In which the master of the “Tankadere” runs
great risk of losing a reward of two hundred pounds

This voyage of eight hundred miles was a perilous venture
on a craft of twenty tons, and at that season of the year.
The Chinese seas are usually boisterous, subject to terrible
gales of wind, and especially during the equinoxes;
and it was now early November.

It would clearly have been to the master’s advantage to carry
his passengers to Yokohama, since he was paid a certain sum per day;
but he would have been rash to attempt such a voyage, and it was imprudent
even to attempt to reach Shanghai. But John Bunsby believed in the Tankadere,
which rode on the waves like a seagull; and perhaps he was not wrong.

Late in the day they passed through the capricious channels of Hong Kong,
and the Tankadere, impelled by favourable winds, conducted herself admirably.

“I do not need, pilot,” said Phileas Fogg, when they got into
the open sea, “to advise you to use all possible speed.”

“Trust me, your honour. We are carrying all the sail the wind will let us.
The poles would add nothing, and are only used when we are going into port.”

“Its your trade, not mine, pilot, and I confide in you.”

Phileas Fogg, with body erect and legs wide apart, standing
like a sailor, gazed without staggering at the swelling waters.
The young woman, who was seated aft, was profoundly affected
as she looked out upon the ocean, darkening now with the twilight,
on which she had ventured in so frail a vessel. Above her head
rustled the white sails, which seemed like great white wings.
The boat, carried forward by the wind, seemed to be flying in the air.

Night came. The moon was entering her first quarter, and her
insufficient light would soon die out in the mist on the horizon.
Clouds were rising from the east, and already overcast a part
of the heavens.

The pilot had hung out his lights, which was very necessary
in these seas crowded with vessels bound landward; for collisions
are not uncommon occurrences, and, at the speed she was going,
the least shock would shatter the gallant little craft.

Fix, seated in the bow, gave himself up to meditation. He kept apart
from his fellow-travellers, knowing Mr. Fogg’s taciturn tastes; besides,
he did not quite like to talk to the man whose favours he had accepted.
He was thinking, too, of the future. It seemed certain that Fogg would not
stop at Yokohama, but would at once take the boat for San Francisco;
and the vast extent of America would ensure him impunity and safety.
Fogg’s plan appeared to him the simplest in the world. Instead of sailing
directly from England to the United States, like a common villain,
he had traversed three quarters of the globe, so as to gain the
American continent more surely; and there, after throwing
the police off his track, he would quietly enjoy himself
with the fortune stolen from the bank. But, once in the United States,
what should he, Fix, do? Should he abandon this man? No, a hundred times no!
Until he had secured his extradition, he would not lose sight of him for an hour.
It was his duty, and he would fulfil it to the end. At all events,
there was one thing to be thankful for; Passepartout was not with his master;
and it was above all important, after the confidences Fix had imparted to him,
that the servant should never have speech with his master.

Phileas Fogg was also thinking of Passepartout, who had so
strangely disappeared. Looking at the matter from every point of view,
it did not seem to him impossible that, by some mistake, the man might
have embarked on the Carnatic at the last moment; and this was also
Aouda’s opinion, who regretted very much the loss of the worthy fellow
to whom she owed so much. They might then find him at Yokohama;
for, if the Carnatic was carrying him thither, it would be easy
to ascertain if he had been on board.

A brisk breeze arose about ten o’clock; but, though it might
have been prudent to take in a reef, the pilot, after carefully
examining the heavens, let the craft remain rigged as before.
The Tankadere bore sail admirably, as she drew a great deal of water,
and everything was prepared for high speed in case of a gale.

Mr. Fogg and Aouda descended into the cabin at midnight,
having been already preceded by Fix, who had lain down on one of the cots.
The pilot and crew remained on deck all night.

At sunrise the next day, which was 8th November, the boat had made
more than one hundred miles. The log indicated a mean speed of between
eight and nine miles. The Tankadere still carried all sail,
and was accomplishing her greatest capacity of speed.
If the wind held as it was, the chances would be in her favour.
During the day she kept along the coast, where the currents were favourable;
the coast, irregular in profile, and visible sometimes across the clearings,
was at most five miles distant. The sea was less boisterous,
since the wind came off land–a fortunate circumstance for the boat,
which would suffer, owing to its small tonnage, by a heavy surge on the sea.

