“The air, possibly,” answered J. T. Maston resolutely, “but
their _morale_ never!”
On the 28th, after two more days of search, all hope was gone.
This projectile was but an atom in the immensity of the ocean.
They must give up all idea of finding it.
But J. T. Maston would not hear of going away. He would not
abandon the place without at least discovering the tomb of
his friends. But Commander Blomsberry could no longer persist,
and in spite of the exclamations of the worthy secretary, was
obliged to give the order to sail.
On the 29th of December, at nine A.M., the Susquehanna, heading
northeast, resumed her course to the bay of San Francisco.
It was ten in the morning; the corvette was under half-steam, as
it was regretting to leave the spot where the catastrophe had
taken place, when a sailor, perched on the main-top-gallant
crosstrees, watching the sea, cried suddenly:
“A buoy on the lee bow!”
The officers looked in the direction indicated, and by the help
of their glasses saw that the object signalled had the
appearance of one of those buoys which are used to mark the
passages of bays or rivers. But, singularly to say, a flag
floating on the wind surmounted its cone, which emerged five
or six feet out of water. This buoy shone under the rays
of the sun as if it had been made of plates of silver.
Commander Blomsberry, J. T. Maston, and the delegates of the Gun
Club were mounted on the bridge, examining this object straying
at random on the waves.
All looked with feverish anxiety, but in silence. None dared
give expression to the thoughts which came to the minds of all.
The corvette approached to within two cables’ lengths of the object.
A shudder ran through the whole crew. That flag was the
American flag!
At this moment a perfect howling was heard; it was the brave J.
T. Maston who had just fallen all in a heap. Forgetting on the
one hand that his right arm had been replaced by an iron hook,
and on the other that a simple gutta-percha cap covered his
brain-box, he had given himself a formidable blow.
They hurried toward him, picked him up, restored him to life.
And what were his first words?
“Ah! trebly brutes! quadruply idiots! quintuply boobies that we are!”
“What is it?” exclaimed everyone around him.
“What is it?”
“Come, speak!”
“It is, simpletons,” howled the terrible secretary, “it is that
the projectile only weighs 19,250 pounds!”
“Well?”
“And that it displaces twenty-eight tons, or in other words
56,000 pounds, and that consequently _it floats_!”
Ah! what stress the worthy man had laid on the verb “float!”
And it was true! All, yes! all these savants had forgotten
this fundamental law, namely, that on account of its specific
lightness, the projectile, after having been drawn by its fall
to the greatest depths of the ocean, must naturally return to
the surface. And now it was floating quietly at the mercy of
the waves.
The boats were put to sea. J. T. Maston and his friends had
rushed into them! Excitement was at its height! Every heart
beat loudly while they advanced to the projectile. What did
it contain? Living or dead?
Living, yes! living, at least unless death had struck
Barbicane and his two friends since they had hoisted the flag.
Profound silence reigned on the boats. All were breathless.
Eyes no longer saw. One of the scuttles of the projectile was open.
Some pieces of glass remained in the frame, showing that it had
been broken. This scuttle was actually five feet above the water.
A boat came alongside, that of J. T. Maston, and J. T. Maston
rushed to the broken window.
At that moment they heard a clear and merry voice, the voice of
Michel Ardan, exclaiming in an accent of triumph:
“White all, Barbicane, white all!”
Barbicane, Michel Ardan, and Nicholl were playing at dominoes!
CHAPTER XXIII
THE END