by Jules Verne
If this astounding news, instead of flying through the electricwires, had simply arrived by post in the ordinary sealed envelope,Barbicane would not have hesitated a moment. He would have heldhis tongue about it, both as a measure of prudence, and in ordernot to have to reconsider his plans. This telegram might be acover for some jest, especially as it came from a Frenchman.What human being would ever have conceived the idea of sucha journey? and, if such a person really existed, he must be anidiot, whom one would shut up in a lunatic ward, rather thanwithin 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 theseveral States of the Union. Barbicane, had, therefore, nofurther motives for keeping silence. Consequently, he calledtogether such of his colleagues as were at the moment in TampaTown, and without any expression of his own opinions simply readto them the laconic text itself. It was received with everypossible variety of expressions of doubt, incredulity, andderision from every one, with the exception of J. T. Maston, whoexclaimed, "It is a grand idea, however!"
When Barbicane originally proposed to send a shot to the moonevery one looked upon the enterprise as simple and practicableenough-- a mere question of gunnery; but when a person,professing to be a reasonable being, offered to take passagewithin the projectile, the whole thing became a farce, or, inplainer language a humbug.
One question, however, remained. Did such a being exist?This telegram flashed across the depths of the Atlantic, thedesignation of the vessel on board which he was to take hispassage, the date assigned for his speedy arrival, all combinedto impart a certain character of reality to the proposal.They must get some clearer notion of the matter. Scattered groupsof 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 ofwatching events as they arose. But he had forgotten to takeinto account the public impatience; and it was with no pleasantcountenance that he watched the population of Tampa Towngathering under his windows. The murmurs and vociferationsbelow presently obliged him to appear. He came forward,therefore, and on silence being procured, a citizen putpoint-blank to him the following question: "Is the personmentioned in the telegram, under the name of Michel Ardan, onhis 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 theprojectile according to the request of the telegram?"
"Not yet, gentlemen; but you are right! we must have betterinformation to go by. The telegraph must complete its information."
"To the telegraph!" roared the crowd.
Barbicane descended; and heading the immense assemblage, led theway to the telegraph office. A few minutes later a telegram wasdispatched 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 onboard a Frenchman named Michel Ardan?"
Two hours afterward Barbicane received information too exact toleave room for the smallest remaining doubt.
"The steamer Atlanta from Liverpool put to sea on the 2nd ofOctober, bound for Tampa Town, having on board a Frenchman borneon 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 untilthe receipt of further orders. On the 10th of October, at nineA.M., the semaphores of the Bahama Canal signaled a thick smokeon the horizon. Two hours later a large steamer exchangedsignals with them. the name of the Atlanta flew at once overTampa Town. At four o'clock the English vessel entered the Bayof Espiritu Santo. At five it crossed the passage ofHillisborough Bay at full steam. At six she cast anchor atPort Tampa. The anchor had scarcely caught the sandy bottom whenfive hundred boats surrounded the Atlanta, and the steamer wastaken 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 ofthe Atlanta.
He was a man of about forty-two years of age, of large build,but slightly round-shouldered. His massive head momentarilyshook a shock of reddish hair, which resembled a lion's mane.His face was short with a broad forehead, and furnished with amoustache as bristly as a cat's, and little patches of yellowishwhiskers upon full cheeks. Round, wildish eyes, slightlynear-sighted, completed a physiognomy essentially feline.His nose was firmly shaped, his mouth particularly sweet inexpression, high forehead, intelligent and furrowed withwrinkles like a newly-plowed field. The body was powerfullydeveloped 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 appeareda pair of red hands.
On the bridge of the steamer, in the midst of the crowd, hebustled to and fro, never still for a moment, "dragging hisanchors," as the sailors say, gesticulating, making free witheverybody, biting his nails with nervous avidity. He was one ofthose originals which nature sometimes invents in the freak ofa moment, and of which she then breaks the mould.
Among other peculiarities, this curiosity gave himself out fora sublime ignoramus, "like Shakespeare," and professed supremecontempt for all scientific men. Those "fellows," as he calledthem, "are only fit to mark the points, while we play the game."He was, in fact, a thorough Bohemian, adventurous, but not anadventurer; a hare-brained fellow, a kind of Icarus, onlypossessing relays of wings. For the rest, he was ever inscrapes, ending invariably by falling on his feet, like thoselittle figures which they sell for children's toys. In a fewwords, his motto was "I have my opinions," and the love of theimpossible constituted his ruling passion.
Such was the passenger of the Atlanta, always excitable, as ifboiling under the action of some internal fire by the characterof his physical organization. If ever two individuals offereda striking contrast to each other, these were certainly MichelArdan and the Yankee Barbicane; both, moreover, being equallyenterprising and daring, each in his own way.
The scrutiny which the president of the Gun Club had institutedregarding this new rival was quickly interrupted by the shoutsand hurrahs of the crowd. The cries became at last souproarious, and the popular enthusiasm assumed so personal aform, that Michel Ardan, after having shaken hands somethousands of times, at the imminent risk of leaving his fingersbehind 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 toneof voice in which he would have addressed a friend of twentyyears' 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 quitedetermined 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, "haveyou carefully reflected?"
"Reflected? have I any time to spare? I find an opportunity ofmaking a tour in the moon, and I mean to profit by it. There isthe whole gist of the matter."
Barbicane looked hard at this man who spoke so lightly of hisproject with such complete absence of anxiety. "But, at least,"said he, "you have some plans, some means of carrying yourproject into execution?"
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p; "Excellent, my dear Barbicane; only permit me to offer one remark:My wish is to tell my story once for all, to everybody, and thenhave 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, andto-morrow I shall be ready to explain my plans and answer anyobjections whatever that may be advanced. You may rest assuredI shall wait without stirring. Will that suit you?"
"All right," replied Barbicane.
So saying, the president left the cabin and informed the crowd ofthe proposal of Michel Ardan. His words were received with clappingsof 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 nighton board. Among others J. T. Maston got his hook fixed in thecombing of the poop, and it pretty nearly required the capstan toget it out again.
"He is a hero! a hero!" he cried, a theme of which he was nevertired of ringing the changes; "and we are only like weak, sillywomen, compared with this European!"
As to the president, after having suggested to the visitors itwas time to retire, he re-entered the passenger's cabin, andremained there till the bell of the steamer made it midnight.
But then the two rivals in popularity shook hands heartily andparted on terms of intimate friendship.