The breeze subsided a little towards noon, and set in from the south-west.
The pilot put up his poles, but took them down again within two hours,
as the wind freshened up anew.

Mr. Fogg and Aouda, happily unaffected by the roughness of the sea,
ate with a good appetite, Fix being invited to share their repast,
which he accepted with secret chagrin. To travel at this man’s
expense and live upon his provisions was not palatable to him.
Still, he was obliged to eat, and so he ate.

When the meal was over, he took Mr. Fogg apart, and said,
“sir”–this “sir” scorched his lips, and he had to control himself
to avoid collaring this “gentleman”–“sir, you have been very kind
to give me a passage on this boat. But, though my means will not admit
of my expending them as freely as you, I must ask to pay my share–”

“Let us not speak of that, sir,” replied Mr. Fogg.

“But, if I insist–”

“No, sir,” repeated Mr. Fogg, in a tone which did not admit of a
reply. “This enters into my general expenses.”

Fix, as he bowed, had a stifled feeling, and, going forward,
where he ensconced himself, did not open his mouth for the rest of the day.

Meanwhile they were progressing famously, and John Bunsby was
in high hope. He several times assured Mr. Fogg that they would
reach Shanghai in time; to which that gentleman responded
that he counted upon it. The crew set to work in good earnest,
inspired by the reward to be gained. There was not a sheet
which was not tightened not a sail which was not vigorously hoisted;
not a lurch could be charged to the man at the helm. They worked
as desperately as if they were contesting in a Royal yacht regatta.

By evening, the log showed that two hundred and twenty miles had been
accomplished from Hong Kong, and Mr. Fogg might hope that he would be able
to reach Yokohama without recording any delay in his journal; in which case,
the many misadventures which had overtaken him since he left London
would not seriously affect his journey.

The Tankadere entered the Straits of Fo-Kien, which separate
the island of Formosa from the Chinese coast, in the small hours
of the night, and crossed the Tropic of Cancer. The sea was very
rough in the straits, full of eddies formed by the counter-currents,
and the chopping waves broke her course, whilst it became very difficult
to stand on deck.

At daybreak the wind began to blow hard again, and the heavens
seemed to predict a gale. The barometer announced a speedy change,
the mercury rising and falling capriciously; the sea also,
in the south-east, raised long surges which indicated a tempest.
The sun had set the evening before in a red mist,
in the midst of the phosphorescent scintillations of the ocean.

John Bunsby long examined the threatening aspect of the heavens,
muttering indistinctly between his teeth. At last he said in a low voice
to Mr. Fogg, “Shall I speak out to your honour?”

“Of course.”

“Well, we are going to have a squall.”

“Is the wind north or south?” asked Mr. Fogg quietly.

“South. Look! a typhoon is coming up.”

“Glad it’s a typhoon from the south, for it will carry us forward.”

“Oh, if you take it that way,” said John Bunsby, “I’ve nothing more to say.”
John Bunsby’s suspicions were confirmed. At a less advanced season of the year
the typhoon, according to a famous meteorologist, would have passed away
like a luminous cascade of electric flame; but in the winter equinox
it was to be feared that it would burst upon them with great violence.

The pilot took his precautions in advance. He reefed all sail,
the pole-masts were dispensed with; all hands went forward to the bows.
A single triangular sail, of strong canvas, was hoisted as a storm-jib,
so as to hold the wind from behind. Then they waited.

John Bunsby had requested his passengers to go below; but this
imprisonment in so narrow a space, with little air, and the boat
bouncing in the gale, was far from pleasant. Neither Mr. Fogg,
Fix, nor Aouda consented to leave the deck.

The storm of rain and wind descended upon them towards eight o’clock.
With but its bit of sail, the Tankadere was lifted like a feather by a wind,
an idea of whose violence can scarcely be given. To compare her speed
to four times that of a locomotive going on full steam would be below
the truth.

The boat scudded thus northward during the whole day, borne on
by monstrous waves, preserving always, fortunately, a speed equal
to theirs. Twenty times she seemed almost to be submerged by
these mountains of water which rose behind her; but the adroit
management of the pilot saved her. The passengers were often
bathed in spray, but they submitted to it philosophically.
Fix cursed it, no doubt; but Aouda, with her eyes fastened upon
her protector, whose coolness amazed her, showed herself worthy
of him, and bravely weathered the storm. As for Phileas Fogg,
it seemed just as if the typhoon were a part of his programme.

