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The spot where the projectile sank under the waves was exactly known;
but the machinery to grasp it and bring it to the surface of the ocean was
still wanting. It must first be invented, then made. American engineers could
not be troubled with such trifles. The grappling-irons once fixed, by their
help they were sure to raise it in spite of its weight, which was lessened 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 one doubted that they
were still living.
“Yes,” repeated J. T. Maston incessantly, whose confidence
gained over everybody, “our friends are clever people, and they cannot
have fallen like simpletons. They are alive, quite alive; but we must make
haste if we wish to find them so. Food and water 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 her new
destination. Her powerful machinery was brought to bear upon the
hauling-chains. The aluminum projectile only weighed 19,250 pounds, a weight
very inferior to that of the transatlantic cable which had been drawn up under
similar conditions. The only difficulty was in fishing up a cylindro-conical
projectile, the walls 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 automatic system, which would never
let the projectile go if it once succeeded in seizing it in its powerful claws.
Diving-dresses were also prepared, which through this impervious covering
allowed the divers to observe the bottom of the sea. He also had put on board
an apparatus of compressed air very cleverly designed. There were perfect
chambers pierced with scuttles, which, with water let into certain
compartments, could draw it down into great depths. These apparatuses were at
San Francisco, where they had been used in the construction of a submarine
breakwater; and very fortunately it was so, for there was no time to construct
any. But in spite of the perfection of the machinery, in spite of the ingenuity
of the savants entrusted with the use of them, the success of the operation was
far from being certain. How great were the chances against them, the projectile
being 20,000 feet under the water! And if even it was brought to the surface,
how would the travelers have borne the terrible shock which 20,000 feet of
water had perhaps not sufficiently broken? At any rate they must act quickly.
J. T. Maston hurried the workmen day and night. He was ready to don the
diving-dress himself, or try the air apparatus, in order to reconnoiter the
situation of his courageous friends.
But in spite of all the diligence displayed in preparing the different
engines, in spite of the considerable sum placed at the disposal of the Gun
Club by the Government of the Union, five long days (five centuries!) elapsed
before the preparations were complete. During this time public opinion was
excited to the highest pitch. Telegrams were exchanged incessantly throughout
the entire world by means of wires and electric cables. The saving of
Barbicane, Nicholl, and Michel Ardan was an international affair. Every one who
had subscribed to the Gun Club was directly interested in the welfare of the
travelers.
At length the hauling-chains, the air-chambers, and the automatic
grappling-irons were put on board. J. T. Maston, Engineer Murchison, and the
delegates of the Gun Club, were already in their cabins. They had but to start,
which they did on the 21st of December, at eight o’clock at night, the
corvette meeting with a beautiful sea, a northeasterly wind, and rather sharp
cold. The whole population of San Francisco was gathered on the quay, greatly
excited but silent, reserving their hurrahs for the return. Steam was fully up,
and the screw of the Susquehanna carried them briskly out of the bay.
It is needless to relate the conversations on board between the
officers, sailors, and passengers. All these men had but one thought. All these
hearts beat under the same emotion. While they were hastening to help them,
what were Barbicane and his companions doing? What had become of them? Were they
able to attempt any bold maneuver to regain their liberty? None could say. The
truth is that every attempt must have failed! Immersed nearly four miles under
the ocean, this metal prison defied every effort of its prisoners.
On the 23rd inst., at eight in the morning, after a rapid passage, the
Susquehanna was due at the fatal spot. They must wait till twelve to take the
reckoning exactly. The buoy to which the sounding line had been lashed had not
yet been recognized.
At twelve, Captain Blomsberry, assisted by his officers who
superintended the observations, took the reckoning in the presence of the
delegates of the Gun Club. Then there was a moment of anxiety. Her position
decided, the Susquehanna was found to be some minutes westward of the spot where
the projectile 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 was in
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 almost completely
motionless. Before trying to seize the projectile, Engineer Murchison wanted to
find its exact position at the bottom of the ocean. The submarine apparatus
destined for this expedition was supplied with air. The working of these
engines was not without danger, for at 20,000 feet below the surface of the
water, and under such great pressure, they were exposed to fracture, the
consequences of which would be dreadful.
J. T. Maston, the brothers Blomsberry, and Engineer Murchison, without
heeding these dangers, took their places in the air-chamber. The commander,
posted on his bridge, superintended the operation, ready to stop or haul in the
chains on the slightest signal. The screw had been shipped, and the whole power
of the machinery collected on the capstan would have quickly drawn the
apparatus on board. The descent began at twenty-five minutes past one at night,
and the chamber, drawn under by the reservoirs full of water, disappeared from
the surface of the ocean.
