From the Earth to the Moon Page 11

  “It’s already August 10!” J. T. Maston said one morning. “Less than four months till December! And we still have to take out the core, ream the bore of the cannon, and load it! We won’t be ready! We can’t even go near the cannon! Isn’t it ever going to cool? What a cruel joke it would be if it didn’t cool in time!”

  The impatient secretary’s friends tried to calm him, without success. Barbicane said nothing, but his silence concealed an inner irritation. Being stopped by an obstacle that could be surmounted only by time, a formidable enemy under the circumstances, and being at the mercy of an adversary was hard for a seasoned warrior to endure.

  Daily observations finally revealed a change in the state of the ground. By August 15 the rising vapors had diminished noticeably in intensity and thickness. A few days later, the ground was exhaling only a light mist, the last breath of the monster enclosed in its stone coffin. The tremors of the ground slowly died down and the circle of heat shrank. The more impatient onlookers moved closer. One day they gained ten feet, then twenty feet the next day. On August 22, Barbicane, the other members of the Gun Club, and Murchison were able to stand on the ring of iron at the top of Stone Hill. It was surely a healthy place, for it was impossible to have cold feet there.

  “At last!” Barbicane exclaimed with a great sigh of satisfaction.

  Work was resumed that same day. The first step was to take out the inner mold in order to free the bore of the cannon. Picks, mattocks, and drilling equipment were in motion day and night. The clayey earth and sand had been made extremely hard by the heat, but with the aid of machines, the workers overcame that mixture, which was still hot from contact with the cast-iron walls of the cannon. The matter removed was rapidly taken away in railroad cars. The men worked so hard, Barbicane urged them on so earnestly, and his arguments were presented with such great force, in the form of dollars, that by September 3 all traces of the mold had vanished.

  The reaming operation was immediately begun. The machines were installed without delay, and swiftly moved powerful reamers whose cutting edges hit into the rough surface of the cast iron. A few weeks later the inner surface of the immense tube was perfectly cylindrical and smooth.

  Finally, on September 22, less than a year after Barbicane’s announcement, the enormous cannon’s verticality and inner dimensions were checked by delicate instruments and it was pronounced ready for action. There was nothing to do now but wait for the moon, and everyone was sure it would arrive on time.

  J. T. Maston’s joy was boundless. He nearly had a disastrous fall when he looked down into the nine-hundred-foot tube. If it had not been for Bloomsberry’s right arm, which the worthy colonel had fortunately kept, Maston, like a new Erostratus, would have met death in the depths of the cannon.

  The cannon was finished. There could no longer be any doubt that it would turn out perfectly, so on October 6 Captain Nicholl reluctantly paid his bet and Barbicane entered the sum of two thousand dollars in his books. We may assume that the captain was angry to the point of being ill. However, he still had bets of three, four, and five thousand dollars, and if he could win two of them he would still come out fairly well. But money was not his concern; his rival’s success in casting a cannon that not even fifty-foot armor could have withstood was a terrible blow to him.

  Since September 23 the enclosure at Stone Hill had been open to the public. It is not difficult to imagine the influx of visitors that took place.

  Swarms of people from all over the country converged on Florida. The town of Tampa had grown prodigiously during the year it had devoted entirely to the work of the Gun Club, and it now had a population of 150,000. After having swallowed up Fort Brooke in a maze of streets, it was now stretching out onto the tongue of land that divides the bay into two parts. New neighborhoods, new squares, and a whole forest of houses had sprung up on those formerly deserted shores, in the warmth of the American sun. Companies had been formed for the construction of churches, schools, and private dwellings, and in less than a year the area of the town increased tenfold.

  It is well known that the Yankees are born businessmen. Wherever fate leads them, from the tropics to the far north, their business instinct must find some useful outlet. That is why people who had come to Florida entirely out of curiosity, to watch the operations of the Gun Club, let themselves be drawn into business ventures as soon as they settled down in Tampa. The ships that had been chartered for transporting workers and material had made the port an incredibly busy one. Soon other ships, of all shapes and sizes, laden with food, supplies, and merchandise, were moving across the bay. Shipowners and brokers established large offices in the town, and every day the Shipping Gazette reported new arrivals in the port of Tampa.

