by Jules Verne
“The man who organized this whole absurd, impossible project!”
This was a direct attack. Ever since the stranger’s intervention, Barbicane had been making violent efforts to control himself and “burn his smoke,” as certain boiler furnaces do, but when he heard himself referred to so outrageously he leapt to his feet. He was about to walk over to the adversary who was staring defiantly at him when he was suddenly separated from him.
The platform was abruptly picked up by a hundred vigorous arms and Barbicane had to share the honors of triumph with Michel Ardan. The platform was heavy, but the bearers were constantly relieved because each man was arguing, struggling, and fighting for the privilege of giving the demonstration the support of his shoulders.
Meanwhile the stranger had not taken advantage of the tumult to leave. Would he have been able to make his way through that dense crowd? Probably not. In any case, he stood in the front row, with his arms crossed, looking intently at Barbicane.
Barbicane never lost sight of him. The two men’s gazes remained engaged like two quivering swords.
The shouting of the immense crowd continued unabated all through that triumphal march. Michel Ardan was obviously enjoying it. His face was radiant. Now and then the platform seemed to pitch and roll like a ship in a storm, but the two heroes of the meeting had their sea legs; they never faltered, and their ship safely reached port in Tampa. Michel Ardan fortunately succeeded in escaping the last embraces of his robust admirers. He fled to the Hotel Franklin, hurried up to his room, and quickly slipped into bed while an army of a hundred thousand men kept watch under his windows.
During this time a short, grave, and decisive scene took place between the mysterious stranger and Barbicane.
Free at last, Barbicane went straight up to his adversary.
“Come,” he said curtly.
The stranger followed him to the waterfront and they were soon alone at the entrance to a wharf. There the two enemies looked at each other.
“Who are you?” asked Barbicane.
“Captain Nicholl.”
“I thought so. Till now our paths hadn’t crossed …”
“I’ve deliberately crossed yours!”
“You’ve insulted me!”
“Yes, publicly.”
“And you’re going to give me satisfaction for that insult.”
“Immediately.”
“No. I want everything to take place secretly between us. There’s a forest known as the Skersnaw Woods, three miles outside of Tampa. Do you know where it is?”
“Yes.”
“Are you willing to walk into one side of it tomorrow morning at five o’clock?”
“Yes, if you’ll walk into the other side of it at the same time.”
“And you won’t forget your rifle, will you?” asked Barbicane.
“No, and I’m sure you won’t forget yours,” replied Nicholl.
With these coldly spoken words, the two men parted. Barbicane went home, but instead of getting a few hours’ sleep he spent the night trying to think of a way to soften the initial jolt inside the projectile and solve the difficult problem raised by Michel Ardan during the discussion at the meeting.
CHAPTER 21
HOW A FRENCHMAN SETTLES A QUARREL
WHILE THE conditions of this duel—a terrible, savage kind of duel in which each adversary becomes a manhunter—were being discussed by Barbicane and Nicholl, Michel Ardan was resting from the fatigue of his triumph. “Resting” is not a very accurate word, because American beds can rival any marble or granite tabletop for hardness.
Ardan was sleeping rather badly, tossing and turning between the napkins that served as his sheets. He was dreaming of installing a more comfortable bed in his projectile when a violent noise awakened him. His door was being shaken by disorderly blows, apparently struck with some sort of metal instrument. Loud shouting was mingled with this early morning uproar.
“Open your door!” cried a voice. “In the name of heaven, open your door!”
Ardan had no reason to grant such a loudly stated request. However, he got up and opened the door just as it was about to yield to the efforts of his obstinate visitor. J. T. Maston burst into the room. An artillery shell could not have entered with less ceremony.
“Yesterday Barbicane was publicly insulted at the meeting,” he said abruptly. “He challenged his adversary, who’s none other than Captain Nicholl! They’re fighting this morning in the Skersnaw Woods! I learned about it from Barbicane himself. If he’s killed, it will mean the end of our project. The duel mustn’t be fought! There’s only one man with enough influence over Barbicane to make him stop, and that man is Michel Ardan!”
