Michel Ardan and he had crossed the plains still wet with dew,
and had taken the shortest route over creeks and ricefields, they could
not reach Skersnaw in under five hours and a half.
Barbicane must have passed the border half an hour ago.
There was an old bushman working there, occupied in selling fagots from
trees that had been leveled by his axe.
Maston ran toward him, saying, “Have you seen a man go into the wood,
armed with a rifle? Barbicane, the president, my best friend?”
The worthy secretary of the Gun Club thought that his president must be
known by all the world. But the bushman did not seem to understand him.
“A hunter?” said Ardan.
“A hunter? Yes,” replied the bushman.
“Long ago?”
“About an hour.”
“Too late!” cried Maston.
“Have you heard any gunshots?” asked Ardan.
“No!”
“Not one?”
“Not one! that hunter did not look as if he knew how to hunt!”
“What is to be done?” said Maston.
“We must go into the wood, at the risk of getting a ball which is not
intended for us.”
“Ah!” cried Maston, in a tone which could not be mistaken, “I would
rather have twenty balls in my own head than one in Barbicane’s.”
“Forward, then,” said Ardan, pressing his companion’s hand.
A few moments later the two friends had disappeared in the copse. It
was a dense thicket, in which rose huge cypresses, sycamores,
tulip-trees, olives, tamarinds, oaks, and magnolias. These different
trees had interwoven their branches into an inextricable maze, through
which the eye could not penetrate. Michel Ardan and Maston walked side
by side in silence through the tall grass, cutting themselves a path
through the strong creepers, casting curious glances on the bushes, and
momentarily expecting to hear the sound of rifles. As for the traces
which Barbicane ought to have left of his passage through the wood,
there was not a vestige of them visible: so they followed the barely
perceptible paths along which Indians had tracked some enemy, and which
the dense foliage darkly overshadowed.
After an hour spent in vain pursuit the two stopped in intensified
anxiety.
“It must be all over,” said Maston, discouraged. “A man like Barbicane
would not dodge with his enemy, or ensnare him, would not even
maneuver! He is too open, too brave. He has gone straight ahead, right
into the danger, and doubtless far enough from the bushman for the wind
to prevent his hearing the report of the rifles.”
“But surely,” replied Michel Ardan, “since we entered the wood we
should have heard!”
“And what if we came too late?” cried Maston in tones of despair.
For once Ardan had no reply to make, he and Maston resuming their walk
in silence. From time to time, indeed, they raised great shouts,
calling alternately Barbicane and Nicholl, neither of whom, however,
answered their cries. Only the birds, awakened by the sound, flew past
them and disappeared among the branches, while some frightened deer
fled precipitately before them.
For another hour their search was continued. The greater part of the
wood had been explored. There was nothing to reveal the presence of the
combatants. The information of the bushman was after all doubtful, and
Ardan was about to propose their abandoning this useless pursuit, when
all at once Maston stopped.
“Hush!” said he, “there is some one down there!”
“Some one?” repeated Michel Ardan.
“Yes; a man! He seems motionless. His rifle is not in his hands. What
can he be doing?”
“But can you recognize him?” asked Ardan, whose short sight was of
little use to him in such circumstances.
“Yes! yes! He is turning toward us,” answered Maston.
“And it is?”
“Captain Nicholl!”
“Nicholl?” cried Michel Ardan, feeling a terrible pang of grief.
“Nicholl unarmed! He has, then, no longer any fear of his adversary!”
“Let us go to him,” said Michel Ardan, “and find out the truth.”
But he and his companion had barely taken fifty steps, when they paused
to examine the captain more attentively. They expected to find a
bloodthirsty man, happy in his revenge.
On seeing him, they remained stupefied.
A net, composed of very fine meshes, hung between two enormous
tulip-trees, and in the midst of this snare, with its wings entangled,
was a poor little bird, uttering pitiful cries, while it vainly
struggled to escape. The bird-catcher who had laid this snare was no
human being, but a venomous spider, peculiar to that country, as large
as a pigeon’s egg, and armed with enormous claws. The hideous creature,
instead of rushing on its prey, had beaten a sudden retreat and taken
refuge in the upper branches of the tulip-tree, for a formidable enemy
menaced its stronghold.
Here, then, was Nicholl, his gun on the ground, forgetful of danger,
trying if possible to save the victim from its cobweb prison. At last
it was accomplished, and the little bird flew joyfully away and
disappeared.
Nicholl lovingly watched its flight, when he heard these words
pronounced by a voice full of emotion:
“You are indeed a brave man.”
He turned. Michel Ardan was before him, repeating in a different tone:
“And a kindhearted one!”
“Michel Ardan!” cried the captain. “Why are you here?”
“To press your hand, Nicholl, and to prevent you from either killing
Barbicane or being killed by him.”
“Barbicane!” returned the captain. “I have been looking for him for the
last two hours in vain. Where is he hiding?”
“Nicholl!” said Michel Ardan, “this is not courteous! we ought always
to treat an adversary with respect; rest assureed if Barbicane is still
alive we shall find him all the more easily; because if he has not,
like you, been amusing himself with freeing oppressed birds, he must be
looking for _you_. When we have found him, Michel Ardan tells you this,
there will be no duel between you.”
“Between President Barbicane and myself,” gravely replied Nicholl,
“there is a rivalry which the death of one of us—”
“Pooh, pooh!” said Ardan. “Brave fellows like you indeed! you shall not
fight!”
“I will fight, sir!”
“No!”
“Captain,” said J. T. Maston, with much feeling, “I am a friend of the
president’s, his _alter ego_, his second self; if you really must kill
some one, _shoot me!_ it will do just as well!”
