Chapter 26

Jules Verne2016年11月03日'Command+D' Bookmark this page

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In which Phileas Fogg and party travel by the Pacific railroad

“From ocean to ocean”–so say the Americans; and these four words
compose the general designation of the “great trunk line”
which crosses the entire width of the United States.
The Pacific Railroad is, however, really divided into two distinct lines:
the Central Pacific, between San Francisco and Ogden, and the Union Pacific,
between Ogden and Omaha. Five main lines connect Omaha with New York.

New York and San Francisco are thus united by an uninterrupted metal ribbon,
which measures no less than three thousand seven hundred and eighty-six miles.
Between Omaha and the Pacific the railway crosses a territory which is still
infested by Indians and wild beasts, and a large tract which the Mormons,
after they were driven from Illinois in 1845, began to colonise.

The journey from New York to San Francisco consumed, formerly,
under the most favourable conditions, at least six months.
It is now accomplished in seven days.

It was in 1862 that, in spite of the Southern Members of Congress,
who wished a more southerly route, it was decided to lay the road
between the forty-first and forty-second parallels. President Lincoln
himself fixed the end of the line at Omaha, in Nebraska. The work was
at once commenced, and pursued with true American energy; nor did the
rapidity with which it went on injuriously affect its good execution.
The road grew, on the prairies, a mile and a half a day. A locomotive,
running on the rails laid down the evening before, brought the rails
to be laid on the morrow, and advanced upon them as fast as they were
put in position.

The Pacific Railroad is joined by several branches in Iowa, Kansas,
Colorado, and Oregon. On leaving Omaha, it passes along the left bank
of the Platte River as far as the junction of its northern branch,
follows its southern branch, crosses the Laramie territory and the
Wahsatch Mountains, turns the Great Salt Lake, and reaches Salt Lake City,
the Mormon capital, plunges into the Tuilla Valley, across the American Desert,
Cedar and Humboldt Mountains, the Sierra Nevada, and descends, via Sacramento,
to the Pacific–its grade, even on the Rocky Mountains, never exceeding
one hundred and twelve feet to the mile.

Such was the road to be traversed in seven days, which would enable
Phileas Fogg–at least, so he hoped–to take the Atlantic steamer
at New York on the 11th for Liverpool.

The car which he occupied was a sort of long omnibus on eight wheels,
and with no compartments in the interior. It was supplied with two rows
of seats, perpendicular to the direction of the train on either side
of an aisle which conducted to the front and rear platforms.
These platforms were found throughout the train, and the passengers
were able to pass from one end of the train to the other.
It was supplied with saloon cars, balcony cars, restaurants,
and smoking-cars; theatre cars alone were wanting, and they will
have these some day.

Book and news dealers, sellers of edibles, drinkables, and cigars,
who seemed to have plenty of customers, were continually circulating
in the aisles.

The train left Oakland station at six o’clock. It was already night,
cold and cheerless, the heavens being overcast with clouds which seemed
to threaten snow. The train did not proceed rapidly; counting the stoppages,
it did not run more than twenty miles an hour, which was a sufficient speed,
however, to enable it to reach Omaha within its designated time.

There was but little conversation in the car, and soon many of the passengers
were overcome with sleep. Passepartout found himself beside the detective;
but he did not talk to him. After recent events, their relations with each
other had grown somewhat cold; there could no longer be mutual sympathy or
intimacy between them. Fix’s manner had not changed; but Passepartout was very
reserved, and ready to strangle his former friend on the slightest provocation.

Snow began to fall an hour after they started, a fine snow, however,
which happily could not obstruct the train; nothing could be seen
from the windows but a vast, white sheet, against which the smoke
of the locomotive had a greyish aspect.

At eight o’clock a steward entered the car and announced that
the time for going to bed had arrived; and in a few minutes
the car was transformed into a dormitory. The backs of the seats
were thrown back, bedsteads carefully packed were rolled out by
an ingenious system, berths were suddenly improvised, and each traveller
had soon at his disposition a comfortable bed, protected from curious eyes
by thick curtains. The sheets were clean and the pillows soft.
It only remained to go to bed and sleep which everybody did–
while the train sped on across the State of California.

