At seven in the morning, Phileas Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout finally stepped onto American soil—or at least onto the floating docks where their ship had landed.
The docks rose and fell with the tide, making it easier to load and unload ships. All around them were sailing ships, steamers from many countries, and multi-deck riverboats serving the Sacramento River and its branches. Goods from Mexico, Chile, Peru, Brazil, Europe, Asia, and the Pacific islands were piled everywhere.
Passepartout was so excited to have finally reached America that he decided to celebrate with an impressive jump.
Unfortunately, he landed on some rotten wooden boards.
The boards broke beneath him, and he fell straight through.
“Help!”
His loud cry startled the many cormorants and pelicans resting on the docks. The birds took off in a noisy panic.
Passepartout climbed out, embarrassed.
“That certainly wasn’t the way I imagined entering the New World.”
Meanwhile, Mr. Fogg calmly went to find out when the next train to New York would leave.
“Six o’clock this evening, sir,” he was told.
“So we have the whole day,” Fogg said.
He hired a carriage for three dollars. He and Aouda climbed inside, while Passepartout sat beside the driver.
“Let’s go to the International Hotel.”
As the carriage moved through the city, Passepartout stared at everything around him.
The streets were wide, and the houses were mostly low and neatly arranged. There were Gothic-style churches, huge docks, large wooden and brick warehouses, horse-drawn vehicles, horse-cars, and crowded sidewalks.
He saw Americans and Europeans everywhere, but also many Chinese and Native Americans.
“What a city!” Passepartout exclaimed.
He had expected something very different.
The San Francisco of 1849, famous for lawlessness, gold, gambling, and armed outlaws, was gone. The city had grown into a major center of trade.
From the carriage, Passepartout could see the tall tower of City Hall overlooking the streets. The avenues crossed one another at right angles, with green public squares scattered between them.
Beyond them was the Chinese quarter.
“It almost looks as if someone packed a piece of China into a toy box and dropped it here,” Passepartout said.
The colorful hats, red shirts, and feathered costumes he had imagined were rarely seen. Instead, the streets were filled with men in black coats and silk hats, all moving quickly about their business.
Montgomery Street was especially impressive. Its shops were large and elegant, with windows displaying goods from all over the world.
When they reached the International Hotel, Passepartout looked around in surprise.
“I could almost believe we’re still in England.”
The hotel’s ground floor contained a large bar and restaurant that was open to anyone passing by.
People could eat dried beef, oyster soup, biscuits, and cheese without paying for the food.
“You only pay for what you drink,” Passepartout discovered.
“Now that is what I call American!”
After breakfast, Mr. Fogg and Aouda left for the British consulate. Fogg needed to have his passport officially stamped before continuing the journey.
As they were leaving, Passepartout approached him.
“Sir, don’t you think we should buy some weapons before taking the train?”
“Weapons?”
“I’ve been hearing stories about trains being attacked by Sioux and Pawnee warriors. We ought to be prepared.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Enfield rifles. And Colt revolvers. Several of each.”
Fogg considered this for a moment.
“I don’t think it is necessary.”
“But if you disagree, sir, may I buy them myself?”
“Certainly. Do whatever you think is best.”
Fogg then continued toward the consulate.
He had barely walked two hundred steps when he suddenly came face-to-face with Fix.
Fix looked genuinely surprised.
“Mr. Fogg!”
“Mr. Fix.”
“So we have crossed the Pacific on the same ship without meeting each other!”
“It seems so.”
Fix quickly recovered himself.
“It is a pleasure to see you again. My business is taking me back to Europe, so perhaps I might continue the journey with you. I could hardly ask for better company.”
“The pleasure would be mine,” Fogg replied.
Fix had no intention of letting Fogg out of his sight again.
“Would you allow me to accompany you while you look around San Francisco?”
“Of course.”
The three soon reached Montgomery Street.
Suddenly, they found themselves facing an enormous crowd.
People filled the sidewalks, the street, the horse-car tracks, the entrances to shops, the windows of buildings, and even the rooftops.
Large posters were being carried through the crowd. Flags and banners waved in the wind.
Then the shouting began.
“Hurrah for Camerfield!”
“Hurrah for Mandiboy!”
Fix looked around.
“This appears to be a political meeting.”
“What is happening?” Aouda asked.
“I’m not entirely sure,” Fix replied.
Then he turned to Fogg.
“Perhaps we should stay away from the crowd. It could become dangerous.”
“Yes,” Fogg said calmly. “A political punch still hurts just as much as any other punch.”
Fix smiled.
To get a better view without being pushed around, they climbed to the top of some steps at the upper end of Montgomery Street.
