now relieved of their weight, lurched upward into the wind. And, like a wounded bird that revives for a moment, it soon disappeared into the sky.
The balloon fell onto the shore.
The basket had contained five passengers and a dog, but only four were dropped onto the shore.
The missing passenger had evidently been swept away by the wave that struck the deflated balloon, an event that allowed the lightened balloon to rise one last time and, a few moments later, to finally reach land.
The four castaways—we will call them by this name—had scarcely set foot on shore when, thinking of the one who was missing, they began to shout:
“Perhaps he’s trying to swim. Let’s save him! Let’s save him!”5
*In other words, 46 meters per second or 166 kilometers per hour (nearly 42 leagues of 4 kilometers).
*Around 1,700 cubic meters.
CHAPTER II
Those whom the storm had thrown onto this coast were neither professional nor even amateur aeronauts. They were prisoners of war,1 whose audacity had induced them to escape under these extraordinary circumstances. A hundred times they should have perished! A hundred times their torn balloon should have fallen into the abyss! But Heaven had reserved a strange destiny for them. On March 24, after having fled Richmond which was under siege by the troops of General Ulysses Grant,2 they found themselves 7000 miles from the capitol of Virginia, the principal stronghold of the rebels during the dreadful Civil War. Their aerial journey had lasted five days.
These are the curious circumstances which led to the prisoners’ escape:
That same year, in the month of February 1865, during one of those bold maneuvers by which General Grant tried unsuccessfully to capture Richmond, some of his officers fell into enemy hands and were interned within the city. One of the most distinguished of those taken was a Union staff officer named Cyrus Smith.3
Cyrus Smith, a native of Massachusetts, was an engineer and a scientist of the first rank. During the war, the Union government entrusted him with the management of the railroads which were strategically important at that time. A true Northerner, he was lean, rawboned, and about 45 years of age. His close-cut hair was already beginning to show streaks of gray, and his thick moustache as well. He had one of those handsome “numismatic” heads that seemed made to be stamped on medallions, with fiery eyes, a thin-lipped mouth, and the physiognomy of an experienced military scientist. He was one of those engineers who want to begin by handling the hammer and pick, like those generals who wish to begin as simple soldiers. In addition to his inventive genius, he also possessed unmatched manual dexterity, and his muscles were remarkably well developed. Truly a man of action as well as a man of thought, he moved effortlessly with a vitality and steadfast persistence that defied all misfortune. Very educated, practical, and resourceful, he had a superb temperament, always remaining master of himself whatever the circumstances. He had in large measure those three characteristics whose combination defines human energy: activity of mind and body, boldness of desire, and power of will. His motto could have been that of William of Orange of the 17th Century: “I have no need of hope to take action, nor of success to persevere.”4
Cyrus Smith was also courage personified. He had been in all the battles of the Civil War. After serving under Ulysses Grant with the volunteers of Illinois, he fought at Paducah, at Belmont, at Pittsburgh Landing, at the siege of Corinth, at Port Gibson, at Black River, at Chattanooga, at Wilderness,5 and on the Potomac, everywhere and valiantly, a soldier worthy of the general who said “I never count my dead!” And, a hundred times, Cyrus Smith should have been among those not counted by the fierce Grant. But in all those combats, although he never spared himself, fortune always favored him, until the moment when he was wounded and captured on the Richmond battlefield.
On that same day, another important personage fell into Southern hands. It was none other than the honorable Gideon Spilett,6 “reporter” for the New York Herald, who had been assigned to follow the fortunes of this war among the armies of the North.
Gideon Spilett was of that race of astonishing British or American reporters, such as Stanley7 and others, who stop at nothing in order to obtain exact information and to transmit it to their newspaper as soon as possible. The newspapers of the Union, such as the New York Herald, are very influential and their reporters are highly respected. Gideon Spilett belonged in the first rank of these reporters.
A man of great merit, energetic, prompt and ready for anything, full of ideas, having traveled the entire world, soldier and artist, rash in council, resolute in action, acknowledging neither pain nor fatigue nor danger when gathering news for himself first and then for his newspaper, a true hero of the curious, the unpublishable, the unknown, and the impossible, he was one of those intrepid observers who writes as bullets fly, always in the line of fire, for whom peril is good fortune.
Gideon Spilett
He too had been in all the battles, on the front lines, revolver in one hand, notebook in the other. Grapeshot did not make him tremble. He did not burden the telegraph wires incessantly, like those who speak when they have nothing to say; but each of his notes, short, candid and clear, brought light to bear on an important point. Further, he did not lack a certain sense of humor. It was he who, after the affair of Black River, wishing at any price to keep his place at the window of the telegraph office in order to announce to his newspaper the result of the battle, telegraphed the first chapters of the Bible for two hours.8 It cost the New York Herald $2000, but the New York Herald was the first to publish.
Gideon Spilett was tall, forty years old, and light red side whiskers framed his face. His eyes were calm, quick, and rapid in their movements, the eyes of a man accustomed to taking in rapidly all the details of a scene. Of solid frame, he was tempered in all climates like a bar of steel in ice water.
For ten years, Gideon Spilett had been an official reporter for the New York Herald which he enriched with his articles and his drawings because he was as skilled with the pencil as with the pen. When he was captured, he was in the act of describing and sketching the battle and the last words written in his notebook were these: “A Southerner is taking aim at me and …” The shot missed its mark and, following his usual luck, Gideon Spilett came out of the affair without a scratch.
Cyrus Smith and Gideon Spilett, who did not know each other except by reputation, were both taken to Richmond. The engineer rapidly recovered from his wound, and during his convalescence he made the acquaintance of the reporter. These two men liked one another at first sight and learned to appreciate each other. Soon their common life had only one goal: to escape, rejoin Grant’s army, and, once in its ranks again, to fight for the preservation of the federal Union.
The two Americans decided to take advantage of any occasion that arose; but, although they had been left at liberty within the city, Richmond itself was so closely guarded that an escape was impossible.
At this time, Cyrus Smith was joined by his servant who was devoted to him in life and in death. This fearless person was a Negro born of slave parents into the engineer’s estate. But Cyrus Smith, who was an abolitionist by conviction as well as from the heart, had long since emancipated him. The
