24 During which the crossing of the Pacific Ocean takes place What had happened off Shanghai is easy to work out. The signals from the Tankadère had been spotted from the Yokohama steamer. Its captain, seeing the flag at half mast, had made for the little schooner. A few moments later Phileas Fogg paid for his voyage at the agreed rate, making the skipper John Bunsby richer to the tune of £550. Then the honourable gentleman, Mrs Aouda and Fix went on board the steamer, which immediately headed off in the direction of Nagasaki and Yokohama. After arriving that very morning, 14 November, at the scheduled time, Phileas Fogg left Fix to his own business, went on board the Carnatic and there learnt, to the great joy of Mrs Aouda – and perhaps to his own, though he didn’t let it show – that the Frenchman Passepartout had in fact arrived in Yokohama the previous day. Phileas Fogg, who was due to leave again that very evening for San Francisco, at once set about looking for his servant. He turned in vain to the French and British consulates and, after unsuccessfully going around the streets of Yokohama, he had almost given up hope of finding Passepartout when chance or a sort of premonition led him to the building of the honourable Batulcar. He would certainly not have recognized his servant in the bizarre attire of a herald, but the latter, as he was standing upside down, noticed his master in the gallery. He couldn’t stop himself from moving his nose. Hence the loss of balance and all that followed. This is what Passepartout learnt directly from Mrs Aouda, who also told him how they had done the crossing from Hong Kong to Yokohama in the company of a man called Fix, on the schooner the Tankadère. At the mention of the name Fix, Passepartout didn’t bat an eyelid. He thought the moment had not yet come for him to tell his master what had transpired between the detective and himself. And so, in the version Passepartout gave of his adventures, he put all the blame on himself for having been overcome by the effects of opium in a smoking den in Hong Kong,1 for which he apologized. Mr Fogg listened to this story impassively and made no reply. Then he gave his servant enough cash to buy some more suitable clothes on board. Sure enough, less than an hour later, once he had cut off his nose and clipped his wings, the trusty fellow had nothing about him of a follower of the god Tengu. The steamer that was doing the crossing from Yokohama to San Francisco belonged to the Pacific Mail Steam Company and was called the General Grant.2 It was a large paddle steamer, weighing 2,500 tons, well equipped and capable of high speed. A huge beam moved alternatively up and down above the deck. One end was fitted to a piston rod and the other to a push rod, which by converting rectilinear into circular motion directly operated the wheel shaft. The General Grant had the rigging of a three-masted schooner and it had a great expanse of sail, which gave a considerable boost to its steam power. At a steady rate of twelve knots, the steamer should not take more than twenty-one days to cross the Pacific. Phileas Fogg could therefore confidently predict that after reaching San Francisco by 2 December he would be in New York by the 11th and London by the 20th, thereby beating the fateful deadline of 21 December by several hours. There were quite a few passengers on board the steamer, English people, a lot of Americans, a veritable flood of coolies emigrating to America and a number of officers from the British army in India, who were using their leave to go around the world. During the crossing there were no problems from a nautical point of view. Because it was supported by its large paddles and steadied by its large expanse of sail, the steamer did not roll. The Pacific Ocean lived up to its name. Mr Fogg, too, was as calm and as uncommunicative as usual. His young female companion increasingly experienced towards him feelings that went beyond gratitude. His silent nature, which was so generous in its own way, made more of an impression on her than she cared to admit, and it was almost against her own will that she began to give in to emotions to which the mysterious Mr Fogg seemed quite impervious. In addition, Mrs Aouda was becoming extremely interested in the gentleman’s plans. She worried about what could go wrong and threaten the success of the journey. She often talked to Passepartout, who was not unaware of Mrs Aouda’s real feelings. The dear fellow now had total faith in his master. He never stopped praising the honesty, generosity and selflessness of Phileas Fogg. Then he would reassure Mrs Aouda about the outcome of the journey, telling her repeatedly that the hardest part was already over, that they had left behind strange countries like China and Japan and were now returning to civilization, and finally that a train from San Francisco to New York and a transatlantic steamer from New York to London would undoubtedly enable them to complete this impossible journey around the world within the allotted time. Nine days after leaving Yokohama, Phileas Fogg had gone exactly halfway around the globe. So it was that on 23 November the General Grant reached the 180th meridian, the one which in the southern hemisphere stands at the antipodes of London. Of the eighty days he had available, it is true that Mr Fogg had used up fifty-two and had only twenty-eight left. But it should be remembered that if the gentleman was only halfway in terms of the difference of meridians, in reality he had completed more than two-thirds of his total journey. This was the result of all those enforced detours between London and Aden, between Aden and Bombay, between Calcutta and Singapore and between Singapore and Yokohama. If he had followed all the way the fiftieth parallel, the one which runs through London, the distance would only have been about 12,000 miles, whereas Phileas Fogg was obliged by the vagaries of his means of transport to cover 26,000 miles, of which he had done about 17,500 by this date of 23 November. But now the route was direct and Fix was no longer around to put more obstacles in their way. Something also happened on this day of 23 November that made Passepartout a very happy man. It will be remembered that the stubborn fellow had insisted on keeping London time on that famous family watch of his, since he thought that the time in all the countries he went through was wrong. On that particular day, then, although he hadn’t put it forward or backward his watch was in agreement with the ship’s chronometers. It is quite understandable that Passepartout should have had such a feeling of triumph. He would dearly have loved to know what Fix would have made of this if he’d been around. ‘What a load of nonsense this scoundrel talked about the meridians, the sun and the moon!’ Passepartout repeated. ‘Huh! If people like that had their way we’d have some clever sorts of clocks and watches around! I knew for sure that one day or the other the sun would make up its mind to set itself by my watch.’ What Passepartout didn’t know was that if he’d had a watch with a twenty-four-hour face, like Italian watches, he would have had no reason to be so triumphant, because the hands on his instrument would have shown nine o’clock in the evening, that is the twenty-first hour since midnight, whereas the time on board was nine o’clock in the morning. This was exactly the same difference as that between London time and the 180th meridian. But even supposing that Fix had been capable of explaining this scientific fact, Passepartout would almost certainly have been incapable, if not of understanding it, then at least of accepting it. And in any case if, assuming the impossible, the police inspector had unexpectedly appeared on board, it is probable that a justifiably resentful Passepartout would have had something quite different to discuss with him and would have gone about it in quite a different way. Where exactly, then, was Fix at that moment in time? Quite simply, he was on board the General Grant! What had happened was that after arriving in Yokohama the detective left Mr Fogg, expecting to meet up with him again later in the day, and went straight to the English consul’s office. There at last he found the warrant that had been following him all the way from Bombay and that was already forty days old. The warrant had been sent from Hong Kong via this same Carnatic, which Fogg was thought to be aboard. Fix’s disappointment is easy to imagine. The warrant was useless. This man Fogg was no longer on British territory. An extradition order was now what was needed to arrest him. ‘Too bad,’ Fix said to himself, when his anger subsided. ‘My warrant is no use here but it will be in England. It looks as if the scoundrel intends to return to his native country, in the belief that he has thrown the police off his trail. Good. I’ll follow him until he gets there. As far as the money is concerned, I just hope to goodness there’ll be some left. Nevertheless, between the cost of the journey, the bonuses, the court case, the fines, the elephant and assorted expenses, my man must already have spent £5,000 during his travels. Never mind. The Bank’s not short of money!’ Having made up his mind, he immediately went on board the General Grant. He was already on the ship when Mr Fogg and Mrs Aouda arrived. To his great surprise he recognized Passepartout in his herald’s costume. He at once hid himself away in his cabin, in order to avoid an angry scene which might jeopardize everything. Thanks to the number of passengers on board he expected that his enemy wouldn’t notice him, when suddenly that very day he came face to face with him at the fore of the ship. Passepartout leapt at Fix, seizing him by the throat without any attempt at explanation, and much to the delight of some of the Americans on board, who immediately put their money on him, struck the unfortunate inspector a series of mighty blows, thus proving how much superior French boxing is to the English version of the sport.3 By the time Passepartout had finished he had calmed down and looked almost relieved. Fix staggered to his feet and, looking straight at his adversary, said to him coldly: ‘Is that it?’ ‘Yes, for the moment.’ ‘Then I’d like to have a word with you.’ ‘Just let me – ’ ‘For the benefit of your master.’ Passepartout, as if overpowered by this show of composure, followed the police inspector and the two men sat down at the fore of the ship. ‘You’ve given me a real beating,’ said Fix. ‘Fine. But now listen to me. So far I’ve been Mr Fogg’s opponent but from now on I’m on his side.’ ‘About time, too!’ exclaimed Passepartout. ‘So you believe he’s an honest man, then?’ ‘No,’ Fix replied coldly. ‘I think he’s a crook … Quiet! Don’t move and let me do the talking. All the time Mr Fogg was on British soil it was in my interest to hold him up while I waited for an arrest warrant. I did everything I could for that to happen. I sent the Bombay priests after him, I got you drunk in Hong Kong, I separated you from your master and I made him miss his steamer in Yokohama.’ Passepartout listened to him, fists clenched. ‘Now,’ continued Fix, ‘Mr Fogg looks as if he’s going back to England. That’s fine by me. I’ll follow him there. But from now on I’ll be as careful to remove any obstacles that may be in his way as I was before to put them there. As you can see, my game has changed and it’s changed because that’s how I want it. I should add that this is what you should want as well, because it’s only when you get to England that you’ll know whether you’ve been working for a criminal or an honest man.’ Passepartout had listened very intently to Fix, and he was convinced that Fix was completely sincere in what he was saying. ‘Are we friends?’ asked Fix. ‘Friends, no,’ replied Passepartout. ‘Allies, yes, but even that could change, because at the slightest hint of treachery I’ll wring your neck.’ ‘Agreed,’ said the police inspector calmly. Eleven days later, on 3 December, the General Grant entered Golden Gate Bay and arrived in San Francisco. Mr Fogg still had neither gained nor lost a single day. 25 Which gives an idea of what San Francisco is like on the day of a political rally It was seven o’clock in the morning when Phileas Fogg, Mrs Aouda and Passepartout set foot on American soil – if this is what you can call the floating quays on to which they stepped. These quays, which move up and down according to the tide, make it easier for ships to load and unload. Here can be seen at their moorings clippers of all sizes, steamers from every country under the sun and steamboats with several decks, which serve the Sacramento and its tributaries. Here too can be seen stock piles of goods, the produce of trade from as far afield as Mexico, Peru, Chile, Brazil, Europe, Asia and all the islands in the Pacific Ocean. Passepartout was so delighted to reach American soil at last that he felt obliged to mark his arrival by performing a perfectly executed somersault. But when he came down on the quay with its rotten planks he almost went right through it. Somewhat put out by the way in which he had landed in the New World, the dear fellow let out an enormous shout, which scared away a large flock of cormorants and pelicans, which normally frequented these mobile quays. As soon as Mr Fogg had disembarked he found out the time of the next train to New York. It was due to leave at six o’clock in the evening. Mr Fogg therefore had a whole day to spend in the Californian capital.1 He ordered a carriage for Mrs Aouda and himself. Passepartout climbed up on to the outside seat and the vehicle, which cost three dollars to hire, set off towards the International Hotel. From his elevated position Passepartout was able to satisfy his curiosity as he observed this large American city: wide streets, neat rows of low houses, neo-Gothic churches and chapels, huge docks and palatial-looking warehouses, some in wood, others in brick. In the streets there were a large number of carriages, omnibuses and tramcars, and on the crowded pavements there were not only Americans and Europeans but also Chinese and Indians, who together made up a population of more than 200,000 people. Passepartout was quite surprised by what he saw. He still had in his mind the image of the legendary city of 1849, a town of bandits, arsonists and murderers all attracted by the lure of gold, an immense confusion of social misfits, where people betted in gold dust with a revolver in one hand and a knife in the other. But these ‘good old days’ were gone. San Francisco looked like any other large commercial town. The tall tower of the townhall, where men on guard kept watch, looked down on this grid plan of intersecting streets and avenues that were interspersed with spacious green squares. Then came the Chinese quarter, which looked as if it had been imported from China in a toy box. There were no longer any sombreros to be seen, no red shirts like those worn by the gold-diggers, no Indian tribes in feathered head-dresses, but silk hats and black suits, worn by a large number of gentlemen rushing about their business. Some of the streets, such as Montgomery Street, the equivalent of Oxford Street in London or the Champs-Élysées in Paris or Fifth Avenue in New York, were lined with impressive-looking shops, displaying goods from all over the world. When Passepartout arrived in the International Hotel he felt as if he had never left England. On the ground floor of the hotel there was a huge bar, a sort of buffet area, free to anyone who went in. Cured meats, oyster soup, biscuits and cheese could be consumed without it costing anything. All that the customers had to pay for was what they had to drink, if they felt thirsty enough, beer, port or sherry. Passepartout thought this was ‘very American’. The hotel’s restaurant was comfortable. Mr Fogg and Mrs Aouda sat down at a table and were treated to a copious meal served on miniature plates by Blacks with beautiful dark skin. After lunch Phileas Fogg, accompanied by Mrs Aouda, left the hotel to go to the British consulate in order to have his passport stamped. On the pavement he met his servant, who asked him if before taking the Pacific railroad it wouldn’t be advisable to buy a dozen or so Enfield rifles and some Colt revolvers. Passepartout had heard about the Sioux and the Pawnees, who held up trains as if they were mere stagecoaches like Spanish highwaymen. Mr Fogg replied that there was no real need for such precautions, but he said that Passepartout could do as he saw fit. Then he headed off towards the consulate. Phileas Fogg had hardly gone more than about 200 yards when by ‘sheer coincidence’ he bumped into Fix. The inspector pretended to be very surprised. How could it be that Mr Fogg and he had done the crossing of the Pacific together and not come upon each other on board? In any case, Fix was extremely honoured to see once more the gentleman to whom he owed so much, and since he had to go back to England on business he would be delighted to continue his journey in such pleasant company. Mr Fogg replied that the honour was all his, and Fix, who was anxious not to let him out of his sight, asked permission to accompany him around this fascinating city of San Francisco. Permission was duly granted. And so Mrs Aouda, Phileas Fogg and Fix strolled through the streets. They soon found themselves in Montgomery Street, where there were huge crowds. There were people everywhere: on the pavements, in the middle of the road, on the rails of the tramway, despite the constant traffic of coaches and omnibuses, outside shops, at the windows of all the houses and even on the rooftops. Sandwich men were walking around in the midst of the gathering. Banners and streamers were flying in the wind. There was shouting from all sides. ‘Hooray for Kamerfield.’ ‘Hooray for Mandiboy.’ It was a political rally. At least that was what Fix thought and he said so to Mr Fogg, adding: ‘We would be well advised, sir, to keep well away from this mob. There’s bound to be a punch-up in the end.’ ‘Quite right,’ replied Phileas Fogg, ‘and a punch-up, even if it’s about politics, is still a punch-up.’ Fix felt it appropriate to smile when he heard this comment and, in order not to get caught up in the brawl, Mrs Aouda, Phileas Fogg and he positioned themselves on the top of a flight of steps leading to aterrace that overlooked Montgomery Street. In front of them, on the other side of the street between a coal depot and a petroleum store stood a large open-air committee room, on which the various sections of the crowd seemed to be converging. So what exactly was the purpose of this rally? Why was it taking place at this particular time? Phileas Fogg had absolutely no idea. Was it to do with making an important military or civilian appointment or electing a State governor or a member of Congress? This was a reasonable supposition, judging from the tremendous state of excitement throughout the town. At that moment there was considerable activity among those present. Everywhere hands shot up in the air. Some, firmly clenched, seemed to be raised then quickly lowered amidst the shouting, presumably an energetic way of casting a vote. The mass of people surged backward and forward. Banners were being waved in the air, disappearing briefly and then reappearing in tatters. The swaying crowd swept along to the flight of steps, heads bobbing up and down like the surface of the sea suddenly stirred up by a squall. The number of black hats visibly decreased and most of them seemed to have become noticeably less tall. ‘It’s obviously a political rally,’ said Fix, ‘and whatever it’s about has really got people worked up. I wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t about that Alabama business, even though it’s been officially settled.’ ‘Perhaps,’ was all Mr Fogg said in reply. ‘In any case,’ continued Fix, ‘there are two opposing candidates, the Honourable Kamerfield and the Honourable Mandiboy.’ Mrs Aouda, who was holding on to Mr Fogg’s arm, looked surprised as she watched these angry scenes and Fix was about to ask one of his neighbours the reason for all this commotion when there was another sudden surge. The cheers increased, accompanied by shouting and booing. The poles carrying the banners were turned into offensive weapons. Hands gave way to fists everywhere. On the tops of carriages that had stopped and omnibuses that had been brought to a standstill, people were trading punches. Everything served as a missile. Boots and shoes came flying through the air and it even seemed as if a few revolvers were being fired, giving an added touch of local colour to the shouting of the crowd. The mob got closer to the flight of stairs and poured out on to the bottom steps. One side was obviously being pushed back, but it was impossible for mere spectators to say who had the upper hand, Mandiboy or Kamerfield. ‘I think it would be wise to withdraw,’ said Fix, who certainly didn’t want his man to be hurt or to get into trouble. ‘If this has got anything to do with Britain and they recognize us, then we are bound to get caught up in the brawl.’ ‘A British subject –’ replied Phileas Fogg. But the gentleman was unable to complete his sentence. Behind him, from the terrace in front of the flight of stairs, came a terrifying roar. There were shouts of ‘Hip! hip! hooray! Mandiboy!’ It was a contingent of his voters joining the fray, outflanking the supporters of Kamerfield. Mr Fogg, Mrs Aouda and Fix were caught in the middle. It was too late to escape. The flood of men, armed with leaded sticks and clubs, carried all before them. Phileas Fogg and Fix, in attempting to protect the young woman, were severely jostled. Mr Fogg with his usual composure sought to defend himself with the two natural weapons with which nature has equipped every trueborn Englishman, his fists, but to no avail. An enormous fellow with a red goatee beard, a ruddy complexion and broad shoulders, who looked like the ringleader, raised his huge fist against Mr Fogg and would have inflicted serious injury on the gentleman had not Fix nobly received the blow in his place. An enormous bump soon appeared under the detective’s silk hat, which had been reduced to the size of a cap. ‘Yankee,’ said Mr Fogg, giving his opponent an extremely contemptuous look. ‘Limey,’ replied the other. ‘We shall meet up again!’ ‘Whenever you like. What’s your name?’ ‘Phileas Fogg. What’s yours?’ ‘Colonel Stamp W. Proctor.’ With that the human tide swept past. Fix was knocked to the ground and got to his feet again, with his clothes torn but no serious injury. His coat had been divided into two unequal parts and his trousers looked like the breeches that some Indians consider it fashionable to wear only after first removing the seat. But in a word, Mrs Aouda had been spared and only Fix had been at the receiving end of a punch. ‘Thank you,’ said Mr Fogg to the inspector, as soon as they had got away from the crowd. ‘Don’t mention it,’ replied Fix, ‘but let’s get out of here.’ ‘Where to?’ ‘To a clothes shop.’ This was indeed an appropriate port of call. Phileas Fogg and Fix both had their clothes in tatters, as if the two gentlemen had themselves come to blows over Messrs Kamerfield and Mandiboy. An hour later they were properly dressed, with new clothes and hats. Then they went back to the International Hotel. There Passepartout was waiting for his master, armed with half a dozen six-shot, central-fire revolvers with mounted daggers. When he noticed that Fix was accompanying Mr Fogg his face fell, but he perked up after hearing Mrs Aouda’s brief account of what had happened. Clearly Fix was no longer an enemy but an ally. He had kept his word. After dinner a coach was ordered, to take the travellers and their luggage to the station. Just when he was getting into the carriage Mr Fogg said to Fix: ‘You haven’t seen that Colonel Proctor again, I suppose?’ ‘No,’ replied Fix. ‘I shall come back to America to find him,’ said Phileas Fogg coldly. ‘It is not acceptable for a British citizen to allow himself to be insulted in such a way.’ The inspector smiled and didn’t answer. But, as can be seen, Mr Fogg was the sort of Englishman who, even though they don’t put up with duels in their own country, are quite happy to fight them abroad, when their honour is at stake. At a quarter to six the travellers reached the station and found the train ready to leave. Just as Mr Fogg was about to get on the train he spotted a porter and went up to him, saying: ‘My dear fellow, there’ve been some disturbances in San Francisco today, haven’t there?’ ‘It was a political rally, sir,’ replied the employee. ‘Nevertheless, I seem to have noticed quite a lot of excitement on the streets.’ ‘It was only an election rally.’ ‘For electing a commander-in-chief, I assume?’ asked Mr Fogg ‘No, sir. For a justice of the peace.’2 After receiving this answer Phileas Fogg got into the carriage and the train set off at full speed. 26 In which the express train travels the Pacific Railroad ‘Ocean to ocean’ is how the Americans put it – and this phrase really should be the best way of referring to the grand trunk line that crosses the United States of America at its widest point. But in fact the Pacific Railroad is divided into two quite distinct sections, the ‘Central Pacific’ between San Francisco and Ogden, and the ‘Union Pacific’ between Ogden and Omaha. That is where five different lines meet up, making regular travel possible between Omaha and New York. New York and San Francisco are therefore now linked by an uninterrupted metal strip stretching for no less than 3,786 miles. Between Omaha and the Pacific the railroad crosses territory that is still the haunt of Native Americans and wild animals, a vast tract of land that the Mormons began to colonize around 1845 after being driven out of Illinois. In the past it took at best six months to go from New York to San Francisco. Now it takes seven days. It was in 1862 that, despite the opposition of representatives from the southern states, who wanted a line further to the south, it was decided that the route for the new railroad would run between the forty-first and forty-second parallels. The late, lamented President Lincoln himself chose the town of Omaha in the state of Nebraska as the starting-point of the new network. Work began immediately and was carried out in typical American style, without too much paperwork or bureaucratic fuss. The speed with which the track was laid would not at all affect the quality of its contruction. Over the prairies the work progressed at a mile and a half per day. A locomotive running along the track that had been laid the previous day transported the rails for the day after and worked its way along them as they were being laid. The Pacific Railroad has various junctions along its length, with branch lines going off into the states of Iowa, Kansas, Colorado and Oregon. After leaving Omaha it follows the south bank of the Platte River as far as the mouth of the North Platte, follows the South Platte, crosses the territory of Laramie and the Wasatch Mountains, skirts the Great Salt Lake, arrives in Salt Lake City, the Mormon capital, goes deep into the Tuilla Valley, runs along the edge of the Great Salt Lake Desert, Mounts Cedar and Humboldt, the Humboldt River and the Sierra Nevada and goes back down to the Pacific via Sacramento, and over its whole length the gradient never exceeds one in fifty, even when it crosses the Rocky Mountains. This was the long line of communication that trains took seven days to travel and that would enable Phileas Fogg, Esq. – at least that was what he hoped – to be in New York by 11 December to catch the Liverpool steamer. The carriage in which Phileas Fogg was sitting was a sort of long omnibus resting on two undercarriages, each with four wheels, which because of their mobility made it possible to negotiate tight bends. Inside there were no separate compartments. Instead there were two rows of seats facing each other, situated at right angles to the axle and separated by a passageway that led to the washroom and toilet with which every carriage was provided. Throughout the train there were platforms that connected the carriages,1 so the passengers were able to go from one end of the train to another, with at their disposal saloon cars, observation cars, restaurant cars and buffet cars. All that was missing were theatre cars, and even they must only be a matter of time. People were constantly moving up and down the platforms, selling books and newspapers, spirits, food and cigars, all doing good business with no shortage of customers. The travellers had left Oakland station at six o’clock in the evening. Darkness had already fallen: a cold, thick night with overcast skies and clouds that were threatening snow. The train was not going very quickly. Allowing for the stops, it wasn’t doing more than twenty miles per hour, but this was still fast enough to enable it to cross the United States on schedule. There was little talking in the carriage. In any case, the travellers would soon be asleep. Passepartout found himself sitting next to the police inspector, but he didn’t speak to him. Since recent events, relations between them had noticeably cooled. There was no longer any fellow feeling or closeness between them. Fix’s manner hadn’t changed at all, but Passepartout on the contrary was extremely reserved, ready to strangle his former friend on the least suspicion. An hour after the train had left it began to snow. It was a fine snow, which very fortunately would not slow down the train’s progress. All that could be seen through the windows was an immense white covering of snow, which made the unfurling coils of steam from the locomotive seem positively grey. At eight o’clock a steward came into the carriage and informed the passengers that it was time to go to bed. The carriage they were in was a sleeping car, which in the