The China had sailed away, and with it went Phileas Fogg’s last obvious chance.
He opened his Bradshaw and carefully checked the schedules of every ship leaving for Europe.
“The Pereire doesn’t sail until the fourteenth,” he said. “The Hamburg ships go to Havre, not directly to Liverpool or London. The extra journey from Havre to Southampton would take too long.”
Passepartout looked crushed.
“And the Inman ship?” he asked.
“It leaves tomorrow,” Fogg replied. “It cannot cross the Atlantic quickly enough.”
Passepartout lowered his head.
“We missed the China by forty-five minutes because of me.”
Fogg said nothing.
Passepartout continued bitterly, “I was supposed to help you, but I kept getting in your way. All the money wasted because of my mistakes—and now this enormous wager…”
He could hardly bear to think about it.
“If you lose, sir, this journey could ruin you completely.”
Fogg simply walked away from the Cunard pier.
“We’ll decide what to do tomorrow. Come.”
They crossed the Hudson River by ferry to Jersey City, then took a carriage to the St. Nicholas Hotel on Broadway.
Fogg went straight to bed and slept deeply.
Aouda and Passepartout were not so fortunate. Their minds were filled with worry, and neither could rest properly.
The next morning was December 12.
Fogg calculated the time remaining.
“From seven this morning until quarter to nine on the evening of December twenty-first,” he said to himself, “there are nine days, thirteen hours, and forty-five minutes.”
If he had caught the China, he could still have reached Liverpool and then London within the deadline.
But the China was gone.
Fogg left the hotel alone.
“Passepartout, stay here with Aouda,” he instructed. “Tell her to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.”
“Yes, sir.”
Fogg headed toward the Hudson and began examining the ships in the harbor.
Many were preparing to leave with the morning tide.
New York was one of the busiest ports in the world. Almost every day, ships departed for all parts of the globe.
But most of them were sailing ships.
Fogg needed a steamship.
He was almost ready to give up when he noticed a vessel anchored near the Battery.
It was a trading ship with a screw propeller. Smoke was pouring from its funnel.
The ship was clearly preparing to leave.
Fogg immediately hailed a small boat.
“Take me aboard that ship.”
A few minutes later, he climbed onto the deck of the Henrietta.
The ship had an iron hull with wooden construction above it.
“Take me to your captain,” Fogg said.
The captain soon appeared.
He was about fifty years old, with huge eyes, sun-darkened skin, red hair, and a thick neck. His rough voice made him sound like a man who had spent his entire life at sea.
“The captain?” Fogg asked.
“I am.”
“My name is Phileas Fogg of London.”
“And I’m Andrew Speedy of Cardiff.”
“You’re about to sail?”
“In an hour.”
“Where are you going?”
“Bordeaux.”
“What are you carrying?”
“Nothing. I’m sailing in ballast.”
“Any passengers?”
“None. Never carry passengers. They only get in the way.”
“Is your ship fast?”
“Eleven to twelve knots. The Henrietta is well known.”
Fogg looked directly at him.
“Will you take me and three other people to Liverpool?”
“To Liverpool?”
“Yes.”
“Why not China?”
“I said Liverpool.”
“No.”
Fogg remained calm.
“You refuse?”
“I’m going to Bordeaux, and Bordeaux is where I’m going.”
“Money is no object.”
“Money doesn’t matter.”
Captain Speedy’s tone made it clear that he considered the matter settled.
“But the owners of the Henrietta—”
“I am the owner,” Speedy interrupted. “The ship belongs to me.”
“I will charter the ship from you.”
“No.”
“I will buy it.”
“No.”
For the first time on the journey, Fogg faced an obstacle that money could not immediately remove.
At Hong Kong, money had solved everything.
Here, it seemed useless.
Yet Fogg still needed a ship.
There was no practical way to cross the Atlantic by balloon, even if he had been willing to try something so dangerous.
After a moment, Fogg spoke again.
“Very well. Will you take me to Bordeaux?”
“I wouldn’t do it for two hundred dollars.”
“I offer you two thousand.”
Captain Speedy looked at him.
“Two thousand?”
“Two thousand dollars for each person.”
“There are four of you?”
“Yes.”
The captain scratched his head.
Eight thousand dollars.
That was a lot of money, especially since he would still be sailing to Bordeaux as planned.
And passengers paying two thousand dollars each were hardly ordinary passengers. They were valuable cargo.
“All right,” Speedy said. “I sail at nine. Will you and your party be ready?”
“We will be aboard at nine.”
It was already half past eight.
Fogg immediately left the Henrietta, found a carriage, rushed back to the St. Nicholas Hotel, and returned with Aouda, Passepartout, and even Fix.
He did everything with his usual calm efficiency.
By the time the Henrietta prepared to raise anchor, all four were aboard.
When Passepartout learned how much this final voyage would cost, he could only stare in disbelief.
“Ohhhhh!”
His cry seemed to run through every note of his voice.
Fix, meanwhile, did some calculations of his own.
He thought about the Bank of England.
“This certainly isn’t going to be good for the bank,” he muttered.
By the time they reached England, Fogg would have spent more than seven thousand pounds.
And Fix could only hope that Fogg would not end up throwing even more banknotes into the sea.