“Sir,” Nicholl replied, seizing his rifle convulsively, “these jokes—”
“Our friend Maston is not joking,” replied Ardan. “I fully understand
his idea of being killed himself in order to save his friend. But
neither he nor Barbicane will fall before the balls of Captain Nicholl.
Indeed I have so attractive a proposal to make to the two rivals, that
both will be eager to accept it.”
“What is it?” asked Nicholl with manifest incredulity.
“Patience!” exclaimed Ardan. “I can only reveal it in the presence of
Barbicane.”
“Let us go in search of him then!” cried the captain.
The three men started off at once; the captain having discharged his
rifle threw it over his shoulder, and advanced in silence. Another half
hour passed, and the pursuit was still fruitless. Maston was oppressed
by sinister forebodings. He looked fiercely at Nicholl, asking himself
whether the captain’s vengeance had already been satisfied, and the
unfortunate Barbicane, shot, was perhaps lying dead on some bloody
track. The same thought seemed to occur to Ardan; and both were casting
inquiring glances on Nicholl, when suddenly Maston paused.
The motionless figure of a man leaning against a gigantic catalpa
twenty feet off appeared, half-veiled by the foliage.
“It is he!” said Maston.
Barbicane never moved. Ardan looked at the captain, but he did not
wince. Ardan went forward crying:
“Barbicane! Barbicane!”
No answer! Ardan rushed toward his friend; but in the act of seizing
his arms, he stopped short and uttered a cry of surprise.
Barbicane, pencil in hand, was tracing geometrical figures in a
memorandum book, while his unloaded rifle lay beside him on the ground.
Absorbed in his studies, Barbicane, in his turn forgetful of the duel,
had seen and heard nothing.
When Ardan took his hand, he looked up and stared at his visitor in
astonishment.
“Ah, it is you!” he cried at last. “I have found it, my friend, I have
found it!”
“What?”
“My plan!”
“What plan?”
“The plan for countering the effect of the shock at the departure of
the projectile!”
“Indeed?” said Michel Ardan, looking at the captain out of the corner
of his eye.
“Yes! water! simply water, which will act as a spring—ah! Maston,”
cried Barbicane, “you here also?”
“Himself,” replied Ardan; “and permit me to introduce to you at the
same time the worthy Captain Nicholl!”
“Nicholl!” cried Barbicane, who jumped up at once. “Pardon me, captain,
I had quite forgotten—I am ready!”
Michel Ardan interfered, without giving the two enemies time to say
anything more.
“Thank heaven!” said he. “It is a happy thing that brave men like you
two did not meet sooner! we should now have been mourning for one or
other of you. But, thanks to Providence, which has interfered, there is
now no further cause for alarm. When one forgets one’s anger in
mechanics or in cobwebs, it is a sign that the anger is not dangerous.”
Michel Ardan then told the president how the captain had been found
occupied.
“I put it to you now,” said he in conclusion, “are two such good
fellows as you are made on purpose to smash each other’s skulls with
shot?”
There was in “the situation” somewhat of the ridiculous, something
quite unexpected; Michel Ardan saw this, and determined to effect a
reconciliation.
“My good friends,” said he, with his most bewitching smile, “this is
nothing but a misunderstanding. Nothing more! well! to prove that it is
all over between you, accept frankly the proposal I am going to make to
you.”
“Make it,” said Nicholl.
“Our friend Barbicane believes that his projectile will go straight to
the moon?”
“Yes, certainly,” replied the president.
“And our friend Nicholl is persuaded it will fall back upon the earth?”
“I am certain of it,” cried the captain.
“Good!” said Ardan. “I cannot pretend to make you agree; but I suggest
this: Go with me, and so see whether we are stopped on our journey.”
“What?” exclaimed J. T. Maston, stupefied.
The two rivals, on this sudden proposal, looked steadily at each other.
Barbicane waited for the captain’s answer. Nicholl watched for the
decision of the president.
“Well?” said Michel. “There is now no fear of the shock!”
“Done!” cried Barbicane.
But quickly as he pronounced the word, he was not before Nicholl.
“Hurrah! bravo! hip! hip! hurrah!” cried Michel, giving a hand to each
of the late adversaries. “Now that it is all settled, my friends, allow
me to treat you after French fashion. Let us be off to breakfast!”
CHAPTER XXII.
THE NEW CITIZEN OF THE UNITED STATES
That same day all America heard of the affair of Captain Nicholl and
President Barbicane, as well as its singular _denouement_. From that
day forth, Michel Ardan had not one moment’s rest. Deputations from all
corners of the Union harassed him without cessation or intermission. He
was compelled to receive them all, whether he would or no. How many
hands he shook, how many people he was “hail-fellow-well-met” with, it
is impossible to guess! Such a triumphal result would have intoxicated
any other man; but he managed to keep himself in a state of delightful
_semi_-tipsiness.
Among the deputations of all kinds which assailed him, that of “The
Lunatics” were careful not to forget what they owed to the future
conqueror of the moon. One day, certain of these poor people, so
numerous in America, came to call upon him, and requested permission to
return with him to their native country.
“Singular hallucination!” said he to Barbicane, after having dismissed
the deputation with promises to convey numbers of messages to friends
in the moon. “Do you believe in the influence of the moon upon
distempers?”
“Scarcely!”
“No more do I, despite some remarkable recorded facts of history. For
instance, during an epidemic in 1693, a large number of persons died at
the very moment of an eclipse. The celebrated Bacon always fainted
during an eclipse. Charles VI relapsed six times into madness during
the year 1399, sometimes during the new, sometimes during the full
moon. Gall observed that insane persons underwent an accession of their
disorder twice in every month, at the epochs of new and full moon. In
fact, numerous observations made upon fevers, somnambulisms, and other
human maladies, seem to prove that the moon does exercise some
mysterious influence upon man.”
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