Up to this time the Tankadere had always held her course to the north;
but towards evening the wind, veering three quarters, bore down from
the north-west. The boat, now lying in the trough of the waves,
shook and rolled terribly; the sea struck her with fearful violence.
At night the tempest increased in violence. John Bunsby saw the approach
of darkness and the rising of the storm with dark misgivings.
He thought awhile, and then asked his crew if it was not time to slacken speed.
After a consultation he approached Mr. Fogg, and said, “I think, your honour,
that we should do well to make for one of the ports on the coast.”

“I think so too.”

“Ah!” said the pilot. “But which one?”

“I know of but one,” returned Mr. Fogg tranquilly.

“And that is–”

“Shanghai.”

The pilot, at first, did not seem to comprehend; he could
scarcely realise so much determination and tenacity.
Then he cried, “Well–yes! Your honour is right. To Shanghai!”

So the Tankadere kept steadily on her northward track.

The night was really terrible; it would be a miracle if the
craft did not founder. Twice it could have been all over with her
if the crew had not been constantly on the watch. Aouda was exhausted,
but did not utter a complaint. More than once Mr. Fogg rushed
to protect her from the violence of the waves.

Day reappeared. The tempest still raged with undiminished fury;
but the wind now returned to the south-east. It was a favourable change,
and the Tankadere again bounded forward on this mountainous sea,
though the waves crossed each other, and imparted shocks and counter-shocks
which would have crushed a craft less solidly built. From time to time
the coast was visible through the broken mist, but no vessel was in sight.
The Tankadere was alone upon the sea.

There were some signs of a calm at noon, and these became more distinct
as the sun descended toward the horizon. The tempest had been as brief
as terrific. The passengers, thoroughly exhausted, could now eat a little,
and take some repose.

The night was comparatively quiet. Some of the sails were again hoisted,
and the speed of the boat was very good. The next morning at dawn
they espied the coast, and John Bunsby was able to assert that they were
not one hundred miles from Shanghai. A hundred miles, and only one day
to traverse them! That very evening Mr. Fogg was due at Shanghai,
if he did not wish to miss the steamer to Yokohama. Had there been no storm,
during which several hours were lost, they would be at this moment within
thirty miles of their destination.

The wind grew decidedly calmer, and happily the sea fell with it.
All sails were now hoisted, and at noon the Tankadere was within
forty-five miles of Shanghai. There remained yet six hours
in which to accomplish that distance. All on board feared
that it could not be done, and every one–Phileas Fogg, no doubt,
excepted–felt his heart beat with impatience. The boat must keep up
an average of nine miles an hour, and the wind was becoming calmer
every moment! It was a capricious breeze, coming from the coast,
and after it passed the sea became smooth. Still, the Tankadere
was so light, and her fine sails caught the fickle zephyrs so well,
that, with the aid of the currents John Bunsby found himself at six o’clock
not more than ten miles from the mouth of Shanghai River. Shanghai itself
is situated at least twelve miles up the stream. At seven they were still
three miles from Shanghai. The pilot swore an angry oath; the reward of
two hundred pounds was evidently on the point of escaping him. He looked
at Mr. Fogg. Mr. Fogg was perfectly tranquil; and yet his whole fortune
was at this moment at stake.

At this moment, also, a long black funnel, crowned with wreaths of smoke,
appeared on the edge of the waters. It was the American steamer,
leaving for Yokohama at the appointed time.

“Confound her!” cried John Bunsby, pushing back the rudder
with a desperate jerk.

“Signal her!” said Phileas Fogg quietly.

A small brass cannon stood on the forward deck of the Tankadere,
for making signals in the fogs. It was loaded to the muzzle;
but just as the pilot was about to apply a red-hot coal to the touchhole,
Mr. Fogg said, “Hoist your flag!”

The flag was run up at half-mast, and, this being the signal of distress,
it was hoped that the American steamer, perceiving it, would change her
course a little, so as to succour the pilot-boat.

“Fire!” said Mr. Fogg. And the booming of the little cannon
resounded in the air.