Five Weeks in a Balloon. Jules Verne

enforcers carrying lances and standing watch on its platform, a gang of noisy idlers.

      But as they were about to unload the lighter-than-air vehicle, the consul learned that the local population would oppose this move by force. Nothing is blinder than fanatical fervor. The island chafed at the news that a Christian had arrived and meant to ascend into the skies; Negroes were more perturbed than Arabs and viewed the scheme as intentionally hostile to their religion; it looked to them as if somebody had designs on the sun and moon. Now then, those two heavenly bodies are subjects of veneration for African tribes. So they were determined to oppose this sacrilegious expedition.

      Alerted to these developments, the consul, Dr. Fergusson, and Commander Pennet put their heads together. The seaman didn’t want to retreat in the face of these threats; but his friend made him listen to reason on the matter.

      “We’ll definitely prevail in the end,” he told him. “Even the imam’s enforcers will lend us a hand if need be; yet, my dear commander, accidents can happen in a second; one piece of mischief could be enough to cause irreversible damage to the balloon, and our journey could be jeopardized beyond repair; so we must proceed with great caution.”

      “But what can we do? If we go ashore on the African mainland, we’ll run into the same difficulties! What can we do?”

      “Nothing could be simpler,” the consul answered. “Look at those islands located beyond the harbor; unload your vehicle on one of them, put a cordon of sailors around her, and you’ll be out of harm’s way.”

      “Perfect,” the doctor said, “and we’ll complete our preparations at our leisure.”

      The commander went along with this advice. The Resolute drew up to Koumbeni Island. During the morning of April 16, they put the balloon in a place of safety inside a clearing among the big trees that dot this landscape.

      They stood two masts on end, 80 feet high and positioned the same distance from each other; sets of pulleys were attached to the tips of these, able to raise the lighter-than-air vehicle with the help of a crosswise cable; at that juncture the balloon was completely deflated. Fastened to the top of the outer envelope, the inner one would be lifted up along with it.

      They fitted the two intake pipes for the hydrogen into the lower appendix² of each balloon.

      They spent the day of the 17th setting up the mechanism designed to produce the gas; it consisted of thirty barrels in which a large amount of water was broken down by mixing in scrap iron and sulfuric acid. Getting washed as it went, the hydrogen made its way into a huge central cask, from there entering each envelope by the intake pipes. In this fashion each of them got filled with an accurately measured amount of gas.

      For this operation it was necessary to employ 1,866 gallons of sulfuric acid, 16,050 pounds of iron,³ and 9,166 gallons of water.⁴

      The operation got under way the following night around three o’clock in the morning; it went on for nearly eight hours. The next day, complete with her netting, the lighter-than-air vehicle swayed gracefully above her gondola, held down by a good many bags of dirt. They assembled the inflation mechanism with great care, taking the pipes that emerged from the vehicle and fitting them into the cylindrical container.

      They stocked up on water in Zanzibar; the anchors, lines, instruments, travel blankets, tent, provisions, and weapons went into their assigned places in the gondola. The 200 pounds of ballast were divvied up into fifty bags, then stowed within easy reach at the bottom of the gondola.

      These preparations were complete by about five o’clock in the evening; sentries were on continual watch around the island, and the Resolute’s longboats crisscrossed the channel.

      The Negroes continued to express their displeasure by yelling, scowling, and writhing about. Witch doctors roamed among the angry crowds, fanning the flames of their anger; some fanatics tried to swim out to the island, but they were easily driven back.

Then it was time for magic spells and mumbo jumbo; claiming to control the clouds, rainmakers prayed for hurricanes and “pebble showers”;* to this end they gathered leaves from every type of tree in the country; they boiled them over a low fire, meanwhile killing a sheep by plunging a long needle into its heart. But despite these solemnities, the sky stayed clear, and their sheep and scowls went for nothing.

      The Negroes then indulged in furious orgies, getting tipsy on tembo, hard liquor extracted from the coconut palm, or a tremendously intoxicating beer called togwa. Their songs had no melodies to speak of, although the rhythms were pretty catchy, and they didn’t let up until well into the night.

      Around six o’clock in the evening, the travelers got together for one last dinner at the table of the commander and his officers. Kennedy, whom nobody paid attention to anymore, muttered unintelligible words in an undertone; he didn’t take his eyes off Dr. Fergusson.

      Anyhow it was a gloomy meal. The crowning moment was at hand, and it inspired troubling thoughts in everybody. What did fate have in store for these bold travelers? Would they ever rejoin their circles of friends, return to enjoy the pleasures of hearth and home? If their means of transportation proved inadequate, what would happen to them in the midst of those fierce tribes, in those unexplored regions out in that immense wilderness?

      Until then they had attached little significance to such scattered thoughts, but now their keyed-up imaginations were under siege. Still cool and composed, Dr. Fergusson chatted about this and that; but he tried without success to dispel this outbreak of gloom; it was beyond him.

      Fearing acts of violence against their persons, the doctor and his two companions slept aboard the Resolute. At six o’clock in the morning, they left their cabin and made their way to Koumbeni Island.

      An easterly wind was blowing, and the balloon swayed gently. Twenty sailors had taken over from the bags of dirt holding her down. Commander Pennet and his officers were in attendance at this departure ceremony.

      Just then Kennedy went straight to the doctor, clutched his hand, and said:

      “You’re really determined to go, Samuel?”

      “Bound and determined, my dear Dick.”

      “I’ve done everything in my power to put a stop to this trip?”

      “Everything.”

      “Then my conscience is clear on that score, and I’m coming along.”

      “I was sure of it,” the doctor responded, a hint of emotion visible for one second in his features.

      It was the moment for final farewells. The commander and his officers gave hearty hugs to their courageous friends, including our worthy Joe, full of pride and joy. Every attendee wanted a chance to shake hands with Dr. Fergusson.

      By nine o’clock the three traveling companions had taken their places in the gondola: the doctor lit his burner and turned up the flame to produce heat more quickly. Held to the ground in a state of perfect buoyancy, the balloon started to lift off after a few minutes. The sailors had to pay out the mooring lines a little. The gondola rose about twenty feet.

      “My friends,” the doctor called, standing between his two companions and doffing his hat, “let’s give our airborne vessel a name that will bring her good luck! Let’s christen her the Victoria!”

      A fearsome hooray rang