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 out:
“Long live the Queen! Long live England!”
Just then the lifting power of their lighter-than-air vehicle increased prodigiously. Fergusson, Kennedy, and Joe threw their friends one last farewell.
“Let her go!” the doctor called.
And the Victoria rose swiftly into the skies, while aboard the Resolute, four short-bodied naval cannons thundered away in her honor.
* Name that Negroes give hailstorms.
chapter 12
Crossing the strait—Mrima—Dick’s remarks and Joe’s recommendation—recipe for coffee—the district of Uzaramo—the unfortunate Maizan—Mt. Dutumi—night over a prickly pear1—the doctor’s maps.
The sky was clear, the wind moderate; the Victoria rose nearly straight up to an altitude of 1,500 feet, which was indicated by a drop of 1 and ⅚ inches2 in the mercury column of their barometer.
At that altitude a more emphatic current carried the balloon toward the southwest. What a magnificent sight unfolded beneath our travelers’ eyes! The island of Zanzibar offered a view of its entire expanse, standing out in a darker color as if on a huge world map; its fields reminded you of different-colored swatches in a sample book; woods and thickets were big leafy clusters.
The island’s residents looked like insects. The hoorays and shouts gradually died away in the air, and only booms from the ship’s cannons ruffled the envelope’s lower edges.
“What a gorgeous view!” Joe exclaimed, the first one to break the silence.
Nobody answered him back. The doctor was intently studying the changes in his barometer and recording the various details of his ascension.
Kennedy was looking too, and his eyes needed to be everywhere at once.
The sunlight came to the aid of their burner, and the gas’s pressure increased. The Victoria reached an altitude of 2,500 feet.
The Resolute took on the humble appearance of a small craft, and Africa’s coast was visible in the west as an immense border of foam.
“You’re not talking?” Joe said.
“We’re