  Roads multiplied around the town and, in view of the amazing growth of its population and business, it was finally connected by rail with the southern states of the Union. A railroad joined Mobile and Pensacola, the great southern naval dockyard; then, from this important point, it went on to Tallahassee. There it met a small section of track, twenty-one miles long, by which Tallahassee was connected with Saint Marks, on the coast. This section was extended to Tampa, and on its way it revived and awakened the dead or sleeping parts of central Florida. Thus Tampa, thanks to those wonders of industry which sprang from an idea that had hatched in a man’s brain one day, was rightfully able to take on the airs of a big city. It had been nicknamed “Moon City,” and the capital of Florida went into a total eclipse, visible from all over the world.

  It will now be easy to understand why the rivalry between Texas and Florida was so great, and why the Texans were so irritated when their claims were dismissed by the Gun Club’s choice. In their farsighted wisdom they had realized what a region could gain from Barbicane’s project, and the benefits that would flow from such a mighty cannon shot. Texas had lost a great business center, railroads, and a considerable growth in population. All these advantages had gone to that wretched Florida peninsula, lying like a breakwater between the Atlantic and the Gulf of Mexico. Barbicane was therefore no more popular in Texas than General Santa Anna.

  Meanwhile, despite its commercial and industrial ardor, Tampa was far from forgetting the Gun Club’s fascinating operations. On the contrary, its inhabitants took deep interest in the smallest details of the project and in every stroke of a pick. There was constant travel back and forth between the town and Stone Hill; it was a veritable procession, or, better still, a pilgrimage.

  It could already be foreseen that on the day when the cannon was fired the spectators would number in the millions, for they were already gathering on the narrow peninsula from all over the world. Europe was emigrating to America.

  But it must be said that so far the curiosity of these many newcomers had been poorly satisfied. Many of them had counted on seeing the spectacle of the casting, and had seen only its smoke. It was very little for avid eyes, but Barbicane had refused to let anyone watch that operation. And so there was grumbling, dissatisfaction, and complaining. Barbicane was condemned; he was accused of despotism; his conduct was declared un-American. There was almost a riot around the stockade at Stone Hill. Barbicane, as we have seen, remained unshakable in his decision.

  But when the cannon had been completely finished, the closed-door policy could no longer be maintained. It would have been ungracious, and even rash, to irritate public feeling. So Barbicane opened the enclosure to one and all. Prompted by his practical mind, however, he decided to make the public’s curiosity profitable.

  It was a great experience merely to look at the immense cannon, but to descend into its depths was something that every American regarded as the most sublime happiness to be achieved in this world. There was not one visitor who did not want to have the pleasure of seeing that abyss of metal from the inside. Platforms hanging from a steam winch enabled them to satisfy their curiosity. The idea was wildly successful. Women, children, old people, everyone was determined to plumb the mysterious depths of the colossal cannon. The pr
ice was five dollars per person, which was by no means cheap, and yet during the two months preceding the experiment the rush of visitors enabled the Gun Club to put half a million dollars into its treasury.

  Needless to say, the first men to descend into the cannon were members of the Gun Club, an honor to which the illustrious organization was fully entitled. The solemn ceremony took place on September 25. A cage of honor lowered Barbicane, J. T. Maston, Major Elphiston, General Morgan, Colonel Bloomsberry, Murchison, and other distinguished members of the famous club. There were ten of them in all. It was still quite hot at the bottom of that long metal tube. They all smothered a little. But what joy! What elation! A table set for ten had been placed on the massive stone cube that supported the cannon, whose interior was brightly illuminated by a beam of electric light. Exquisite and numerous dishes, which seemed to descend from the sky, were successively placed on the table, and the finest French wines flowed freely during that magnificent meal served nine hundred feet underground.

