style="font-size:15px;"> Among these passengers of the Mongolia, there were several officials of the Civil Service and army officers of every grade. Of the latter, some belonged to the British Army, properly so-called, the others commanded the native Sepoy troops, all receiving high salaries, since the Government has taken the place of the powers and charge of the old East India Company; sub-lieutenants receiving £280; brigadiers, £2400; and generals, £4000. The emoluments of officials in the Civil Service are still higher: Simple assistants in the first rank get £480; judges, £2400; the president judges, £10,000; governors, £12,000; and the governor-general more than £24,000.
There was good living on board the Mongolia, in this company of officials, to which were added some young Englishmen, who, with a million in their pockets, were going to establish commercial houses abroad. The purser, the confidential man of the company, the equal of the captain on board the ship, did things up elegantly. At the breakfast, at the lunch at two o’clock, at the dinner at half-past five, at the supper at eight o’clock, the tables groaned under the dishes of fresh meat and the relishes, furnished by the refrigerator, and the pantries of the steamer. The ladies, of whom there were a few, changed their toilet twice a day. There was music, and there was dancing also when the sea allowed it.
But the Red Sea is very capricious and too frequently rough, like all long, narrow bodies of water. When the wind blew either from the coast of Asia, or from the coast of Africa, the Mongolia, being very long and sharp built, and struck amidships, rolled fearfully. The ladies then disappeared; the pianos were silent; songs and dances ceased at once. And yet, notwithstanding the squall and the agitated waters, the steamer, driven by its powerful engines, pursued its course without delay to the straits of Bab-el-Mandeb.
What was Phileas Fogg doing all this time? It might be supposed that, always uneasy and anxious, his mind would be occupied with the changes of the wind interfering with the progress of the vessel, the irregular movements of the squall threatening an accident to the engine, and in short, all the possible injuries, which, compelling the Mongolia to put into some port, would have interrupted his journey.
By no means, or, at least, if this gentleman thought of these probabilities, he did not let it appear as if he did. He was the same impassible man, the imperturbable member of the Reform Club, whom no incident or accident could surprise. He did not appear more affected than the ship’s chronometers. He was seldom seen upon the deck. He troubled himself very little about looking at this Red Sea, so fruitful in recollections, the spot where the first historic scenes of mankind were enacted. He did not recognise the curious towns scattered upon its shores, and whose picturesque outlines stood out sometimes against the horizon. He did not even dream of the dangers of the Gulf of Arabia, of which the ancient historians, Strabo, Arrius, Artemidorus, and others, always spoke with dread, and upon which the navigators never ventured in former times without having consecrated their voyage by propitiatory sacrifices.
What was this queer fellow, imprisoned upon the Mongolia, doing? At first he took his four meals a day, the rolling and pitching of the ship not putting out of order his mechanism, so wonderfully organised. Then he played at whist. For he found companions as devoted to it as himself: a collector of taxes, who was going to his post at Goa; a minister, the Rev. Decimus Smith, returning to Bombay; and a brigadier-general of the British Army, who was rejoining his corps at Benares. These three passengers had the same passion for whist as Mr Fogg, and they played for entire hours, not less quietly than he.
As for Passepartout, sea-sickness had taken no hold on him. He occupied a forward cabin, and ate conscientiously. It must be said that the voyage made under these circumstances was decidedly not unpleasant to him. He rather liked his share of it. Well fed and well lodged, he was seeing the country, and besides, he asserted to himself that all this whim would end at Bombay. The next day after leaving Suez it was not without a certain pleasure that he met on deck the obliging person whom he had addressed on landing in Egypt.
“I am not mistaken,” he said on approaching him with his most amiable smile; “you are the very gentleman that so kindly served as my guide in Suez?”
“Indeed,” replied the detective, “I recognise you! You are the servant of that odd Englishman—”
“Just so, Monsieur—?”
“Fix.”
“Monsieur Fix,” replied Passepartout. “Delighted to meet you again on board this vessel. And where are you going?”
“Why, to the same place as yourself, Bombay.”
“That is first rate! Have you already made this trip?”
“Several times,” replied Fix. “I am an agent of the Peninsular Company.”
“Then you know India?”
“Why—yes,” replied Fix, who did not wish to commit himself too far.
“And this India is a curious place?”
“Very curious! Mosques, minarets, temples, fakirs, pagodas, tigers, serpents, dancing girls! But it is to be hoped that you will have time to visit the country?”
“I hope so, Monsieur Fix. You understand very well that it is not permitted to a man of sound mind to pass his life in jumping from a steamer into a railway car and from a railway car into a steamer, under the pretext of making the tour of the world in eighty days! No. All these gymnastics will cease at Bombay, don’t doubt it.”
“And Mr Fogg is well?” asked Fix in a most natural tone.
“Very well, Monsieur Fix, and I am too. I eat like an ogre that has been fasting. It is the sea air.”
“I never see your master on deck.”
“Never. He is not inquisitive.”
“Do you know, Mr Passepartout, that this pretended tour in eighty days might very well be the cover for some secret mission—a diplomatic mission, for example!”
“Upon my word, Monsieur Fix, I don’t know anything about it, I confess, and really I wouldn’t give a half-crown to know.”
After this meeting, Passepartout and Fix frequently talked together. The detective thought he ought to have close relations with the servant of this gentleman Fogg. There might be an occasion when he could serve him. He frequently offered him, in the bar-room of the Mongolia, a few glasses of whisky or pale ale, which the good fellow accepted without reluctance, and returned even so as not to be behind him—finding this Fix to be a very honest gentleman.
In the meantime the steamer was rapidly getting on. On the 13th they sighted Mocha, which appeared in its enclosure of ruined walls, above which were hanging green date trees. At a distance, in the mountains, there were seen immense fields of coffee trees. Passepartout was delighted to behold this celebrated place, and he found, with its circular walls and a dismantled fort in the shape of a handle, it looked like an enormous cup and saucer.
During the following night the Mongolia passed through the Straits of Bab-el-Mandeb, the Arabic name of which signifies “The Gate of Tears,” and the next day, the 14th, she put in at Steamer Point, to the north-west of Aden harbour. There she was to lay in coal again. This obtaining fuel for steamers at such distances from the centres of production is a very serious matter. It amounts to an annual expense for the Peninsular Company of eight hundred thousand pounds. It has been necessary, indeed, to establish depots in several ports, and in these distant seas coal reaches as high as from three to four pounds per ton.
The
