From the Earth to the Moon; and, Round the Moon

by Jules Verne

  CHAPTER XXII

  RECOVERED FROM THE SEA

  The spot where the projectile sank under the waves was exactlyknown; but the machinery to grasp it and bring it to the surfaceof the ocean was still wanting. It must first be invented,then made. American engineers could not be troubled withsuch trifles. The grappling-irons once fixed, by their helpthey were sure to raise it in spite of its weight, which waslessened by the density of the liquid in which it was plunged.

  But fishing-up the projectile was not the only thing to be thought of.They must act promptly in the interest of the travelers. No onedoubted that they were still living.

  "Yes," repeated J. T. Maston incessantly, whose confidencegained over everybody, "our friends are clever people, and theycannot have fallen like simpletons. They are alive, quite alive;but we must make haste if we wish to find them so. Food andwater do not trouble me; they have enough for a long while.But air, air, that is what they will soon want; so quick, quick!"

  And they did go quick. They fitted up the Susquehanna for hernew destination. Her powerful machinery was brought to bearupon the hauling-chains. The aluminum projectile only weighed19,250 pounds, a weight very inferior to that of the transatlanticcable which had been drawn up under similar conditions. The onlydifficulty was in fishing up a cylindro-conical projectile, thewalls of which were so smooth as to offer no hold for the hooks.On that account Engineer Murchison hastened to San Francisco,and had some enormous grappling-irons fixed on an automaticsystem, which would never let the projectile go if it oncesucceeded in seizing it in its powerful claws. Diving-dresseswere also prepared, which through this impervious covering allowedthe divers to observe the bottom of the sea. He also had put onboard an apparatus of compressed air very cleverly designed.There were perfect chambers pierced with scuttles, which, withwater let into certain compartments, could draw it down intogreat depths. These apparatuses were at San Francisco, wherethey had been used in the construction of a submarine breakwater;and very fortunately it was so, for there was no time toconstruct any. But in spite of the perfection of the machinery,in spite of the ingenuity of the savants entrusted with the useof them, the success of the operation was far from being certain.How great were the chances against them, the projectile being20,000 feet under the water! And if even it was brought to thesurface, how would the travelers have borne the terrible shockwhich 20,000 feet of water had perhaps not sufficiently broken?At any rate they must act quickly. J. T. Maston hurried theworkmen day and night. He was ready to don the diving-dresshimself, or try the air apparatus, in order to reconnoiter thesituation of his courageous friends.

  But in spite of all the diligence displayed in preparing thedifferent engines, in spite of the considerable sum placed atthe disposal of the Gun Club by the Government of the Union,five long days (five centuries!) elapsed before the preparationswere complete. During this time public opinion was excited tothe highest pitch. Telegrams were exchanged incessantlythroughout the entire world by means of wires and electric cables.The saving of Barbicane, Nicholl, and Michel Ardan was aninternational affair. Every one who had subscribed to the GunClub was directly interested in the welfare of the travelers.

  At length the hauling-chains, the air-chambers, and theautomatic grappling-irons were put on board. J. T. Maston,Engineer Murchison, and the delegates of the Gun Club, werealready in their cabins. They had but to start, which they didon the 21st of December, at eight o'clock at night, the corvettemeeting with a beautiful sea, a northeasterly wind, and rathersharp cold. The whole population of San Francisco was gatheredon the quay, greatly excited but silent, reserving their hurrahsfor the return. Steam was fully up, and the screw of theSusquehanna carried them briskly out of the bay.

  It is needless to relate the conversations on board betweenthe officers, sailors, and passengers. All these men had butone thought. All these hearts beat under the same emotion.While they were hastening to help them, what were Barbicane andhis companions doing? What had become of them? Were they able toattempt any bold maneuver to regain their liberty? None could say.The truth is that every attempt must have failed! Immersed nearlyfour miles under the ocean, this metal prison defied every effortof its prisoners.

  On the 23rd inst., at eight in the morning, after a rapidpassage, the Susquehanna was due at the fatal spot. They mustwait till twelve to take the reckoning exactly. The buoyto which the sounding line had been lashed had not yetbeen recognized.

  At twelve, Captain Blomsberry, assisted by his officers whosuperintended the observations, took the reckoning in thepresence of the delegates of the Gun Club. Then there was amoment of anxiety. Her position decided, the Susquehanna wasfound to be some minutes westward of the spot where theprojectile had disappeared beneath the waves.

  The ship's course was then changed so as to reach this exact point.

  At forty-seven minutes past twelve they reached the buoy; it wasin perfect condition, and must have shifted but little.

  "At last!" exclaimed J. T. Maston.

  "Shall we begin?" asked Captain Blomsberry.

  "Without losing a second."

  Every precaution was taken to keep the corvette almostcompletely motionless. Before trying to seize the projectile,Engineer Murchison wanted to find its exact position at thebottom of the ocean. The submarine apparatus destined for thisexpedition was supplied with air. The working of these engineswas not without danger, for at 20,000 feet below the surface ofthe water, and under such great pressure, they were exposed tofracture, the consequences of which would be dreadful.

  J. T. Maston, the brothers Blomsberry, and Engineer Murchison,without heeding these dangers, took their places in theair-chamber. The commander, posted on his bridge, superintendedthe operation, ready to stop or haul in the chains on theslightest signal. The screw had been shipped, and the wholepower of the machinery collected on the capstan would havequickly drawn the apparatus on board. The descent began attwenty-five minutes past one at night, and the chamber,drawn under by the reservoirs full of water, disappearedfrom the surface of the ocean.

  The emotion of the officers and sailors on board was nowdivided between the prisoners in the projectile and theprisoners in the submarine apparatus. As to the latter, theyforgot themselves, and, glued to the windows of the scuttles,attentively watched the liquid mass through which they were passing.