The country between San Francisco and Sacramento is not very hilly.
The Central Pacific, taking Sacramento for its starting-point,
extends eastward to meet the road from Omaha. The line from San Francisco
to Sacramento runs in a north-easterly direction, along the American River,
which empties into San Pablo Bay. The one hundred and twenty miles between
these cities were accomplished in six hours, and towards midnight, while
fast asleep, the travellers passed through Sacramento; so that they saw nothing
of that important place, the seat of the State government, with its fine quays,
its broad streets, its noble hotels, squares, and churches.

The train, on leaving Sacramento, and passing the junction, Roclin, Auburn,
and Colfax, entered the range of the Sierra Nevada. ‘Cisco was reached
at seven in the morning; and an hour later the dormitory was transformed
into an ordinary car, and the travellers could observe the picturesque
beauties of the mountain region through which they were steaming.
The railway track wound in and out among the passes, now approaching
the mountain-sides, now suspended over precipices, avoiding abrupt angles
by bold curves, plunging into narrow defiles, which seemed to have
no outlet. The locomotive, its great funnel emitting a weird light,
with its sharp bell, and its cow-catcher extended like a spur,
mingled its shrieks and bellowings with the noise of torrents and cascades,
and twined its smoke among the branches of the gigantic pines.

There were few or no bridges or tunnels on the route. The railway
turned around the sides of the mountains, and did not attempt to violate
nature by taking the shortest cut from one point to another.

The train entered the State of Nevada through the Carson Valley
about nine o’clock, going always northeasterly; and at midday reached Reno,
where there was a delay of twenty minutes for breakfast.

From this point the road, running along Humboldt River,
passed northward for several miles by its banks; then it
turned eastward, and kept by the river until it reached
the Humboldt Range, nearly at the extreme eastern limit of Nevada.

Having breakfasted, Mr. Fogg and his companions resumed their places
in the car, and observed the varied landscape which unfolded itself
as they passed along the vast prairies, the mountains lining the horizon,
and the creeks, with their frothy, foaming streams. Sometimes a great herd
of buffaloes, massing together in the distance, seemed like a moveable dam.
These innumerable multitudes of ruminating beasts often form an
insurmountable obstacle to the passage of the trains; thousands
of them have been seen passing over the track for hours together,
in compact ranks. The locomotive is then forced to stop and wait
till the road is once more clear.

This happened, indeed, to the train in which Mr. Fogg was travelling.
About twelve o’clock a troop of ten or twelve thousand head of buffalo
encumbered the track. The locomotive, slackening its speed, tried to clear
the way with its cow-catcher; but the mass of animals was too great.
The buffaloes marched along with a tranquil gait, uttering now and then
deafening bellowings. There was no use of interrupting them, for,
having taken a particular direction, nothing can moderate and change
their course; it is a torrent of living flesh which no dam could contain.

The travellers gazed on this curious spectacle from the platforms;
but Phileas Fogg, who had the most reason of all to be in a hurry,
remained in his seat, and waited philosophically until it should please
the buffaloes to get out of the way.

Passepartout was furious at the delay they occasioned, and longed
to discharge his arsenal of revolvers upon them.

“What a country!” cried he. “Mere cattle stop the trains, and go by
in a procession, just as if they were not impeding travel! Parbleu!
I should like to know if Mr. Fogg foresaw this mishap in his programme!
And here’s an engineer who doesn’t dare to run the locomotive
into this herd of beasts!”

The engineer did not try to overcome the obstacle, and he was wise.
He would have crushed the first buffaloes, no doubt, with the cow-catcher;
but the locomotive, however powerful, would soon have been checked,
the train would inevitably have been thrown off the track,
and would then have been helpless.

The best course was to wait patiently, and regain the lost time
by greater speed when the obstacle was removed. The procession
of buffaloes lasted three full hours, and it was night before
the track was clear. The last ranks of the herd were now passing over
the rails, while the first had already disappeared below the southern horizon.

It was eight o’clock when the train passed through the defiles
of the Humboldt Range, and half-past nine when it penetrated Utah,
the region of the Great Salt Lake, the singular colony of the Mormons.


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