Jules Verne (5 page)

But here he was, and his master had become used to his faults. He had
one advantage, and that was a consideration. Although he was a Negro
by birth he did not speak like a Negro, and nothing is so irritating
as that hateful jargon in which all the pronouns are possessive and
all the verbs infinitive. Let it be understood, then, that Frycollin
was a thorough coward.

And now it was midnight, and the pale crescent of the moon began to
sink in the west behind the trees in the park. The rays streaming
fitfully through the branches made the shadows darker than ever.
Frycollin looked around him anxiously. "Brrr!" he said, "There are
those fellows there all the time. Positively they are getting nearer!
Master Uncle!" he shouted.

It was thus he called the president of the Weldon Institute, and thus
did the president desire to be called.

At the moment the dispute of the rivals had reached its maximum, and
as they hurled their epithets at each other they walked faster and
faster, and drew farther and farther away from the Schuyllkill
bridge. They had reached the center of a wide clump of trees, whose
summits were just tipped by the parting rays of the moon. Beyond the
trees was a very large clearing—an oval field, a complete
amphitheater. Not a hillock was there to hinder the gallop of the
horses, not a bush to stop the view of the spectators.

And if Uncle Prudent and Phil Evans had not been so deep in their
dispute, and had used their eyes as they were accustomed to, they
would have found the clearing was not in its usual state. Was it a
flour mill that had anchored on it during the night? It looked like
it, with its wings and sails—motionless and mysterious in the
gathering gloom.

But neither the president nor the secretary of the Weldon Institute
noticed the strange modification in the landscape of Fairmount Park;
and neither did Frycollin. It seemed to him that the thieves were
approaching, and preparing for their attack; and he was seized with
convulsive fear, paralyzed in his limbs, with every hair he could
boast of on the bristle. His terror was extreme. His knees bent under
him, but he had just strength enough to exclaim for the last time,
"Master Uncle! Master Uncle!"

"What is the matter with you?" asked Uncle Prudent.

Perhaps the disputants would not have been sorry to have relieved
their fury at the expense of the unfortunate valet. But they had no
time; and neither even had he time to answer.

A whistle was heard. A flash of electric light shot across the
clearing.

A signal, doubtless? The moment had come for the deed of violence. In
less time that it takes to tell, six men came leaping across from
under the trees, two onto Uncle Prudent, two onto Phil Evans, two
onto Frycollin—there was no need for the last two, for the Negro
was incapable of defending himself. The president and secretary of
the Weldon Institute, although taken by surprise, would have resisted.

They had neither time nor strength to do so. In a second they were
rendered speechless by a gag, blind by a bandage, thrown down,
pinioned and carried bodily off across the clearing. What could they
think except that they had fallen into the hands of people who
intended to rob them? The people did nothing of the sort, however.
They did not even touch Uncle Prudent's pockets, although, according
to his custom, they were full of paper dollars.

Within a minute of the attack, without a word being passed, Uncle
Prudent, Phil Evans, and Frycollin felt themselves laid gently down,
not on the grass, but on a sort of plank that creaked beneath them.
They were laid down side by side.

A door was shut; and the grating of a bolt in a staple told them that
they were prisoners.

Then there came a continuous buzzing, a quivering, a frrrr, with the
rrr unending.

And that was the only sound that broke the quiet of the night.

Great was the excitement next morning in Philadelphia Very early was
it known what had passed at the meeting of the Institute. Everyone
knew of the appearance of the mysterious engineer named Robur—Robur
the Conqueror—and the tumult among the balloonists, and his
inexplicable disappearance. But it was quite another thing when all
the town heard that the president and secretary of the club had also
disappeared during the night.

Long and keen was the search in the city and neighborhood! Useless!
The newspapers of Philadelphia, the newspapers of Pennsylvania, the
newspapers of the United States reported the facts and explained them
in a hundred ways, not one of which was the right one. Heavy rewards
were offered, and placards were pasted up, but all to no purpose. The
earth seemed to have opened and bodily swallowed the president and
secretary of the Weldon Institute.

