Chapter 2

Those whom the hurricane had just thrown on this coast were neither

aeronauts by profession nor amateurs. They were prisoners of war whose

boldness had induced them to escape in this extraordinary manner.

A hundred times they had almost perished! A hundred times had they

almost fallen from their torn balloon into the depths of the ocean. But

Heaven had reserved them for a strange destiny, and after having, on the

20th of March, escaped from Richmond, besieged by the troops of General

Ulysses Grant, they found themselves seven thousand miles from the

capital of Virginia, which was the principal stronghold of the South,

during the terrible War of Secession. Their aerial voyage had lasted

five days.

The curious circumstances which led to the escape of the prisoners were

as follows:

That same year, in the month of February, 1865, in one of the coups

de main by which General Grant attempted, though in vain, to possess

himself of Richmond, several of his officers fell into the power of the

enemy and were detained in the town. One of the most distinguished was

Captain Cyrus Harding. He was a native of Massachusetts, a first-class

engineer, to whom the government had confided, during the war, the

direction of the railways, which were so important at that time. A

true Northerner, thin, bony, lean, about forty-five years of age; his

close-cut hair and his beard, of which he only kept a thick mustache,

were already getting gray. He had one-of those finely-developed heads

which appear made to be struck on a medal, piercing eyes, a serious

mouth, the physiognomy of a clever man of the military school. He was

one of those engineers who began by handling the hammer and pickaxe,

like generals who first act as common soldiers. Besides mental power, he

also possessed great manual dexterity. His muscles exhibited remarkable

proofs of tenacity. A man of action as well as a man of thought, all he

did was without effort to one of his vigorous and sanguine temperament.

Learned, clear-headed, and practical, he fulfilled in all

emergencies those three conditions which united ought to insure human

success--activity of mind and body, impetuous wishes, and powerful will.

He might have taken for his motto that of William of Orange in the 17th

century: “I can undertake and persevere even without hope of success.”

Cyrus Harding was courage personified. He had been in all the battles of

that war. After having begun as a volunteer at Illinois, under Ulysses

Grant, he fought at Paducah, Belmont, Pittsburg Landing, at the siege of

Corinth, Port Gibson, Black River, Chattanooga, the Wilderness, on the

Potomac, everywhere and valiantly, a soldier worthy of the general who

said, “I never count my dead!” And hundreds of times Captain Harding had

almost been among those who were not counted by the terrible Grant; but

in these combats where he never spared himself, fortune favored him till

the moment when he was wounded and taken prisoner on the field of battle

near Richmond. At the same time and on the same day another important

personage fell into the hands of the Southerners. This was no other than

Gideon Spilett, a reporter for the New York Herald, who had been ordered

to follow the changes of the war in the midst of the Northern armies.

Gideon Spilett was one of that race of indomitable English or American

chroniclers, like Stanley and others, who stop at nothing to obtain

exact information, and transmit it to their journal in the shortest

possible time. The newspapers of the Union, such as the New York Herald,

are genuine powers, and their reporters are men to be reckoned with.

Gideon Spilett ranked among the first of those reporters: a man of great

merit, energetic, prompt and ready for anything, full of ideas, having

traveled over the whole world, soldier and artist, enthusiastic in

council, resolute in action, caring neither for trouble, fatigue, nor

danger, when in pursuit of information, for himself first, and then for

his journal, a perfect treasury of knowledge on all sorts of curious

subjects, of the unpublished, of the unknown, and of the impossible. He

was one of those intrepid observers who write under fire, “reporting”

among bullets, and to whom every danger is welcome.

He also had been in all the battles, in the first rank, revolver in one

hand, note-book in the other; grape-shot never made his pencil tremble.

He did not fatigue the wires with incessant telegrams, like those who

speak when they have nothing to say, but each of his notes, short,

decisive, and clear, threw light on some important point. Besides, he

was not wanting in humor. It was he who, after the affair of the Black

River, determined at any cost to keep his place at the wicket of the

telegraph office, and after having announced to his journal the result

of the battle, telegraphed for two hours the first chapters of the

Bible. It cost the New York Herald two thousand dollars, but the New

York Herald published the first intelligence.