space of a few minutes was transformed into a dormitory. The backs of the seats folded down, carefully made-up couchettes opened out thanks to an ingeniously devised system, and within the space of a few minutes a series of cabins had been put together so that each traveller could enjoy a comfortable bed with thick curtains to protect their privacy. The sheets were white and the pillows soft. All that remained was for them to get into bed and go to sleep, which they all proceeded to do as if they were in the comfort of a cabin on a steamship. Meanwhile the train sped along at full steam across the state of California. In this part of the country between San Francisco and Sacramento the land is fairly flat. This section of the line, called the Central Pacific Railroad, first took Sacramento as its startingpoint and then went east to meet up with the line coming from Omaha. From San Francisco to Sacramento the line headed directly north-east along the American River, which enters San Pablo Bay. The distance of 120 miles between these two large towns was covered in six hours and towards midnight, while the travellers slept soundly, they went through Sacramento. They therefore saw nothing of this sizeable city, the seat of the legislature of the state of California, with its handsome wharves, its wide streets, its splendid-looking hotels, its squares and churches. After Sacramento the train, once it had gone past the stations at Junction, Rochin, Auburn and Colfax, entered the Sierra Nevada mountain range. It was seven o’clock in the morning when it went through the station at Cisco. One hour later the dormitory was once again an ordinary carriage and the travellers were able to catch a glimpse through the windows of the picturesque panoramas of this mountainous region. The route taken by the train followed the twists and turns of the Sierra, at times clinging to the mountainside, at others hanging over precipices, avoiding tight corners by cutting bold curves, rushing into narrow gorges with apparently no way through. The locomotive sparkled like a box of jewels, with its great lantern that gave off a yellowish light, its silver bell and its cowcatcher that jutted out like a spur, and as it went the noise of its whistling and roaring mingled with the sound of the streams and waterfalls and its smoke twisted itself around the black branches of the fir trees. Tunnels and bridges were few and far between on the route. The railroad went around the sides of mountains making little attempt to go in a straight line or to find the shortest distance between two points, thereby respecting the natural surroundings. Towards nine o’clock the train entered the state of Nevada through the Carson Sink, continuing in a north-easterly direction. At midday it left Reno, where the travellers had twenty minutes to eat their lunch. From this point the railway line, running alongside the Humboldt River, headed up towards the north. Then it turned eastwards but still following the course of the river as far as the Humboldt Ranges, where the river takes its source, almost at the easternmost point of the state of Nevada. After eating their lunch Mr Fogg, Mrs Aouda and their companions went back to their seats in the carriage. Phileas Fogg, the young woman, Fix and Passepartout were comfortably seated and were looking out at the varied scenery that went past them: vast prairies, a backdrop of mountains and creeks that poured forth their foaming waters. Sometimes a large herd of bison gathered in the distance, forming what seemed like an encroaching tide. These innumerable armies of ruminants often present an insurmountable obstacle to passing trains. It has been known for thousands of animals to take hours to move across the railroad. The locomotive is forced in such cases to stop and to wait for the line to become clear again. This is precisely what happened on this occasion. Towards three o’clock in the afternoon a herd of 10,000 to 12,000 head of cattle blocked the railroad. The locomotive reduced speed and attempted to drive its ram into the side of the immense column, but it had to stop in the face of this impenetrable mass. These ruminants, which the Americans wrongly call buffaloes, could be seen lumbering along, sometimes bellowing loudly. They are bigger in size than a European bull, with short legs and tail, prominent withers that form a muscular hump, horns that are set well apart at the base, and a head, neck and shoulders that are covered with a thick mane. It was pointless to even think of stopping this migration. When bison have decided which way to go, nothing can stop them or alter their path. They are an advancing tide of living flesh that no barrier could hold back. The travellers watched this curious spectacle from the vantage point of the platforms. But the person who was in the greatest hurry of all, Phileas Fogg, had remained in his seat and was calmly waiting for the buffaloes to agree to let him through. Passepartout was furious about the delay caused by this congregation of beasts. He would have liked to empty the contents of his whole arsenal of revolvers on them. ‘What a country!’ he exclaimed. ‘Trains brought to a standstill by a few bulls, which wander off in procession without being in the least hurry, as if they weren’t holding up the traffic … Good heavens! I’d like to know if this setback was catered for in Mr Fogg’s schedule! And what about this engine driver, who doesn’t have the courage to drive his machine straight through these obstructive beasts!’ The engine driver was certainly not tempted to remove the obstruction and this was wise of him. He would certainly have managed to crush the first bison with the ram of his locomotive, but, however powerful it may have been, the engine would have been brought to a standstill before long, a derailment would have been inevitable and the train would have been left stranded. The best thing was therefore to wait patiently, even if that meant having to make up for lost time by driving faster afterwards. The procession of bison lasted for a good three hours and the track was not clear again until midnight. Only then did the rearguard of the herd cross the rails while those at the front were disappearing below the southern horizon. And so it was eight o’clock by the time the train crossed the narrow passes of the Humboldt Ranges and half past nine by the time it entered the territory of Utah,2 the area of the Great Salt Lake and the strange land of the Mormons. 27 In which Passepartout receives a lecture on Mormon history1 while travelling at a speed of twenty miles per hour During the night of 5 to 6 December, the train headed south-east over a distance of about fifty miles, then travelled about as far again towards the north-east, in the direction of the Great Salt Lake. At about nine o’clock in the morning Passepartout went out on to the platform for a breath of air. The weather was cold and the sky was grey, but it had stopped snowing. The orb of the sun, swollen by the mist, looked like a huge gold coin, and Passepartout was busy calculating its value in pounds sterling when he was interrupted in this useful activity by the arrival of a rather odd-looking character. The man, who had got on to the train at Elko station, was tall in stature, with a dark brown complexion, a black moustache, black stockings, a black silk hat, a black waistcoat, black trousers, a white tie and dog-skin gloves. He looked like a clergyman. He was going from one end of the train to the other, sticking up handwritten notices on the doors of each carriage. Passepartout went closer and read on one of these notices that the church elder Mr William Hitch, a Mormon missionary, would be taking advantage of being on train no. 48 to give a lecture on Mormonism from eleven o’clock to midday in car no. 117. He invited all those gentlemen anxious to be instructed in the mysteries of the religion of the Church of Latter-Day Saints to come to listen to him. ‘I’m definitely going,’ Passepartout said to himself, although he knew hardly anything about Mormonism except that polygamy was the basis of its society. The news spread quickly through the train, which was carrying about a hundred passengers. Of these, thirty at the most were by eleven o’clock seated on the benches in car no. 117, attracted by the prospect of the lecture. Passepartout was sitting in the front row of the congregation. Neither his master nor Fix had thought it worth making the effort to attend. At the appointed time the elder William Hitch rose to his feet and in rather an angry tone of voice, as if he had already been contradicted, exclaimed: ‘I say unto you, brethren, that Joe Smith is a martyr, that his brother Hyrum is a martyr, and that the manner in which the federal government is persecuting our prophets will also make a martyr out of Brigham Young. Who would dare claim otherwise?’ No one had the temerity to contradict the missionary, whose state of excitement was in sharp contrast to the naturally calm expression on his face. But his anger was in all probability due to the fact that the Mormons were at present suffering trials and tribulations, since the government of the United States had only recently, and with considerable difficulty overcome these fanatics for independence. It had taken control of Utah and had made it subject to federal law after imprisoning Brigham Young for insurrection and polygamy. Since then, the prophet’s disciples had become even more active and, before resorting to more extreme measures, were using the spoken word to oppose the demands of Congress. As can be seen, the elder William Hitch was seeking to make converts even on the railroad. He then proceeded to recount the history of Mormonism from biblical times, enlivening the narrative by raising his voice and making dramatic gestures. He told how in Israel a Mormon prophet from the tribe of Joseph proclaimed the records of the new religion and bequeathed them to his son Moroni. How, many centuries later, a translation of this priceless book, which had been written in Egyptian hieroglyphics, was made by Joseph Smith Jr, a farmer from the state of Vermont, who in 1825 assumed the status of a mystical prophet. How, finally, a heavenly messenger appeared to him in the midst of a forest filled with light and handed to him the records of the Lord. At that point a few listeners, who had little interest in the missionary’s historical overview, left the carriage, but William Hitch carried on. He recounted how Smith Jr gathered together his father, his two brothers and a few disciples to found the religion of the Latter-Day Saints, a religion which was taken up not only in America but also in England, Scandinavia and Germany and which counts among its members craftsmen and also many professional people. How a colony was founded in Ohio. How a church was erected at a cost of $200,000 and a town built at Kirkland. How Smith became an adventurous banker and was given by a humble tourist guide in Egypt a papyrus containing a handwritten account by Abraham and other famous Egyptians.2 As the tale was rather long-winded, the ranks of listeners grew thinner and thinner until no more than twenty people were left in the audience. But the elder, undaunted by the number of defections, recounted in detail how Joe Smith went bankrupt in 1837. How he was tarred and feathered by his shareholders, who were financially ruined. How a few years later he emerged, more respectable and more respected than ever, in Independence, Missouri, and became the head of a thriving community of no fewer than 3,000 disciples. How then he fell victim to the hatred of the Gentiles and was forced to flee to the American Far West. By now there were ten people still listening, among them the trusty Passepartout, who was all ears. It was in this way that he learnt how after much persecution Smith reappeared in Illinois and in 1839 founded on the banks of the Mississippi Nauvoo-la-Belle with a population of as many as 25,000 souls. How Smith became its mayor, chief magistrate and commander-in-chief. How in 1843 he was a candidate for the presidency of the United States and how finally he was drawn into an ambush in Carthage, thrown into prison and murdered by a gang of masked men. By now Passepartout was the only person left in the carriage and the elder, as he looked straight at him and captivated him by his words, reminded Passepartout that two years after the murder of Smith, his successor, the inspired prophet Brigham Young left Nauvoo and settled around the Great Salt Lake. It was here in this wonderful land and on this fertile soil, on the emigration trail that crossed Utah towards California, that the new colony expanded enormously, thanks to one of the main tenets of Mormonism, polygamy. ‘And this,’ added William Hitch, ‘is why the Congress felt such envy towards us! This is why the soldiers of the Union invaded the soil of Utah! This is why our leader, the prophet Brigham Young, was imprisoned in violation of the basic principles of justice. Will we give in to force? Never! We have been driven out of Vermont, driven out of Illinois, driven out of Ohio, driven out of Missouri and driven out of Utah, but we will still find an independent territory where we will pitch out tents. And you who are one of the faithful,’ added the elder, staring at his only remaining listener with eyes that blazed with anger, ‘will you pitch your tent in the shade of our banner?’ ‘No,’ replied Passepartout courageously, fleeing in turn and leaving the fanatic to preach in the wilderness. But while this lecture was going on the train had made rapid progress and at about half past twelve it reached the north-west tip of the Great Salt Lake. From there the passengers had a wide-ranging view over this inland sea, which is also called the Dead Sea and into which flows an American River Jordan. It is a beautiful lake surrounded by magnificent crags with broad bases that are encrusted with white salt, a superb stretch of water, which in the past was even more extensive, but with the passage of time the shoreline has gradually risen, reducing its surface area but increasing its depth. The Great Salt Lake, which is about seventy miles long and thirtyfive miles wide, is situated at about 3,800 feet above sea level and is very different in this respect from the Dead Sea, which lies 12,000 feet below sea level. It has a high salt content, since its waters hold in solution a quarter of their weight in solid matter. Its specific gravity is 1,170 compared to 1,000 for distilled water. Fish are therefore unable to survive in it and those brought into it by the Jordan, the Weber and other creeks soon die. However, the idea that the density of its waters is too great for anyone to dive into it is untrue. The countryside surrounding the lake is extremely well cultivated, since the Mormons are experts at working the land. Six months later there would have been ranches and corrals for the domestic animals, fields of wheat, maize and sorghum, lush meadows and everywhere hedgerows of wild roses, clumps of acacias and euphorbia. But at present the ground was covered with a thin sprinkling of snow that hid it from view. At two o’clock the travellers got out at Ogden station. As the train wasn’t due to leave again until six o’clock, Mr Fogg, Mrs Aouda and their two companions therefore had time to go to the City of Latter- Day Saints via the small branch line that goes off from Ogden. Two hours were enough to visit this absolutely typical American town, one that was built to the same pattern as all the others, huge chessboards with long cold lines, with ‘the mournful sadness of right angles’, to use Victor Hugo’s phrase.3 The founder of the City of Saints could not free himself from this craving for symmetry that characterizes the British and the Americans. In this unusual country, in which the people certainly do not measure up to their institutions, everything is ‘four-square’, the towns, the houses and human failings. At three o’clock the travellers were, then, walking through the streets of this city built between the bank of the Jordan and the foothills of the Wasatch Mountains. They noted few or no churches, but by way of monuments there were the House of the Prophet, the Court House and the Arsenal. Then they saw houses of bluish brick with verandas and balconies, surrounded by gardens and bordered by acacias, palm and carob trees. A wall made of clay and pebbles, built in 1853, encircled the town. In the main street, where the market is held, stood a few mansions ornamented with pavilions,4 one of which was Salt Lake House. Mr Fogg and his companions didn’t find many people about in the town. The streets were almost deserted, with the notable exception of the part near the Temple, which they reached after going through several areas that were surrounded by high fences. There were quite a large number of women, which is due to the unusual nature of the Mormon household. It should not be thought, however, that all Mormons are polygamous. It is a question of individual choice, but it should be noted that it is primarily the women in Utah who wish to get married, because according to the local religion the Mormon heaven does not allow unmarried members of the female sex to enjoy the blessings it provides. These poor creatures seemed neither wealthy nor happy. Some of them, doubtless the wealthiest, wore black silk jackets open at the waist, beneath a hood or a very simple shawl. The others were dressed only in cotton prints. As a confirmed bachelor, Passepartout was unable to look upon these Mormon women, whose task it was to combine together to make just one Mormon man happy, without feeling a sort of panic. With his commonsense way of looking at things it was the husband he felt especially sorry for. He thought it a terrible thing to have to lead so many women at the same time through the vicissitudes of life, to steer them altogether towards the Mormon paradise, with the prospect of being reunited with them there for eternity in the company of the illustrious Smith, who must certainly grace this heavenly abode with his presence. Most definitely he felt no attraction for this sort of life, and he thought – perhaps mistakenly – that the female inhabitants of Salt Lake City were looking at him in a rather disturbing way. Very fortunately his stay in the City of Saints was almost at an end. At a few minutes before four o’clock the travellers met up at the station and took their seats again in their carriages. There was a blast on the whistle, but just as the traction wheels of the locomotive were spinning around on the rails and the train was beginning to gather speed, shouts rang out: ‘Stop! Stop!’ You cannot stop a moving train. The person doing the shouting was obviously a Mormon who had arrived late. He was out of breath from running. Luckily for him there were no gates or barriers at the station, and so he ran along the track, jumped on to the footboard of the last carriage and collapsed breathless on to one of the seats. Passepartout, who had been watching this acrobatic performance with considerable excitement, went up to have a look at this latecomer and became particularly interested in him when he learnt that this citizen of Utah had only taken flight in this way because of a domestic argument. When the Mormon had got his breath back, Passepartout made so bold as to ask him politely how many wives he had all to himself, and judging from the way the man had scarpered he assumed the answer was at least twenty. ‘One, sir,’ replied the Mormon, raising his hands to the heavens. ‘One, and that was enough!’ 