While J. T. Maston was speaking, Ardan, realizing the futility of trying to interrupt him, had quickly pulled on his loose trousers. Less than two minutes later, the two men were hurrying toward the outskirts of Tampa.
On the way J. T. Maston told Ardan the details of the situation. He explained the real causes of the enmity between Barbicane and Nicholl, how it had existed for a long time, and why till now, thanks to mutual friends, the two rivals had never met face to face. He added that it was entirely a matter of rivalry between armor plate and projectiles, and that the scene at the meeting had been only an opportunity to satisfy his rancor which Nicholl had been seeking for a long time.
Nothing could be more terrible than those duels peculiar to America, in which each adversary looks for the other in the woods, lies in wait for him and tries to shoot him down like a wild animal. Each of them must envy the wonderful qualities so natural to the Indians: their quick intelligence, their craftiness, their tracking skill, their ability to sense the presence of an enemy. A mistake, a hesitation, or a misstep can bring death. During these duels the adversaries are often accompanied by their dogs, and, hunters and hunted at the same time, they pursue each other for hours on end.
“What devilish people are you!” Ardan exclaimed when J. T. Maston had given him a description of the whole procedure.
“That’s how we are,” J. T. Maston replied modestly. “But let’s hurry.”
Although he and Ardan ran across rice fields and dewy meadows, forded creeks and took every shortcut they could, they were not able to reach the Skersnaw Woods until half past five. Barbicane was to have entered it half an hour earlier.
They soon saw a backwoodsman chopping firewood. J. T. Maston ran up to him, shouting:
“Have you seen a man with a rifle come into the woods? It’s Barbicane, the president of the Gun Club, my best friend!”
He naively assumed that Barbicane was known to everyone in the world. But the backwoodsman did not seem to understand.
“A hunter,” said Ardan.
“A hunter? Yes, I saw one.”
“How long ago?”
“About an hour.”
“Too late!” cried J. T. Maston.
“And have you heard any shots?” asked Ardan.
“No.”
“Not a single one?”
“Not a single one. Your hunter doesn’t seem to be having good hunting!”
“What shall we do?” asked J. T. Maston.
“Go on into the woods,” replied Ardan, “at the risk of getting a bullet that’s not meant for us.”
“Ah,” cried J. T. Maston in a tone that left no room for doubt, “I’d rather have ten bullets in my head than one in Barbicane’s!”
“Then let’s go!” said Ardan, pressing J. T. Maston’s hand.
A few seconds later the two friends disappeared into the woods. It was a thick forest made of cypresses, sycamores, tulip trees, olive trees, tamarinds, live oaks, and magnolias. The branches of all these trees were mingled in a dense tangle that made it impossible to see very far. Ardan and J. T. Maston walked side by side, passing through vigorous vines, peering into the bushes hidden in the heavy shadows of the foliage, and expecting to hear a rifle shot at every step. They were unable to recognize any of the traces that Barbicane must have left as he passed; t
hey walked blindly along the almost invisible trails, on which an Indian would have been able to follow an adversary step by step.
After an hour of unsuccessful searching, they stopped. Their apprehension redoubled.
“It must be all over,” J. T. Maston said, discouraged. “A man like Barbicane wouldn’t have tried to trap his enemy or use any kind of trickery with him. He’s too straightforward, too brave. He must have gone straight ahead, into the teeth of danger, and he must have gone so far that the man we talked to wasn’t able to hear the shot.”
“Surely we would have heard a shot in all the time we’ve been in the woods!”
“But what if we came too late?” J. T. Maston said in despair.
Ardan could think of no reply. They began walking again. Now and then they loudly called either Barbicane or Nicholl, but neither of them answered. Joyful flocks of birds, roused by the noise, vanished between the branches, and a few frightened deer ran off into the thickets.
They searched for another hour. They had already explored most of the forest. There was no trace of either Barbicane or Nicholl. They were beginning to doubt what the backwoodsman had told them, and Ardan was about to give up the futile search, when J. T. Maston stopped abruptly.
“Sh! I see someone!”
“Someone?”