A bandage over the eyes, a gag in the mouth, a cord round the wrists,
a cord round the ankles, unable to see, to speak, or to move, Uncle
Prudent, Phil Evans, and Frycollin were anything but pleased with
their position. Knowing not who had seized them, nor in what they had
been thrown like parcels in a goods wagon, nor where they were, nor
what was reserved for them—it was enough to exasperate even the
most patient of the ovine race, and we know that the members of the
Weldon Institute were not precisely sheep as far as patience went.
With his violence of character we can easily imagine how Uncle
Prudent felt. One thing was evident, that Phil Evans and he would
find it difficult to attend the club next evening.

As to Frycollin, with his eyes shut and his mouth closed, it was
impossible for him to think of anything. He was more dead than alive.

For an hour the position of the prisoners remained unchanged. No one
came to visit them, or to give them that liberty of movement and
speech of which they lay in such need. They were reduced to stifled
sighs, to grunts emitted over and under their gags, to everything
that betrayed anger kept dumb and fury imprisoned, or rather bound
down. Then after many fruitless efforts they remained for some time
as though lifeless. Then as the sense of sight was denied them they
tried by their sense of hearing to obtain some indication of the
nature of this disquieting state of things. But in vain did they seek
for any other sound than an interminable and inexplicable f-r-r-r
which seemed to envelop them in a quivering atmosphere.

At last something happened. Phil Evans, regaining his coolness,
managed to slacken the cord which bound his wrists. Little by little
the knot slipped, his fingers slipped over each other, and his hands
regained their usual freedom.

A vigorous rubbing restored the circulation. A moment after he had
slipped off the bandage which bound his eyes, taken the gag out of
his mouth, and cut the cords round his ankles with his knife. An
American who has not a bowie-knife in his pocket is no longer an
American.

But if Phil Evans had regained the power of moving and speaking, that
was all. His eyes were useless to him—at present at any rate. The
prison was quite dark, though about six feet above him a feeble gleam
of light came in through a kind of loophole.

As may be imagined, Phil Evans did not hesitate to at once set free
his rival. A few cuts with the bowie settled the knots which bound
him foot and hand.

Immediately Uncle Prudent rose to his knees and snatched away his
bandage and gag.

"Thanks," said he, in stifled voice.

"Phil Evans?"

"Uncle Prudent?"

"Here we are no longer the president and secretary of the Weldon
Institute. We are adversaries no more."

"You are right," answered Evans. "We are now only two men agreed to
avenge ourselves on a third whose attempt deserves severe reprisals.
And this third is—"

"Robur!"

"It is Robur!"

On this point both were absolutely in accord. On this subject there
was no fear of dispute.

"And your servant?" said Phil Evans, pointing to Frycollin, who was
puffing like a grampus. "We must set him free."

"Not yet," said Uncle Prudent. "He would overwhelm us with his
jeremiads, and we have something else to do than abuse each other."

"What is that, Uncle Prudent?"

"To save ourselves if possible."

"You are right, even if it is impossible."

"And even if it is impossible."

There could be no doubt that this kidnapping was due to Robur, for an
ordinary thief would have relieved them of their watches, jewelry,
and purses, and thrown their bodies into the Schuyllkill with a good
gash in their throats instead of throwing them to the bottom of—Of
what? That was a serious question, which would have to be answered
before attempting an escape with any chance of success.

"Phil Evans," began Uncle Prudent, "if, when we came away from our
meeting, instead of indulging in amenities to which we need not
recur, we had kept our eyes more open, this would not have happened.
Had we remained in the streets of Philadelphia there would have been
none of this. Evidently Robur foresaw what would happen at the club,
and had placed some of his bandits on guard at the door. When we left
Walnut Street these fellows must have watched us and followed us, and
when we imprudently ventured into Fairmount Park they went in for
their little game."

"Agreed," said Evans. "We were wrong not to go straight home."