Gideon Spilett was tall. He was rather more than forty years of age.

Light whiskers bordering on red surrounded his face. His eye was steady,

lively, rapid in its changes. It was the eye of a man accustomed to take

in at a glance all the details of a scene. Well built, he was inured to

all climates, like a bar of steel hardened in cold water.

For ten years Gideon Spilett had been the reporter of the New York

Herald, which he enriched by his letters and drawings, for he was as

skilful in the use of the pencil as of the pen. When he was captured,

he was in the act of making a description and sketch of the battle. The

last words in his note-book were these: “A Southern rifleman has just

taken aim at me, but--” The Southerner notwithstanding missed Gideon

Spilett, who, with his usual fortune, came out of this affair without a

scratch.

Cyrus Harding and Gideon Spilett, who did not know each other except

by reputation, had both been carried to Richmond. The engineer’s

wounds rapidly healed, and it was during his convalescence that he made

acquaintance with the reporter. The two men then learned to appreciate

each other. Soon their common aim had but one object, that of escaping,

rejoining Grant’s army, and fighting together in the ranks of the

Federals.

The two Americans had from the first determined to seize every chance;

but although they were allowed to wander at liberty in the town,

Richmond was so strictly guarded, that escape appeared impossible. In

the meanwhile Captain Harding was rejoined by a servant who was devoted

to him in life and in death. This intrepid fellow was a Negro born on

the engineer’s estate, of a slave father and mother, but to whom Cyrus,

who was an Abolitionist from conviction and heart, had long since given

his freedom. The once slave, though free, would not leave his master. He

would have died for him. He was a man of about thirty, vigorous, active,

clever, intelligent, gentle, and calm, sometimes naive, always merry,

obliging, and honest. His name was Nebuchadnezzar, but he only answered

to the familiar abbreviation of Neb.

When Neb heard that his master had been made prisoner, he left

Massachusetts without hesitating an instant, arrived before Richmond,

and by dint of stratagem and shrewdness, after having risked his life

twenty times over, managed to penetrate into the besieged town. The

pleasure of Harding on seeing his servant, and the joy of Neb at finding

his master, can scarcely be described.

But though Neb had been able to make his way into Richmond, it was quite

another thing to get out again, for the Northern prisoners were very

strictly watched. Some extraordinary opportunity was needed to make the

attempt with any chance of success, and this opportunity not only did

not present itself, but was very difficult to find.

Meanwhile Grant continued his energetic operations. The victory of

Petersburg had been very dearly bought. His forces, united to those of

Butler, had as yet been unsuccessful before Richmond, and nothing gave

the prisoners any hope of a speedy deliverance.

The reporter, to whom his tedious captivity did not offer a single

incident worthy of note, could stand it no longer. His usually active

mind was occupied with one sole thought--how he might get out of

Richmond at any cost. Several times had he even made the attempt,

but was stopped by some insurmountable obstacle. However, the siege

continued; and if the prisoners were anxious to escape and join Grant’s

army, certain of the besieged were no less anxious to join the Southern

forces. Among them was one Jonathan Forster, a determined Southerner.

The truth was, that if the prisoners of the Secessionists could not

leave the town, neither could the Secessionists themselves while the

Northern army invested it. The Governor of Richmond for a long time had

been unable to communicate with General Lee, and he very much wished to

make known to him the situation of the town, so as to hasten the march

of the army to their relief. Thus Jonathan Forster accordingly conceived

the idea of rising in a balloon, so as to pass over the besieging lines,

and in that way reach the Secessionist camp.

The Governor authorized the attempt. A balloon was manufactured and

placed at the disposal of Forster, who was to be accompanied by five

other persons. They were furnished with arms in case they might have

to defend themselves when they alighted, and provisions in the event of

their aerial voyage being prolonged.