  The banquet was animated and even noisy. Toasts were proposed right and left. The men drank to the earth, the moon, the Gun Club, the United States, Phoebe, Diana, Selene, and the “peaceful courier of the firmament.” All those cheers, borne on the sound waves of the immense acoustic tube, reached its upper end like thunder, and the crowd gathered around Stone Hill cheered in reply, joining in spirit the ten men at the bottom of the cannon.

  J. T. Maston was beside himself with joy. It would be difficult to say whether he shouted more than he gesticulated, or whether he drank more than he ate. In any case, he would not have given up his place for an empire—not even, he said, if the cannon were already loaded and primed and about to be fired, sending him into space in little pieces.

  CHAPTER 17

  A CABLEGRAM

  THE GREAT task undertaken by the Gun Club was, practically speaking, finished, and yet two months still had to go by before the day when the projectile would be sent on its way to the moon. Because of the impatience on all sides, those two months were going to seem as long as two years. So far the newspapers had reported every detail of the operation, and their accounts had been eagerly devoured; but it now seemed likely that this “dividend of interest” distributed to the public was going to be seriously diminished, and everyone was afraid of no longer being able to get his daily ration of excitement.

  These fears proved to be groundless. The most unexpected, extraordinary, incredible incident imaginable brought interest to a fever pitch again and threw the whole world into a state of breathless anticipation.

  On September 30, at 3:47 P.M., a message that had been sent by means of the Atlantic cable that runs from Valentía, Ireland, to Newfoundland and the American coast was delivered to Barbicane.

  He opened the envelope and read the message. Despite his great self-control, when he had read those few words his lips turned pale and his eyes became blurred.

  Here is the text of that cablegram, which is now preserved in the archives of the Gun Club:

  Paris, France

  September 30, 4:00 a.m.

  Barbicane

  Tampa, Florida, U.S.A.

  Replace spherical shell with cylindro-conical one. I will go to moon in it. Am coming on steamer Atlanta.

  Michel Ardan

  CHAPTER 18

  THE PASSENGER ON THE ATLANTA

  IF, INSTEAD of flashing along electric wires, this stunning message had arrived by ordinary mail and in a sealed envelope, so that a whole series of French, Irish, Newfoundland, and American employees were not necessarily aware of its contents, Barbicane would not have hesitated for a moment. He would have remained silent out of prudence and in order not to cast discredit on his project. The cablegram was perhaps a hoax, especially since it had come from a Frenchman. What likelihood was there that a man could be rash enough even to consider such a trip? And if such a man existed, was he not a lunatic who ought to be put in a padded cell rather than in a projectile?

  But the cablegram was known, for the transmission services are not very discreet by nature, and the news of Michel Ardan’s proposal was already spreading over the whole country. It would therefore be pointless for Barbicane to remain silent. He called together all his colleagues in Tampa and, without revealing his thoughts or discussing the amount of credence that ought to be given to the cablegram, he calmly read its laconic text.

  “Impossible!”

  “Incredible!”

  “Surely it’s a joke!”

  “He’s only making fun of us!”

  “Ridiculous!”

  “Absurd!”

  For several minutes there were loud expressions of doubt and incredulity, accompanied by the gestures that are customary in such cases. Each man smiled, laughed, or shrugged his shoulders, according to his humor. Only J. T. Maston responded with superb enthusiasm.

  “Now that’s an idea!”

  “Yes,” said Major Elphiston, “but it’s all right to have ideas like that only if you have no intention of carrying them out.”

  “Why shouldn’t it be carried out?” J. T. Maston replied hotly, ready to argue. But none of the others wanted to push him any further.

  Meanwhile the name of Michel Ardan was already being repeated in Tampa. Strangers and natives exchanged looks, questioned one another, and made jokes, not about Ardan, who was only a myth, an illusion, but about J. T. Maston for believing in the existence of that fictitious individual. When Barbicane had proposed sending a projectile to the moon, everyone had considered it a natural and practical undertaking, purely a matter of ballistics. But that a sane man should offer to book passage in the projectile, to attempt that fantastic journey—that was a whimsical idea, a joke, a hoax!

