And then the Albatross resumed her original speed, and in half an hour the express was out of sight. About one o’clock there appeared a vast disk, which reflected the solar rays as if it were an immense mirror.
“That ought to be the Mormon capital, Salt Lake City,” said Uncle Prudent. And so it was, and the disk was the roof of the Tabernacle, where ten thousand saints can worship at their ease. This vast dome, like a convex mirror, threw off the rays of the sun in all directions.
There was a great city, at the foot of the Wasatch Mountains, clothed halfway with cedars and pines, on the banks of the River Jordan, through which the Utah waters enter the lake. Beneath the aeronef lay the draught-board in which so many American cities are planned. Around was a well-cultivated country, in which the flocks of sheep were countable in thousands.
But the draught-board vanished like a shadow, and the Albatross sped on her way to the southwest with a speed that was not felt, because it surpassed that of the chasing wind. Soon she was in Nevada over the silver regions, which the Sierra separates from the golden lands of California.
“We shall certainly reach San Francisco before night,” said Phil Evans.
“And then?” asked Uncle Prudent.
It was six o’clock precisely when the Sierra Nevada was crossed by the same pass as that taken by the railway. Only a hundred and eighty miles then separated them from San Francisco, the Californian capital.
At the speed the Albatross was going she would be over the dome by eight o’clock.
At this moment Robur appeared on deck. The colleagues walked up to him.
“Engineer Robur,” said Uncle Prudent, “we are now on the confines of America! We think the time has come for this joke to end.”
“I never joke,” said Robur.
He raised his hand. The Albatross swiftly dropped towards the ground, and at the same time such speed was given her as to drive the prisoners into their cabin. As soon as the door was shut, Uncle Prudent exclaimed, “I could strangle him!”
“We must try to escape!” said Phil Evans.
“Yes; cost what it may!”
A long murmur greeted their ears. It was the beating of the surf on the seashore. It was the Pacific Ocean!
XI
The Wide Pacific
Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans had quite made up their minds to escape. If they had not had to deal with the eight particularly vigorous men who composed the crew of the aeronef they might have tried to succeed by main force. But as they were only two—for Frycollin could only be considered as a quantity of no importance—force was not to be thought of. Hence recourse must be had to strategy as soon as the Albatross again took the ground. Such was what Phil Evans endeavored to impress on his irascible colleague, though he was in constant fear of Prudent aggravating matters by some premature outbreak.
In any case the present was not the time to attempt anything of the sort. The aeronef was sweeping along over the North Pacific. On the following morning, that of June 16th, the coast was out of sight. And as the coast curves off from Vancouver Island up to the Aleutians—belonging to that portion of America ceded by Russia to the United States in 1867—it was highly probable that the Albatross would cross it at the end of the curve, if her course remained unchanged.
How long the night appeared to be to the two friends! How eager they were to get out of their cabins! When they came on deck in the morning the dawn had for some hours been silvering the eastern horizon. They were nearing the June solstice, the longest day of the year in the northern hemisphere, when there is hardly any night along the sixtieth parallel.
Either from custom or intention Robur was in no hurry to leave his deckhouse. When he came out this morning he contented himself with bowing to his two guests as he passed them in the stern of the aeronef.
And now Frycollin ventured out of his cabin. His eyes red with sleeplessness, and dazed in their look, he tottered along, like a man whose foot feels it is not on solid ground. His first glance was at the suspensory screws, which were working with gratifying regularity without any signs of haste. That done, the Negro stumbled along to the rail, and grasped it with both hands, so as to make sure of his balance. Evidently he wished to view the country over which the Albatross was flying at the height of seven hundred feet or more.
At first he kept himself well back behind the rail. Then he shook it to make sure it was firm; then he drew himself up; then he bent forward; then he stretched out his head. It need not be said that while he was executing these different maneuvers he kept his eyes shut. At last he opened them.
What a shout! And how quickly he fled! And how deeply his head sank back into his shoulders! At the bottom of the abyss he had seen the immense ocean. His hair would have risen on end—if it had not been wool.
“The sea! The sea!” he cried. And Frycollin would have fallen on the deck had not the cook opened his arms to receive him.
This cook was a Frenchman, and probably a Gascon, his name being François Tapage. If he was not a Gascon he must in his infancy have inhaled the breezes of the Garonne. How did this François Tapage find himself in the service of the engineer? By what chain of accidents had he become one of the crew of the Albatross? We can hardly say; but in any case he spoke English like a Yankee. “Eh, stand up!” he said, lifting the Negro by a vigorous clutch at the