28 In which Passepartout is unable to talk sense into anybody After it left the Great Salt Lake and Ogden station, the train headed north for an hour as far as the River Weber, having covered about 900 miles since San Francisco. From there it turned east again through the mountainous terrain of the Wasatch Range. It is in this part of the territory, situated between these mountains and the Rocky Mountains proper, that the American engineers were confronted with their greatest challenge. Over this portion of the route the subsidy from the federal government therefore went up to $48,000 per mile instead of $16,000 in the plain. However, as has been seen, the engineers did not go against nature but cleverly got around it, avoiding the difficulties, so that to reach the main drainage basin only one tunnel, 14,000 feet long,1 was dug over the whole length of the railroad. It was at the Great Salt Lake itself that the route reached its highest point so far. From there on it descended very gently towards Bitter Creek Valley before going up again as far as the watershed between the Atlantic and the Pacific. There were numerous rivers in this mountainous area. The Muddy, the Green and other rivers had to be crossed by means of culverts. Passepartout became more and more impatient as he got closer to his destination. But Fix, too, would have liked to see the back of this difficult terrain. He was afraid of holdups, fearful of accidents, and in even more of a hurry to set foot on British soil than Phileas Fogg himself. At ten o’clock in the evening the train stopped at the station in Fort Bridger only to set off again almost immediately, and twenty miles further on it entered the state of Wyoming – formerly part of Dakota – by going right along the Bitter Creek Valley, which forms part of the water system of the Colorado. The following day, 7 December, there was a fifteen-minute stop at the station in Green River. There had been quite a heavy fall of snow during the night, but it had turned to sleet and so could not affect the train’s progress. However, this bad weather was a constant source of concern for Passepartout because a build-up of snow, if it clogged up the wheels of the carriages, would certainly have affected the journey. ‘What a really strange idea of my master’s,’ he said to himself, ‘to travel in the winter! Couldn’t he have waited for the warm weather in order to improve his chances?’ But at that very moment when the dear fellow was concerned only about the state of the sky and the drop in temperature, Mrs Aouda had something far more serious to worry about. What had happened was that several travellers had got out of their carriage and walked along the station platform at Green River, before the train set off again. Just then, as she looked out of the window, Mrs Aouda recognized one of them as Colonel Stamp W. Proctor, the American who had been so rude to Phileas Fogg during the political rally in San Francisco. As she did not wish to be seen, Mrs Aouda quickly pulled back from the window. This incident had a considerable effect on the young woman. She had become attached to the man who, for all his coldness, gave her every day ample evidence of his complete devotion. No doubt she was unaware of the depth of the feeling that her saviour aroused in her and gratitude was still the only name she gave it, but without her knowing there was more to it than that. She therefore became very tense when she recognized the vulgar character whom, sooner or later, Mr Fogg would want to call to account for his behaviour. It was obviously a sheer coincidence that Colonel Proctor had got on this train, but that was the fact of the matter and Phileas Fogg had to be prevented at all costs from catching sight of his opponent. When the train set off again Mrs Aouda took advantage of a moment when Mr Fogg was dozing to explain the situation to Fix and Passepartout. ‘That fellow Proctor is on the train!’ exclaimed Fix. ‘Well, madam, don’t worry. Before having to deal with that man … I mean Mr … Fogg, he’ll have to deal with me. In this whole business I think I’m the one who was insulted the most.’ ‘What’s more,’ Passepartout added, ‘I’ll sort him out, even if he is a colonel.’ ‘Mr Fix,’ continued Mrs Aouda, ‘Mr Fogg won’t let anyone take revenge on his behalf. As he said himself, he’s the sort of man who will come back to America to seek out the offender. So if he catches sight of Colonel Proctor, we won’t be able to prevent an encounter between them, which could have disastrous consequences. We must make sure he doesn’t see him.’ ‘You’re right, madam,’ replied Fix. ‘An encounter between them could ruin everything. Whether he won or lost Mr Fogg would be delayed and that –’ ‘And that,’ added Passepartout, ‘would play into the hands of those gentlemen from the Reform Club. In four days we’ll be in New York. Well, if for those four days my master doesn’t put a foot outside his carriage, we can hope that he won’t meet up by accident with this wretched American, curse him. However, there certainly is a way for us to prevent him –’ The conversation was broken off. Mr Fogg had woken up and was looking out at the countryside through the snow-flecked window. But later, and without being overheard by his master or Mrs Aouda, Passepartout said to the police inspector, ‘Are you really prepared to come to blows for him?’ ‘I’ll do anything to bring him back to Europe alive!’ was all Fix replied, in a tone of voice that indicated his total determination. Passepartout felt a shudder go down his spine, but his belief in his master did not waver at all. So was there any way of keeping Mr Fogg in his compartment to avoid an encounter between the colonel and him? That shouldn’t prove too difficult as the gentleman was by nature not very active or very interested in his surroundings. In any case, the police inspector thought he had found the solution because a few moments later he said to Phileas Fogg, ‘Time passes very slowly on these long train journeys, sir.’ ‘Yes indeed,’ replied the gentleman, ‘but pass it does.’ ‘When you were on board the steamers, I believe you used to play whist?’ ‘Yes, but here it would be difficult. I don’t have any cards or partners.’ ‘Oh, we can soon buy cards. They sell everything on American trains. As for partners, if by any chance madam …’ ‘But of course, sir,’ the young woman was quick to answer, ‘I can play whist. It is part and parcel of an English education.’ ‘And I,’ went on Fix, ‘can claim to be quite a reasonable player. So between the three of us and a dummy hand …’ ‘As you wish, sir,’ replied Phileas Fogg, delighted to be able to play his favourite game once more, even if it was on board a train. Passepartout was immediately sent off in search of a steward and he soon came back with two complete packs of playing cards, score cards, counters and a baize-topped folding table. They had everything required. The game started. Mrs Aouda was quite a competent player and she even received the occasional compliment from the stern Phileas Fogg. As for the inspector, he was quite simply first class and a worthy opponent for the gentleman. ‘Now,’ Passepartout said to himself, ‘we’ve got him settled. He won’t move from here.’ By eleven o’clock in the morning the train had reached the watershed between the two oceans. It was at Bridger Pass, 7,524 feet above sea level, one of the highest points on the route as it passed through the Rocky Mountains. After about 200 miles the travellers were at last on those vast plains that stretch all the way to the Atlantic and that nature might have intended for the building of a railway line. The first streams of the Atlantic watershed were already beginning to flow down, all of them tributaries and sub-tributaries of the North Platte River. The whole horizon to the north and east was blocked off by the huge semi-circular wall formed by the northern portion of the Rocky Mountains, dominated by Laramie Peak. Between this curve and the railway stretched vast, well-watered plains. To the right of the railroad rose, one behind another, the foothills of the mountain chain that curves around to the south as far as the sources of the River Arkansas, one of the main tributaries of the Missouri. At half past midday the travellers briefly caught sight of Fort Halleck, which commands the surrounding area. In a few more hours they would have completed the crossing of the Rocky Mountains. It was reasonable therefore to hope that the train could get through this difficult terrain without incident. The snow had stopped falling. The weather had turned cold but dry. Large birds, alarmed by the locomotive, flew off into the distance. There were no wild animals, wolves or bears, to be seen on the plain. It was an immense, empty wilderness. After quite a pleasant lunch served to them in their carriage, Mr Fogg and his partners had just resumed their interminable game of whist when loud blasts on the whistle rang out. The train stopped. Passepartout stuck his head out of the window, but could see nothing to explain why they had come to a halt. There was no station in sight. For a moment Mrs Aouda and Fix were afraid that Mr Fogg might think of going out on to the line. But instead the gentleman simply said to his servant, ‘Go and see what it is.’ Passepartout rushed out of the carriage. About forty travellers had already left their seats, including Colonel Stamp W. Proctor. The train had stopped at a red signal that closed the track. The driver and the conductor had got out and were having quite a heated discussion with the track guard, who had been sent to meet the train by the station master at Medicine Bow, the next station along the line. Some passengers had gone up to them and were taking part in the discussion, one of them being the said Colonel Proctor, with his bluster and his domineering manner. Passepartout, who had caught up with the group, heard the track guard saying: ‘No. There’s no way you can get through. The bridge at Medicine Bow is shaky and it won’t stand the weight of the train.’ The bridge in question was a suspension bridge built across rapids, about a mile from where the train had stopped. From what the track guard was saying, it was threatening to collapse. Several cables had given way and it was impossible to risk going across it. So the track guard wasn’t exaggerating in the least when he said they couldn’t get across. Besides, given the generally carefree attitude of the Americans, you can be sure that when they start getting cautious, then there really is cause for concern. Passepartout didn’t dare go to inform his master but listened, gritting his teeth and staying as motionless as a statue. ‘Come on!’ exclaimed Colonel Proctor, ‘I assume we’re not going just to stand around here until we take root in the snow.’ ‘Colonel,’ replied the conductor,2 ‘we’ve telegraphed through to the station at Omaha to ask for a train but it probably won’t arrive in Medicine Bow until six o’clock.’ ‘Six o’clock!’ exclaimed Passepartout. ‘Sure,’ replied the conductor. ‘Anyway, it’ll take us until then to get to the station on foot.’ ‘On foot!’ exclaimed all the travellers. ‘But how far away is this station, then?’ one of them asked the conductor. ‘Twelve miles, on the other side of the river.’ ‘Twelve miles in the snow!’ exclaimed Stamp W. Proctor. The colonel let out a stream of expletives, venting his anger on the railroad company and on the conductor. Passepartout was furious, too, and was about to join in with him. Here was a physical obstacle that all his master’s banknotes would be unable to surmount. What was more, there was a general sense of annoyance among the passengers at the idea of having, in addition to the delay, to walk fifteen or so miles across a snow-covered plain. The result was a commotion with lots of shouting and protesting that would certainly have attracted Phileas Fogg’s attention, had the gentleman not been so absorbed in his game of cards. However, Passepartout felt he had no choice but to inform him, and so he was walking head down towards the carriage when the driver, a real Yankee named Forster, shouted out: ‘There may be a way of getting across.’ ‘Over the bridge?’ replied a passenger. ‘Over the bridge.’ ‘With our train?’ asked the colonel. ‘With our train.’ Passepartout had stopped and was lapping up what the driver had to say. ‘But the bridge is threatening to collapse,’ continued the conductor. ‘Never mind,’ replied Forster. ‘I think that if we get the train to hurtle along at full speed we have a good chance of getting across.’ ‘Hell!’ said Passepartout. But some of the travellers immediately fell for this suggestion. Colonel Proctor was particularly in favour. This hothead thought that it was perfectly feasible. He even reminded people that some engineers had had the idea of crossing rivers without building bridges, with rigid trains hurtling along at full speed, etc. And in the end all those concerned fell in with the driver’s idea. ‘We have a fifty per cent chance of getting across,’ said one of them. ‘Sixty,’ said another. ‘Eighty per cent … Ninety per cent.’ Passepartout was flabbergasted. He was prepared to try anything to get across Medicine Creek, but he thought this attempt was just a bit too ‘American’. ‘In any case,’ he said to himself, ‘there’s a much simpler solution, which these people haven’t even thought of.’ ‘Sir,’ he said to one of the passengers, ‘the driver’s suggestion seems to me a bit risky, but –’ ‘An eighty per cent chance,’ replied the passenger, turning his back on him. ‘I quite understand,’ went on Passepartout to another gentleman, ‘but a moment’s thought –’ ‘This is no time for thinking. No need!’ the American answered with a shrug of the shoulders. ‘If the driver says so, then we can get across.’ ‘Sure,’ continued Passepartout, ‘we’ll get across, but it might be more sensible –’ ‘What! Sensible!’ exclaimed Colonel Proctor, who jumped at the mention of this word, which he’d accidentally overheard. ‘Do you understand? At full speed!’ ‘I know … I understand,’ repeated Passepartout, unable to finish his sentence, ‘but it might be, if not more sensible, since you find the word offensive, then let’s just say more natural –’ ‘Who? What? What’s he on about with his “natural”,’ people shouted from all quarters. The poor fellow didn’t know what to do to make people listen to him. ‘Are you afraid?’ Colonel Proctor asked him. ‘Me, afraid?’ exclaimed Passepartout. ‘Well, that’s it. I’ll show this lot that a Frenchman can be just as American as they are!’ ‘Back into the carriages. Back into the carriages,’ shouted the conductor. ‘Yes! Back into the carriages,’ repeated Passepartout, ‘back into the carriages and quick about it! But I still can’t help thinking that it would have been more natural to make us passengers go across the bridge first on foot and get the train across afterwards!’ But no one heard these sensible words and no one would have wanted to admit how right Passepartout was. The passengers were back in their carriages. Passepartout sat down in his seat again, without saying a word about what had gone on. The card players were completely absorbed in their game of whist. The locomotive gave a vigorous blast on its whistle. The driver reversed the engine and took the train back about a mile, like a jumper stepping backward in order to have a better run. Then there was a second blast on the whistle and the train began to move forward again. It accelerated and soon the speed was terrifying. All that could be heard was the roaring of the locomotive. The pistons were pumping away twenty times a second, the wheel axles were giving off smoke from their grease boxes. It seemed as if the whole train, which was travelling at a hundred miles an hour, was no longer touching the rails. Its speed defied gravity. And they got across! It was like a flash of lightning. They saw nothing of the bridge. The train leapt, so to speak, from one bank to the other and the driver managed to bring the runaway machine to a halt five miles past the station. But the train had barely crossed the river when the bridge, now damaged beyond repair, collapsed with an enormous crash into the rapids of Medicine Bow. 29 In which various incidents will be recounted that could only have occurred on a railroad in America That same evening the train continued its journey unhindered, got beyond Fort Saunders, crossed the Cheyenne Pass and reached Evans Pass. It was here that the railroad reached its highest point, 8,091 feet above sea level. All that remained was for the travellers to go on down to the Atlantic over those endless plains that nature has levelled flat. This was also where the great trunk line branched off to Denver City, the largest town in Colorado. This territory is rich in gold and silver mines, and more than 50,000 people have already settled there. By then they had covered 1,382 miles since San Francisco and it had taken them three days and three nights. Four days and four nights should be enough, according to the best estimates, to reach New York. Phileas Fogg was therefore still within his deadline. During the night the train went past Camp Walbach to its left. Lodge Pole Creek ran parallel to the railway line, along the border that runs in a straight line between the states of Wyoming and Colorado. At eleven o’clock it entered Nebraska, passed close to Sedgwick and reached Julesberg, which is situated on the South Platte River. It is here that the Union Pacific Railroad, whose chief engineer was General G. M. Dodge,1 was inaugurated on 23 October 1867. This was where the two powerful locomotives stopped on that day, pulling their nine carriages of distinguished guests, including the vicepresident of the railroad, Mr Thomas C. Durant.2 This was where the crowd gathered and cheered and where the Sioux and Pawnees gave a demonstration of their fighting skills. This was where they held a firework display and, lastly, where they published the first issue of the Railway Pioneer magazine by means of a portable printing press. This was how they celebrated the inauguration of this great railway, an instrument of progress and civilization, which conquered the wilderness and was destined to link up towns and cities that hadn’t yet been built. The locomotive’s whistle, more powerful than Amphion’s lyre,3 would soon make them spring up on American soil. At eight o’clock in the morning the train left behind Fort McPherson. Omaha was 357 miles away. The railway line followed the left bank of the South Platte River, with all its unpredictable twists and turns. At nine o’clock the train reached the important town of North Platte, built between the two branches of this great river, which then join up around the town to form a single waterway, an important tributary whose waters flow into the Missouri a short distance above Omaha. They had crossed the hundred and first meridian. Mr Fogg and his partners had started playing cards again. None of them complained about the length of the journey, not even the dummy. At the beginning Fix won a few guineas, which he was in the process of losing again, but he was just as keen on the game as Mr Fogg. During the morning the gentleman had been unusually lucky. He kept receiving trumps and honours in his hands. At one point, after thinking up a daring move, he was preparing to play spades when from behind where he was sitting he heard a voice say: ‘If it was me I’d play diamonds.’ Mr Fogg, Mrs Aouda and Fix looked up. Colonel Proctor was standing next to them. Stamp W. Proctor and Phileas Fogg recognized each other immediately. ‘Oh. It’s you, the Englishman!’ exclaimed the colonel. ‘You’re the one who wants to play spades!’ ‘And that’s exactly what I’m about to do,’ Phileas Fogg replied coldly, putting down a ten of that suit. ‘Well, I think it should be a diamond,’ retorted the colonel in an annoyed tone of voice. And for a moment it looked as if he was going to grab the card that had been played, adding, ‘You haven’t a clue about this game.’ ‘Perhaps I’ll be better at another sort of game,’ said Phileas Fogg, getting to his feet. ‘It’s just up to you if you want to try, you bloody Englishman,’ the vulgar character replied. Mrs Aouda had become very pale. She looked as if she was going to faint. She had grabbed Mr Fogg by the arm, but he gently pushed her back. Passepartout was ready to throw himself at the American, who was giving his opponent a very dirty look. But Fix had got to his feet, went over to Colonel Proctor, saying, ‘You’re forgetting that I’m the one you have to deal with, my dear sir. I’m the one you not only insulted but hit!’ ‘Mr Fix,’ said Mr Fogg, ‘I beg your pardon, but this matter concerns only me. By claiming that I was wrong to play spades the colonel has insulted me a second time, and he will have to answer for it.’ ‘Whenever you like and wherever you like,’ replied the American, ‘and you can choose the weapon.’ Mrs Aouda attempted in vain to restrain Mr Fogg. The inspector tried unsuccessfully to bring the argument back to himself. Passepartout wanted to throw the colonel out through the door, but a sign from his master stopped him. Phileas Fogg went out of the carriage and the American followed him on to the platform. ‘Sir,’ Mr Fogg said to his opponent, ‘I am in a great hurry to return to Europe and any delay would have serious consequences for me.’ ‘So, what’s that got to do with me?’ retorted Colonel Proctor. ‘Sir,’ Mr Fogg replied very politely, ‘after our encounter in San Francisco I had planned to return to America to meet up with you again as soon as I’d sorted out the matters that require my attention back in the Old World.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Will you agree to meet me in six months’ time?’ ‘Why not in that case six years?’ ‘I said six months,’ answered Mr Fogg, ‘and I shall be there exactly on time.’ ‘You’re just looking for excuses,’ exclaimed Stamp W. Proctor. ‘It’s now or never.’ ‘Very well,’ replied Mr Fogg. ‘Are you going to New York?’ ‘No.’ ‘To Chicago?’ ‘No.’ ‘To Omaha?’ ‘That’s nothing to do with you. Do you know Plum Creek?’ ‘No,’ answered Mr Fogg. ‘It’s the next station. The train will be there in an hour’s time. It stops for ten minutes. Ten minutes is enough time to exchange a few shots with a revolver.’ ‘Fine,’ replied Mr Fogg. ‘I’ll get off at Plum Creek.’ ‘And I reckon you won’t be getting back on again!’ added the American, with breath-taking insolence. ‘Who knows, my dear sir,’ answered Mr Fogg, and he went back into the carriage, looking as unemotional as usual. Once he was inside, the first thing he did was to reassure Mrs Aouda by saying that loudmouths were never people to be afraid of. Then he asked Fix to act as his second in the encounter that was to take place. Fix couldn’t say no, and Phileas Fogg then calmly went back to the unfinished game of cards and quite nonchalantly played spades. At eleven o’clock, the locomotive blew its whistle to announce that they were about to arrive in Plum Creek. Mr Fogg got up and, with Fix following him, went on to the platform. Passepartout accompanied him, carrying a pair of revolvers. Mrs Aouda remained inside the carriage, looking as pale as death. At that moment the door of the other carriage opened and Colonel Proctor also appeared on the platform, followed by his second, a Yankee in the same mould, but just as the two protagonists were about to go down on to the track, the conductor rushed up to them, shouting, ‘You mustn’t get out, gentlemen.’ ‘And why not?’ asked the colonel. ‘We’re twenty minutes late; so the train isn’t stopping.’ ‘But I need to fight this gentleman.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ said the official, ‘but we are leaving again immediately. You can hear the bell ringing now.’ The bell was indeed ringing and the train set off again. ‘I really am very sorry, gentlemen,’ the conductor then said. ‘In any other circumstances I could have obliged. But, after all, since you haven’t had time to fight it out here, what’s to stop you from doing so when the train’s on the move?’ ‘Perhaps that wouldn’t suit sir!’ Colonel Proctor said with a sneer. ‘That suits me perfectly,’ replied Fogg. ‘Well, this really is America for you,’ thought Passepartout, ‘and this train conductor is a real gentleman!’ With this he followed his master. The two protagonists and their seconds, preceded by the conductor, walked through the carriages until they reached the back of the train. There were only about a dozen passengers in the last carriage. The conductor asked them if they would be so kind as to vacate the area for a few moments to enable two gentlemen to settle a matter of honour. Why, of course! The passengers were only too happy to oblige the two gentlemen and so they withdrew on to the platforms. The carriage, which was about fifty feet long, was ideal for the purpose. The two protagonists could advance upon each other between the seats and could blunderbuss each other at leisure. There had never been an easier duel to arrange. Mr Fogg and Colonel Proctor, each equipped with two six-chamber revolvers, entered the carriage. Their seconds, who remained outside, locked them in. At the first blast on the whistle they were to begin firing. Then after a period of two minutes what remained of the two gentlemen would be removed from the carriage. There really could be nothing simpler. It was even so simple that Fix and Passepartout felt their hearts beating as if they were going to burst. So they were waiting for the agreed signal on the whistle when suddenly wild shouts rang out, accompanied by the sound of firing, but it was not coming from the carriage reserved for the duellists. The firing ran instead along the whole length of the train down to the front. Screams of terror could be heard coming from inside the train. Colonel Proctor and Mr Fogg, with revolvers at the ready, immediately left the carriage and rushed towards the front of the train, where the loudest noises of firing and shouting were coming from. They had realized that the train was being attacked by a band of Sioux warriors. This was certainly not the first time members of this daring tribe had attempted to attack, and already, on more than one occasion they had held up trains. Following their usual plan and without waiting for the train to come to a standstill, about a hundred of them had leapt on to the footboards and clambered on to the carriages like circus clowns jumping on to galloping horses. The Sioux were equipped with rifles. Hence the noise of firing to which the passengers, almost all of whom were armed, replied by using their revolvers. At first the warriors had stormed the engine. The driver and the fireman had been hit with clubs and were only semi-conscious. A Sioux chief attempted to stop the train, but because he didn’t know how to operate the throttle control he had opened up the steam instead of closing it and the runaway train was rushing ahead at a terrifying speed. At the same time the Sioux had swarmed on to the carriages and were running along the roofs like enraged monkeys, knocking down the doors and engaging in hand-to-hand combat with the passengers. The luggage van had been broken into and ransacked, and the contents strewn along the track. The shouting and firing kept on and on. However, the passengers defended themselves with great courage. Somecarriages, with their passengers barricaded inside, withstood the siege like mobile forts that were being carried along at a speed of a hundred miles per hour. From the moment the attack had begun Mrs Aouda had behaved courageously. With a revolver in her hand she defended herself heroically, firing through the broken window, whenever a savage appeared in front of her. About twenty fatally wounded Sioux had fallen on to the line and the wheels of the carriages squashed like worms those who slid from the platforms on to the rails. Several passengers, who had been seriously injured by the bullets or the clubs, were lying on the seats. However, things couldn’t go on like this. The fighting had already raged for ten minutes and the Sioux would inevitably be the victors if the train didn’t come to a stop. The station at Fort Kearney was less than two miles away and contained an American garrison, but after that the Sioux would be in complete control of the train until the next station along the line. The conductor was fighting next to Mr Fogg when he was struck by a bullet. As he fell down he cried out, ‘We’ve had it if the train doesn’t stop within the next five minutes.’ ‘It will stop!’ said Phileas Fogg, eager to rush out of the carriage. ‘Stay here, sir,’ Passepartout shouted to him. ‘I’m the one for this!’ Phileas Fogg had no time to stop the brave fellow, who opened the door without being seen by the Sioux and managed to slide below the carriage. And then, while the fighting continued and the bullets flew in all directions above his head, with all the old agility and nimbleness of his time in the circus, he slithered along under the carriages. Holding on to the chains, using to support himself the brake levers and the underframes of the carriages, crawling with great skill from one carriage to the next, he succeeded in reaching the front of the train. He hadn’t been seen. He couldn’t have been. Hanging by one hand between the luggage van and the tender, he used his other hand to unhook the safety chains, but because of the force of traction he would never have managed to undo the couplingpin if a sudden jolt of the engine hadn’t released it, so that the carriages, detached from the engine, were gradually left behind, while the locomotive sped ahead even faster. Carried along by its own momentum, the train continued to advance for a few more minutes, but the brakes were applied from inside the carriages and the train at last came to a standstill, less than a hundred yards from the station in Kearney. There the noise of the firing had alerted the soldiers, who came running towards the train. The Sioux hadn’t waited for them and, before the train had come to a complete halt, the whole band had cleared off. But when the passengers checked if they were all there, as they stood on the station platform, they realized that several of their number were missing, and one of those was the brave Frenchman to whose selflessness they owed their lives.