Across the road, between a coal wharf and a petroleum warehouse, stood a large outdoor platform.
Thousands of people were moving toward it.
“What is the meeting about?” Aouda asked.
Fogg shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
Fix watched the crowd carefully.
“Perhaps they are choosing some important official—a governor or a member of Congress.”
The crowd suddenly became even more excited.
Hands shot into the air.
Some people raised tightly closed fists.
The mass of people swayed from side to side. Flags disappeared beneath the crowd and then rose again, sometimes torn and damaged.
“It certainly seems to be a very important meeting,” Fix said.
“What do you think it’s about?” Fogg asked.
“Perhaps the Alabama question, although I thought that matter had already been settled.”
“Perhaps.”
Fix pointed toward the platform.
“At least we know who the two main opponents are. The Honourable Mr. Camerfield and the Honourable Mr. Mandiboy.”
Aouda watched the crowd with growing concern.
“This doesn’t look peaceful.”
Fix turned to a man standing nearby.
“Excuse me, sir. What is all this about?”
Before the man could answer, the crowd exploded into chaos.
Cheers became angry shouts.
People began using their flagpoles as weapons.
Fists flew.
Men standing on carriages and omnibuses began fighting.
Shoes and boots were thrown through the air.
Fogg thought he even heard revolvers firing somewhere in the confusion.
The fighting moved toward the steps.
“Perhaps we should leave,” Fix said.
“Why?”
“I would rather not see you injured before we return to London.”
He hesitated.
“If this has anything to do with England, and people recognize us, we could have trouble.”
“An Englishman—”
Fogg never finished his sentence.
A tremendous roar came from behind them.
“Hurrah for Mandiboy!”
“Hip, hip, hurrah!”
Another group of supporters had arrived to reinforce Mandiboy’s side.
Fogg, Aouda, and Fix were suddenly caught between the two groups.
“There is no way out,” Fix said.
The crowd surged forward.
Many men were carrying heavy sticks and canes.
Fogg and Fix tried to protect Aouda as the mob pushed them from all sides.
Fogg fought back with his bare hands.
But there were too many people.
Then a huge, broad-shouldered man with a red beard and an angry face stepped forward.
He raised his fist and aimed it directly at Fogg.
The punch would have hit Fogg hard.
But Fix suddenly jumped between them.
The blow struck the detective instead.
Fix staggered.
A huge bruise immediately appeared beneath his silk hat, which had been smashed flat.
Fogg looked coldly at the man.
“Yankee.”
The man glared back.
“Englishman!”
He pointed at Fogg.
“We’ll meet again.”
“Whenever you wish.”
“What is your name?”
“Phileas Fogg. And yours?”
“Colonel Stamp Proctor.”
Before Fogg could say anything more, the crowd swept past them.
Fix was knocked to the ground.
He quickly got back on his feet.
“Are you all right?” Aouda asked.
“Yes. Nothing serious.”
His clothes, however, were another matter.
His overcoat had been torn into two uneven pieces, and his trousers looked as if they belonged to some Native American warrior.
Fogg turned to him.
“Thank you.”
“There is no need to thank me,” Fix replied. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“To a tailor.”
That was clearly necessary.
Fogg and Fix both looked as though they had personally taken part in the political battle.
An hour later, they were properly dressed again.
They returned to the International Hotel with Aouda.
Passepartout was waiting for them.
He had bought six-barreled revolvers.
When he saw Fix, he frowned immediately.
But Aouda quickly explained what had happened.
Passepartout’s expression softened.
“So Mr. Fix saved Mr. Fogg?”
“Yes,” Aouda said.
Passepartout nodded.
“Then he is a friend for now. At least he has kept his promise.”
After dinner, the coach arrived to take the travelers and their luggage to the railway station.
As Fogg was getting into the coach, he turned to Fix.
“Have you seen Colonel Proctor again?”
“No.”
“I will return to America someday and find him.”
Fix raised an eyebrow.
Fogg continued calmly.
“It would not be proper for an Englishman to accept such an insult without answering it.”
Fix smiled but said nothing.
He understood that Fogg was the kind of Englishman who disliked dueling at home but was perfectly willing to fight abroad if his honor had been attacked.
At a quarter before six, they reached the station.
The train was already waiting.
Before getting aboard, Fogg stopped a porter.
“My friend, was there some trouble in San Francisco today?”
“Yes, sir. There was a political meeting.”
“I heard there was considerable fighting in the streets.”
“It was only an election meeting.”
“An election for some important military position, perhaps?”
“No, sir.”
The porter smiled.
“They were electing a justice of the peace.”
Fogg paused.
Then he quietly boarded the train.
A moment later, the train began racing east toward New York.