"It is always wrong not to be right," said Prudent.

Here a long-drawn sigh escaped from the darkest corner of the prison.
"What is that?" asked Evans.

"Nothing! Frycollin is dreaming."

"Between the moment we were seized a few steps out into the clearing
and the moment we were thrown in here only two minutes elapsed. It is
thus evident that those people did not take us out of Fairmount Park."

"And if they had done so we should have felt we were being moved."

"Undoubtedly; and consequently we must be in some vehicle, perhaps
some of those long prairie wagons, or some show-caravan—"

"Evidently! For if we were in a boat moored on the Schuyllkill we
should have noticed the movement due to the current—"

"That is so; and as we are still in the clearing, I think that now is
the time to get away, and we can return later to settle with this
Robur—"

"And make him pay for this attempt on the liberty of two citizens of
the United States."

"And he shall pay pretty dearly!"

"But who is this man? Where does he come from? Is he English, or
German, or French—"

"He is a scoundrel, that is enough!" said Uncle Prudent. "Now to
work." And then the two men, with their hands stretched out and their
fingers wide apart, began to feel round the walls to find a joint or
crack.

Nothing. Nothing; not even at the door. It was closely shut and it
was impossible to shoot back the lock. All that could be done was to
make a hole, and escape through the hole. It remained to be seen if
the knives could cut into the walls.

"But whence comes this never-ending rustling?" asked Evans, who was
much impressed at the continuous f-r-r-r.

"The wind, doubtless," said Uncle Prudent.

"The wind! But I thought the night was quite calm."

"So it was. But if it isn't the wind, what can it be?"

Phil Evans got out the best blade of his knife and set to work on the
wall near the door. Perhaps he might make a hole which would enable
him to open it from the outside should it be only bolted or should
the key have been left in the lock. He worked away for some minutes.
The only result was to nip up his knife, to snip off its point, and
transform what was left of the blade into a saw.

"Doesn't it cut?" asked Uncle Prudent.

"No."

"Is the wall made of sheet iron?"

"No; it gives no metallic sound when you hit it."

"Is it of ironwood?"

"No; it isn't iron and it isn't wood."

"What is it then?"

"Impossible to say. But, anyhow, steel doesn't touch it." Uncle
Prudent, in a sudden outburst of fury, began to rave and stamp on the
sonorous planks, while his hands sought to strangle an imaginary
Robur.

"Be calm, Prudent, be calm! You have a try."

Uncle Prudent had a try, but the bowie-knife could do nothing against
a wall which its best blades could not even scratch. The wall seemed
to be made of crystal.

So it became evident that all flight was impracticable except through
the door, and for a time they must resign themselves to their fate—not
a very pleasant thing for the Yankee temperament, and very much
to the disgust of these eminently practical men. But this conclusion
was not arrived at without many objurgations and loud-sounding
phrases hurled at this Robur—who, from what had been seen of him at
the Weldon Institute, was not the sort of man to trouble himself much
about them.

Suddenly Frycollin began to give unequivocal signs of being unwell.
He began to writhe in a most lamentable fashion, either with cramp in
his stomach or in his limbs; and Uncle Prudent, thinking it his duty
to put an end to these gymnastics, cut the cords that bound him.

He had cause to be sorry for it. Immediately there was poured forth
an interminable litany, in which the terrors of fear were mingled
with the tortures of hunger. Frycollin was no worse in his brain than
in his stomach, and it would have been difficult to decide to which
organ the chief cause of the trouble should be assigned.

"Frycollin!" said Uncle Prudent.

"Master Uncle! Master Uncle!" answered the Negro between two of his
lugubrious howls.

"It is possible that we are doomed to die of hunger in this prison,
but we have made up our minds not to succumb until we have availed
ourselves of every means of alimentation to prolong our lives."

"To eat me?" exclaimed Frycollin.

"As is always done with a Negro under such circumstances! So you had
better not make yourself too obvious—"