The departure of the balloon was fixed for the 18th of March. It should

be effected during the night, with a northwest wind of moderate force,

and the aeronauts calculated that they would reach General Lee’s camp in

a few hours.

But this northwest wind was not a simple breeze. From the 18th it was

evident that it was changing to a hurricane. The tempest soon became

such that Forster’s departure was deferred, for it was impossible to

risk the balloon and those whom it carried in the midst of the furious

elements.

The balloon, inflated on the great square of Richmond, was ready to

depart on the first abatement of the wind, and, as may be supposed, the

impatience among the besieged to see the storm moderate was very great.

The 18th, the 19th of March passed without any alteration in the

weather. There was even great difficulty in keeping the balloon fastened

to the ground, as the squalls dashed it furiously about.

The night of the 19th passed, but the next morning the storm blew with

redoubled force. The departure of the balloon was impossible.

On that day the engineer, Cyrus Harding, was accosted in one of the

streets of Richmond by a person whom he did not in the least know. This

was a sailor named Pencroft, a man of about thirty-five or forty years

of age, strongly built, very sunburnt, and possessed of a pair of

bright sparkling eyes and a remarkably good physiognomy. Pencroft was an

American from the North, who had sailed all the ocean over, and who had

gone through every possible and almost impossible adventure that a being

with two feet and no wings would encounter. It is needless to say that

he was a bold, dashing fellow, ready to dare anything and was astonished

at nothing. Pencroft at the beginning of the year had gone to Richmond

on business, with a young boy of fifteen from New Jersey, son of a

former captain, an orphan, whom he loved as if he had been his

own child. Not having been able to leave the town before the first

operations of the siege, he found himself shut up, to his great disgust;

but, not accustomed to succumb to difficulties, he resolved to escape by

some means or other. He knew the engineer-officer by reputation; he knew

with what impatience that determined man chafed under his restraint. On

this day he did not, therefore, hesitate to accost him, saying, without

circumlocution, “Have you had enough of Richmond, captain?”

The engineer looked fixedly at the man who spoke, and who added, in a

low voice,--

“Captain Harding, will you try to escape?”

“When?” asked the engineer quickly, and it was evident that this

question was uttered without consideration, for he had not yet examined

the stranger who addressed him. But after having with a penetrating

eye observed the open face of the sailor, he was convinced that he had

before him an honest man.

“Who are you?” he asked briefly.

Pencroft made himself known.

“Well,” replied Harding, “and in what way do you propose to escape?”

“By that lazy balloon which is left there doing nothing, and which looks

to me as if it was waiting on purpose for us--”

There was no necessity for the sailor to finish his sentence. The

engineer understood him at once. He seized Pencroft by the arm, and

dragged him to his house. There the sailor developed his project, which

was indeed extremely simple. They risked nothing but their lives in its

execution. The hurricane was in all its violence, it is true, but so

clever and daring an engineer as Cyrus Harding knew perfectly well how

to manage a balloon. Had he himself been as well acquainted with the art

of sailing in the air as he was with the navigation of a ship, Pencroft

would not have hesitated to set out, of course taking his young friend

Herbert with him; for, accustomed to brave the fiercest tempests of the

ocean, he was not to be hindered on account of the hurricane.

Captain Harding had listened to the sailor without saying a word,

but his eyes shone with satisfaction. Here was the long-sought-for

opportunity--he was not a man to let it pass. The plan was feasible,

though, it must be confessed, dangerous in the extreme. In the night,

in spite of their guards, they might approach the balloon, slip into the

car, and then cut the cords which held it. There was no doubt that they

might be killed, but on the other hand they might succeed, and without

this storm!--Without this storm the balloon would have started already

and the looked-for opportunity would not have then presented itself.

“I am not alone!” said Harding at last.

“How many people do you wish to bring with you?” asked the sailor.

“Two; my friend Spilett, and my servant Neb.”

“That will be three,” replied Pencroft; “and with Herbert and me five.