  The mockery went on till evening without stopping. It can be said that the whole United States was seized with a fit of wild laughter, which is unusual in a country where impossible undertakings readily find advocates, supporters, and backers.

  But, like all new ideas, Michel Ardan’s proposal bothered certain minds. It had disturbed the course of accustomed emotions. It was something that had not been thought of before. The incident soon became an obsession because of its very strangeness. People thought about it. How many things have been denied one day, only to become realities the next! Why shouldn’t someone make a trip to the moon some day? But in any case the man who wanted to risk his life that way must be a madman, and since his plan could not be taken seriously, he would have done better to keep quiet, rather than upsetting a whole country with his ridiculous nonsense.

  But first of all, did that man really exist? It was an important question. The name of Michel Ardan was not unknown in America. It belonged to a European who was often cited for his daring feats. And the cablegram sent across the bottom of the Atlantic, the naming of the ship on which the Frenchman had said he was traveling, the date set for its arrival—all these things gave the proposal a certain plausibility. The matter had to be cleared up. Isolated individuals soon formed into groups, the groups were drawn together by curiosity as atoms are drawn together by molecular attraction, and the final result was a compact crowd which moved toward Barbicane’s residence.

  Since the arrival of the telegram, Barbicane had not declared his opinion. He had let J. T. Maston state his views without expressing either approval or disapproval. His intention was to remain silent and wait for events. But he had reckoned without the impatience of the public. There was a look of dissatisfaction on his face when he saw the population of Tampa gathering beneath his windows. Their vociferous clamor soon forced him to appear. He had all the duties and therefore all the annoyances of fame.

  And so he appeared. A hush fell over the crowd, then one citizen spoke up and asked bluntly:

  “Is the man called Michel Ardan in the cablegram on his way to America or not?”

  “Gentlemen,” replied Barbicane, “I don’t know any more about it than you do.”

  “We must find out!” shouted several impatient voices.

  “Time wil
l tell,” Barbicane said calmly.

  “Time has no right to keep a whole country in suspense,” said the spokesman. “Have you changed your plans for the projectile, the way the cablegram says?”

  “Not yet. But you’re right: we must find out. Since the Atlantic cable has caused all this commotion, it’s only fair that it should give us more complete information.”

  “Send a cablegram!” cried the crowd.

  Barbicane went down to the street and walked to the telegraph office, followed by the multitude.

  A few minutes later, a message was on its way to the ship brokers’ central office in Liverpool, asking these questions:

  “Is there a ship named the Atlanta? Did she recently leave Europe? Does she have a passenger named Michel Ardan?”

  Two hours later, Barbicane received an answer whose precision left no room for doubt:

  “The steamer Atlanta, of Liverpool, left port on October 2, bound for Tampa, with a Frenchman on board listed under the name of Michel Ardan.”

  When he had read this confirmation of the first cablegram, Barbicane’s eyes flashed, his fists clenched violently and he was heard to murmur:

  “So it’s true! It’s possible! That Frenchman exists! And in two weeks he’ll be here! But he’s a madman, a senseless lunatic! I’ll never consent …”

  And yet that very evening he wrote to Breadwill Co., asking them to postpone casting the projectile until further notice.

  To describe the emotion that gripped all America, the way in which the effect of Barbicane’s original announcement was surpassed a dozen times, what the American newspapers said, how they accepted the news and trumpeted the arrival of that hero from the Old World, the feverish agitation in which everyone lived, counting the hours, minutes, and seconds; to give even a faint idea of the exhausting obsession of all those minds dominated by a single thought; to show all occupations yielding to one preoccupation, work stopped, business suspended, ships ready to put to sea remaining tied up in port in order not to miss the arrival of the Atlanta, trains arriving full and leaving empty, Tampa Bay constantly being crossed by steamers, packet boats, yachts, and flyboats of all sizes; to enumerate the thousands of people who quadrupled the population of Tampa in two weeks and had to camp in tents like an army in the field—all that would be a task beyond human strength, and could not be undertaken without foolhardiness.