“Yes, a man. He’s not moving. He’s not holding his rifle. What can he be doing?”
“Do you recognize him?” asked Ardan, whose nearsighted eyes were of little use in such circumstances.
“Yes! He’s turning around!”
“Who is it?”
“It’s Captain Nicholl!”
“Nicholl!” exclaimed Ardan. He felt his heart contract violently. Nicholl was unarmed—it must mean that he had nothing more to fear from his adversary! “Let’s go to him and find out what’s happened.”
But before they had taken fifty steps they stopped to examine the captain more attentively. They had expected to see a bloodthirsty man absorbed in vengeance; they were dumbfounded at what they saw.
A tight net was stretched between two gigantic tulip trees, and in the middle of it was a little bird with its wings entangled, struggling and crying out plaintively. The net had been placed there not by a human being, but by a venomous spider peculiar to the region, with enormous legs and a body the size of a pigeon’s egg. Just as it was about to seize its prey the hideous animal had scurried away and sought refuge in the high branches of a tree, because a formidable enemy had appeared.
Captain Nicholl had laid his rifle on the ground, forgetting the dangers of his situation, and was now trying to free as gently as possible the victim caught in the monstrous spider’s web. When he had finished, he released the little bird. It joyfully fluttered its wings and flew away.
Nicholl was compassionately watching it vanish in the foliage when he heard these words spoken with feeling:
“You’re a brave man! And a kind man!”
He turned around.
“Michel Ardan! What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to shake your hand, Captain Nicholl, and prevent you from either killing Barbicane or being killed by him.”
“Barbicane!” exclaimed the captain. “I’ve been looking for him for two hours and I can’t find him! Where is he hiding?”
“That’s not polite!” said Ardan. “One must always respect one’s adversary. Don’t worry: if Barbicane is alive, we’ll find him, especially since, if he hasn’t stopped to rescue a bird in distress the way you did, he must be looking for you too. But when we do find him, I assure you there won’t be any question of a duel between you.”
“Between Barbicane and me,” Nicholl replied gravely, “there’s a rivalry so great that only the death of one of us …”
“Come, come! Good men like you two may hate each other, but you also respect each other. You won’t fight.”
“I will.”
“No.”
“Captain,” J. T. Maston said with heartfelt emotion, “I’m Barbicane’s closest friend, his alter ego. If you really had to kill someone, shoot me: it will be exactly the same thing.”
“Sir,” said Nicholl, convulsively gripping his rifle, “such jokes …”
“Mr. Maston isn’t joking,” said Ardan, “and I understand his idea of dying for the man he’s devoted to! But you’re not going to shoot anyone, because I have such an attractive proposal to make to you and Barbicane that you’ll both be eager to accept it.”
“What is it?” Nicholl asked with obvious incredulity.
“Be patient. I can’t tell you what it is unless Barbicane is present too.”
“Then let’s find him,” said the captain.
The three men set off at once. After uncocking his rifle, Nicholl rested it on his shoulder and walked along with an abrupt stride, without saying a word.
For another half hour, the search was fruitless. J. T. Maston had an ominous foreboding. He watched Nicholl sternly, wondering whether he might not already have satisfied his vengeance and whether Barbicane might not be lying lifeless in some bloody thicket with a bullet in his heart. Ardan seemed to have the same thought. They were both casting suspicious glances at Nicholl when J. T. Maston suddenly stopped.
Twenty paces away they saw the motionless bust of a man sitting with his back against a gigantic catalpa tree half hidden in the grass.
“There he is!” said J. T. Maston.
Barbicane still did not move. Ardan looked intently into Nicholl’s eyes, but saw no sign of guilt. He stepped forward and shouted:
“Barbicane! Barbicane!”
No answer. Ardan rushed up to his friend, but just as he was about to clasp him in his arms he stopped short and uttered an exclamation of surprise.
Barbicane, pencil in hand, was writing formulas and sketching geometrical figures in a notebook. His uncocked rifle lay on the ground.
Engrossed in his work, he too had forgotten his duel and his vengeance, and he had neither seen nor heard anything.