But the balloon will hold six--”

“That will be enough, we will go,” answered Harding in a firm voice.

This “we” included Spilett, for the reporter, as his friend well knew,

was not a man to draw back, and when the project was communicated to him

he approved of it unreservedly. What astonished him was, that so simple

an idea had not occurred to him before. As to Neb, he followed his

master wherever his master wished to go.

“This evening, then,” said Pencroft, “we will all meet out there.”

“This evening, at ten o’clock,” replied Captain Harding; “and Heaven

grant that the storm does not abate before our departure.”

Pencroft took leave of the two friends, and returned to his lodging,

where young Herbert Brown had remained. The courageous boy knew of the

sailor’s plan, and it was not without anxiety that he awaited the result

of the proposal being made to the engineer. Thus five determined

persons were about to abandon themselves to the mercy of the tempestuous

elements!

No! the storm did not abate, and neither Jonathan Forster nor his

companions dreamed of confronting it in that frail car.

It would be a terrible journey. The engineer only feared one thing; it

was that the balloon, held to the ground and dashed about by the

wind, would be torn into shreds. For several hours he roamed round the

nearly-deserted square, surveying the apparatus. Pencroft did the same

on his side, his hands in his pockets, yawning now and then like a man

who did not know how to kill the time, but really dreading, like

his friend, either the escape or destruction of the balloon. Evening

arrived. The night was dark in the extreme. Thick mists passed like

clouds close to the ground. Rain fell mingled with snow, it was very

cold. A mist hung over Richmond. It seemed as if the violent storm had

produced a truce between the besiegers and the besieged, and that the

cannon were silenced by the louder detonations of the storm. The streets

of the town were deserted. It had not even appeared necessary in that

horrible weather to place a guard in the square, in the midst of which

plunged the balloon. Everything favored the departure of the prisoners,

but what might possibly be the termination of the hazardous voyage they

contemplated in the midst of the furious elements?--

“Dirty weather!” exclaimed Pencroft, fixing his hat firmly on his head

with a blow of his fist; “but pshaw, we shall succeed all the same!”

At half-past nine, Harding and his companions glided from different

directions into the square, which the gas-lamps, extinguished by the

wind, had left in total obscurity. Even the enormous balloon, almost

beaten to the ground, could not be seen. Independently of the sacks of

ballast, to which the cords of the net were fastened, the car was

held by a strong cable passed through a ring in the pavement. The five

prisoners met by the car. They had not been perceived, and such was the

darkness that they could not even see each other.

Without speaking a word, Harding, Spilett, Neb, and Herbert took their

places in the car, while Pencroft by the engineer’s order detached

successively the bags of ballast. It was the work of a few minutes only,

and the sailor rejoined his companions.

The balloon was then only held by the cable, and the engineer had

nothing to do but to give the word.

At that moment a dog sprang with a bound into the car. It was Top,

a favorite of the engineer. The faithful creature, having broken his

chain, had followed his master. He, however, fearing that its additional

weight might impede their ascent, wished to send away the animal.

“One more will make but little difference, poor beast!” exclaimed

Pencroft, heaving out two bags of sand, and as he spoke letting go the

cable; the balloon ascending in an oblique direction, disappeared, after

having dashed the car against two chimneys, which it threw down as it

swept by them.

Then, indeed, the full rage of the hurricane was exhibited to the

voyagers. During the night the engineer could not dream of descending,

and when day broke, even a glimpse of the earth below was intercepted by

fog.

Five days had passed when a partial clearing allowed them to see the

wide extending ocean beneath their feet, now lashed into the maddest

fury by the gale.

Our readers will recollect what befell these five daring individuals

who set out on their hazardous expedition in the balloon on the 20th of

March. Five days afterwards four of them were thrown on a desert coast,

seven thousand miles from their country! But one of their number was

missing, the man who was to be their guide, their leading spirit, the

engineer, Captain Harding! The instant they had recovered their feet,

they all hurried to the beach in the hopes of rendering him assistance.