The emotion of the officers and sailors on board was now divided between
the prisoners in the projectile and the prisoners in the submarine apparatus.
As to the latter, they forgot 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 by either fauna or flora. By the light of
their lamps, furnished with powerful reflectors, they could see the dark beds
of the ocean for a considerable extent of view, but the projectile was nowhere
to be seen.
The impatience of these bold divers cannot be described, and having an
electrical communication with the corvette, they made a signal already agreed
upon, and for the space of a mile the Susquehanna moved their chamber along
some yards above the bottom.
Thus they explored the whole submarine plain, deceived at every turn by
optical illusions which almost broke their hearts. Here a rock, there a
projection from the ground, seemed to be the much-sought-for projectile; but
their mistake was soon discovered, and then they were in despair.
“But where are they? where are they?” cried J. T. Maston.
And the poor man called loudly upon Nicholl, Barbicane, and Michel Ardan, as if
his unfortunate friends could either hear or answer him through such an
impenetrable medium! The search continued under these conditions until the
vitiated air compelled the divers to ascend.
The hauling in began about six in the evening, and was not ended before
midnight.
“To-morrow,” said J. T. Maston, as he set foot on the bridge
of the corvette.
“Yes,” answered Captain Blomsberry.
“And on another spot?”
“Yes.”
J. T. Maston did not doubt of their final success, but his companions, no
longer upheld by the excitement of the first hours, understood all the
difficulty of the enterprise. What seemed easy at San Francisco, seemed here in
the wide ocean almost impossible. The chances of success diminished in rapid
proportion; and it was from chance alone that the meeting with the projectile
might be expected.
The next day, the 24th, in spite of the fatigue of the previous day, the
operation was renewed. The corvette advanced some minutes to westward, and the
apparatus, provided with air, bore the same explorers to the depths of the
ocean.
The whole day passed in fruitless research; the bed of the sea was a
desert. The 25th brought no other result, nor the 26th.
It was disheartening. They thought of those unfortunates shut up in the
projectile for twenty-six days. Perhaps at that moment they were experiencing
the first approach of suffocation; that is, if they had escaped the dangers of
their fall. The air was spent, and doubtless with the air all their morale.
“The air, possibly,” answered J. T. Maston resolutely,
“but their 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 not abandon the
place without at least discovering the tomb of his friends. But Commander
Blomsberry could no longer persist, and in spite of the exclamations of the
worthy secretary, was obliged to give the order to sail.
On the 29th of December, at nine A.M., the Susquehanna, heading
northeast, resumed her course to the bay of San Francisco.
It was ten in the morning; the corvette was under half-steam, as it was
regretting to leave the spot where the catastrophe had taken place, when a sailor,
perched on the main-top-gallant crosstrees, watching the sea, cried suddenly:
“A buoy on the lee bow!”
The officers looked in the direction indicated, and by the help of their
glasses saw that the object signalled had the appearance of one of those buoys
which are used to mark the passages of bays or rivers. But, singularly to say,
a flag floating on the wind surmounted its cone, which emerged five or six feet
out of water. This buoy shone under the rays of the sun as if it had been made
of plates of silver. Commander Blomsberry, J. T. Maston, and the delegates of
the Gun Club were mounted on the bridge, examining this object straying at
random on the waves.
All looked with feverish anxiety, but in silence. None dared give
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 the American 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 the one hand that his
right arm had been replaced by an iron hook, and on the other that a simple
gutta-percha cap covered his brain-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 that the projectile only weighs 19,250 pounds!”
“Well?”
“And that it displaces twenty-eight tons, or in other words 56,000
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 forgotten this fundamental
law, namely, that on account of its specific lightness, the projectile, after
having been drawn by its fall to the greatest depths of the ocean, must
naturally return to the surface. And now it was floating quietly at the mercy
of the waves.
The boats were put to sea. J. T. Maston and his friends had rushed into
them! Excitement was at its height! Every heart beat loudly while they advanced
to the projectile. What did it contain? Living or dead?
Living, yes! living, at least unless death had struck Barbicane 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 had been broken. This scuttle was actually five feet above the water.
A boat came alongside, that of J. T. Maston, and J. T. Maston rushed to
the broken window.
At that moment they heard a clear and merry voice, the voice of Michel
Ardan, exclaiming in an accent of triumph:
“White all, Barbicane, white all!”
Barbicane, Michel Ardan, and Nicholl were playing at dominoes!
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