But when Michel Ardan put his hand on his arm he stood up and stared at him in surprise.
“Ah, it’s you!” he said at length. “I’ve found it, my friend, I’ve found it!”
“You’ve found what?”
“The means!”
“What means?”
“The means of softening the blow inside the projectile when it’s fired!”
“Really?” said Ardan, looking at Nicholl out of the corner of his eye.
“Yes! It’s simply water, water that will act as a spring … Ah, Maston! You too!”
“Yes, it’s Maston,” said Ardan, “and allow me to introduce Captain Nicholl!”
“Nicholl!” cried Barbicane, leaping to his feet. “Excuse me, Captain, I’d forgotten … I’m ready …”
Ardan intervened before the two enemies had time to challenge each other again.
“It’s a good thing the two of you didn’t meet sooner this morning!” he said. “We’d now be mourning for one or both of you. But, thanks to God, who took a hand in the matter, there’s no longer anything to fear. When a man forgets his hatred to plunge into problems of mechanics or rob a spider of his breakfast, it means that his hatred isn’t dangerous for anyone.”
And he told Barbicane how he had come upon Nicholl in the woods.
“And now tell me,” he said in conclusion, “whether you think two fine men like you were made to shoot holes in each other!”
There was something so unexpected in the somewhat ridiculous situation that Barbicane and Nicholl were uncertain as to what attitude they ought to adopt toward each other. Ardan sensed this, and he decided to hasten their reconciliation.
“My good friends,” he said with his best smile, “there’s never been anything between you but a misunderstanding. Nothing more. To prove that it’s all over, and since you’ve already proved that you’re not afraid to risk your lives, accept the proposal I’m about to make to you.”
“Tell us what it is,” said Nicholl.
“Our
friend Barbicane believes his projectile will go straight to the moon.”
“I certainly do,” said Barbicane.
“And our friend Nicholl is convinced that it will fall back to earth.”
“I’m sure of it,” said the captain.
“I don’t claim to be able to make you agree with each other,” said Ardan, “but I will say this to you: Leave inside the projectile with me, and we’ll see whether we reach our destination or not.”
“What!” exclaimed J. T. Maston, stupefied.
On hearing this sudden suggestion, the two rivals observed each other carefully. Barbicane waited for Nicholl’s answer. Nicholl waited for Barbicane to speak.
“Well?” Ardan said in his most charming tone. “Why not, since the problem of the initial jolt has been solved?”
“I’ll do it!” said Barbicane.
But before he had finished saying these words, Nicholl had said them too.
“Hurrah! Bravo! Vivat!” cried Michel Ardan, holding out his hands to the two rivals. “And now that the matter has been settled, my friends, allow me to treat you in the French manner. Let’s go to breakfast.”
CHAPTER 22
A NEW CITIZEN OF THE UNITED STATES
THAT DAY, all America learned of the duel between Nicholl and Barbicane and its singular outcome. The part played in it by the chivalrous Frenchman, his unexpected proposal which resolved the difficulty, the simultaneous acceptance by the two rivals, the way France and America were going to be united in the conquest of the moon—everything combined to make Michel Ardan’s popularity still greater. The frenzied devotion that the Americans can show for an individual is well known. It is easy to imagine the passion stirred up by the daring Frenchman in a country where solemn magistrates harness themselves to a dancer’s carriage and pull it in a triumphal procession. If Ardan’s horses were not unharnessed, it is probably because he had none, but all other demonstrations of enthusiasm were showered on him. There was not one citizen who did not unite with him in heart and mind. E pluribus unum, as the motto of the United States puts it.
From that day on, Michel Ardan never had a moment of rest. He was constantly harassed by delegations from all parts of the country. The hands he shook and the people he smiled at were beyond all counting. He was soon exhausted; his voice, made hoarse by innumerable speeches, escaped from his lips only in unintelligible sounds, and he nearly got gastroenteritis from the toasts he had to drink to every county in the Union. This success would have intoxicated anyone else from the beginning, but Ardan was able to maintain himself in a state of witty and charming semi-inebriation.