  The descent was rapid. At seventeen minutes past two, J. T.Maston and his companions had reached the bottom of the Pacific;but they saw nothing but an arid desert, no longer animated byeither fauna or flora. By the light of their lamps, furnishedwith powerful reflectors, they could see the dark beds of theocean for a considerable extent of view, but the projectile wasnowhere to be seen.

  The impatience of these bold divers cannot be described, andhaving an electrical communication with the corvette, they madea signal already agreed upon, and for the space of a mile theSusquehanna moved their chamber along some yards above the bottom.

  Thus they explored the whole submarine plain, deceived at everyturn by optical illusions which almost broke their hearts.Here a rock, there a projection from the ground, seemed to bethe much-sought-for projectile; but their mistake was soondiscovered, and then they were in despair.

  "But where are they? where are they?" cried J. T. Maston. And thepoor man called loudly upon Nicholl, Barbicane, and Michel Ardan,as if his unfortunate friends could either hear or answer himthrough such an impenetrable medium! The search continued underthese conditions until the vitiated air compelled the divers to ascend.

  The hauling in began about six in the evening, and was not endedbefore midnight.

  "To-morrow," said J. T. Maston, as he set foot on the bridge ofthe corvette.

  "Yes," answered Captain Blomsberry.

  "And on another spot?"

  "Yes."

  J. T. Maston did not doubt of their final success, but hiscompanions, no longer upheld by the excitement of the firsthours, understood all the difficulty of the enterprise.What seemed
easy at San Francisco, seemed here in the wideocean almost impossible. The chances of success diminished inrapid proportion; and it was from chance alone that the meetingwith the projectile might be expected.

  The next day, the 24th, in spite of the fatigue of the previousday, the operation was renewed. The corvette advanced someminutes to westward, and the apparatus, provided with air, borethe same explorers to the depths of the ocean.

  The whole day passed in fruitless research; the bed of the seawas a desert. The 25th brought no other result, nor the 26th.

  It was disheartening. They thought of those unfortunates shutup in the projectile for twenty-six days. Perhaps at thatmoment they were experiencing the first approach of suffocation;that is, if they had escaped the dangers of their fall. The airwas spent, and doubtless with the air all their _morale_.

  "The air, possibly," answered J. T. Maston resolutely, "buttheir _morale_ never!"

  On the 28th, after two more days of search, all hope was gone.This projectile was but an atom in the immensity of the ocean.They must give up all idea of finding it.

  But J. T. Maston would not hear of going away. He would notabandon the place without at least discovering the tomb ofhis friends. But Commander Blomsberry could no longer persist,and in spite of the exclamations of the worthy secretary, wasobliged to give the order to sail.

  On the 29th of December, at nine A.M., the Susquehanna, headingnortheast, resumed her course to the bay of San Francisco.

  It was ten in the morning; the corvette was under half-steam, asit was regretting to leave the spot where the catastrophe hadtaken place, when a sailor, perched on the main-top-gallantcrosstrees, watching the sea, cried suddenly:

  "A buoy on the lee bow!"

  The officers looked in the direction indicated, and by the helpof their glasses saw that the object signalled had theappearance of one of those buoys which are used to mark thepassages of bays or rivers. But, singularly to say, a flagfloating on the wind surmounted its cone, which emerged fiveor six feet out of water. This buoy shone under the raysof the sun as if it had been made of plates of silver.Commander Blomsberry, J. T. Maston, and the delegates of the GunClub were mounted on the bridge, examining this object strayingat random on the waves.

  All looked with feverish anxiety, but in silence. None daredgive expression to the thoughts which came to the minds of all.

  The corvette approached to within two cables' lengths of the object.

  A shudder ran through the whole crew. That flag was theAmerican flag!

  At this moment a perfect howling was heard; it was the brave J.T. Maston who had just fallen all in a heap. Forgetting on theone hand that his right arm had been replaced by an iron hook,and on the other that a simple gutta-percha cap covered hisbrain-box, he had given himself a formidable blow.

  They hurried toward him, picked him up, restored him to life.And what were his first words?

  "Ah! trebly brutes! quadruply idiots! quintuply boobies that we are!"

  "What is it?" exclaimed everyone around him.

  "What is it?"

  "Come, speak!"

  "It is, simpletons," howled the terrible secretary, "it is thatthe projectile only weighs 19,250 pounds!"

  "Well?"

  "And that it displaces twenty-eight tons, or in other words56,000 pounds, and that consequently _it floats_!"

  Ah! what stress the worthy man had laid on the verb "float!"And it was true! All, yes! all these savants had forgottenthis fundamental law, namely, that on account of its specificlightness, the projectile, after having been drawn by its fallto the greatest depths of the ocean, must naturally return tothe surface. And now it was floating quietly at the mercy ofthe waves.

  The boats were put to sea. J. T. Maston and his friends hadrushed into them! Excitement was at its height! Every heartbeat loudly while they advanced to the projectile. What didit contain? Living or dead?

  Living, yes! living, at least unless death had struckBarbicane and his two friends since they had hoisted the flag.Profound silence reigned on the boats. All were breathless.Eyes no longer saw. One of the scuttles of the projectile was open.Some pieces of glass remained in the frame, showing that it hadbeen broken. This scuttle was actually five feet above the water.

  A boat came alongside, that of J. T. Maston, and J. T. Mastonrushed to the broken window.

  At that moment they heard a clear and merry voice, the voice ofMichel Ardan, exclaiming in an accent of triumph:

  "White all, Barbicane, white all!"

  Barbicane, Michel Ardan, and Nicholl were playing at dominoes!