10
October 1862?
One
thing I have noticed of our captors, at Tchersky everything happens
suddenly. The trackless locomotives,
the whirligig flying machines and even the people themselves all move and talk
at breakneck speed. The Aurora has been
lifted by one of the largest whirligigs and now rests on the snow just a hundred
feet or so from this room. I can see its
bow through my tiny window. Workmen fit
the observation room with new glass that an engineer named Greg Peters tells me
is unbreakable. They have begun repairs
on the mangled undercarriage. Other
workmen replace severed cables and even repair our tumbled furniture. They wanted one of us to answer questions
and whatnot and Fogg, of course, insisted upon himself, since as he says, "It's
my property!" even though it is just today he is permitted out of bed. He now limps about out there with one of his
myriad canes. Fogg does not trust what
seems generosity and wonders at its purpose. They continue to keep us captive, so it is not for us they make repairs. Fogg thinks they intend to use the Aurora,
but I don't think so. They have far
more wondrous machines than she. To me
this magnanimity has something of the odor of guilt, of which I've nosed enough
to feel I can identify the whiff. There
are many days of repairs ahead before Aurora shall fly again.
Rebecca
has recovered enough from the near loss of her cousin to argue with him at
least once or twice a day, as was her usual wont; but I am happy to say their
tiff from before Tchersky seems fallen by the wayside. She has sat each day on Fogg's bed as they
discussed our situation and seems much cheered that he is now ambulatory.
There
are no longer hollows in Fogg's customarily lean cheeks but I suspect the count
of gray hairs amongst his black ones has significantly increased. He has tried to convalesce quietly but to
inhabit this room with him is not unlike living with a tiger. Even more so now that he is out of bed,
perhaps more like a whole cage of tigers.
This
morning Fogg castigated me for chatting with a guard saying, "These are not our
friends, Verne! Try to remember that
for more than five minutes, if you please!" To which I responded, "Nor are they certainly our enemies from what I
can see."
Later
Passepartout tried to reassure me, "He not bite this bark." Jean has little to do in this captivity and
his eyes spend much time on his master. I assured Passepartout that caution was foremost in my mind, but I
cannot believe these Tchersky people are kidnappers. Many of the questions they ask are very particular concerning
certain principles of time and space. And if these are the kidnappers, we have not yet seen William nor have
they demanded a ransom. They don't
answer us when we inquire after him but exchange mysterious looks among
themselves. There seems to be no leader
with whom we may parley. Peters is
definitely not the decision maker here. I think they are in as much disarray as we.
I
see that I have left my narrative of our capture unfinished. I return.
When
at last I gained the observation cabin that morning, the wind no longer blew so
briskly through the shattered windows, so I assumed that most of our forward
motion had ceased. I was amazed so
little broken glass lay about as the windows had surely exploded inwards, but
then I saw the last of it sliding down our sharply tilted deck to cascade out
along with small tools and other items through the opened portside window into
the waters of Lake M______ no more than 100 feet away. We had lost much altitude. I found Passepartout draped over the helm,
trying to work its locking pins into their holes. Miss Jude did her inexpert best to assist him. A bloody bandage wrapped Jean's left forearm
but droplets still escaped and dripped off his hands, adding a slick covering
of red to the bright blue helm globe, the locking pins and the deck below. Things were indeed in a bad way if this poor
man was not yet off his feet.
"Passepartout,"
I cried, "leave it, man. We've no steam
for steering anyway!"
"Master
says must lock the helm before they finish theys cuts. Hurry, hurry! Help us, please!" Passepartout replied. Our three
sets of hands at last had the helm globe locked in position. Each of the attitude and aileron controls
was also chained down and not a moment too soon. Out the starboard window in the morning's soft light we could see
Fogg in the rigging cutting the hemp and cotton cables with his sturdy Bowie
knife. Rebecca stood on the Aurora's
lower deck below him, calling out what she could observe of the tension on the
lines. She had on a cloak and hat but
Fogg wore only the thick wool shirt and jean trousers he'd favored the past few
days. He was close enough I could see
the blueness of his lips, and the dark contrast of whiskers against white
cheeks. We in the now unprotected
observation cabin were scarce warmer. Our breath blew mist on the early morning air and Passepartout's blood
froze on the deck. Even Jean's bloody
bandage crackled with ice. It seemed we
might die of exposure if the Aurora did not deposit us in the lake below.
It appears that I may be
interrupted again. I see the engineer
Peters emerging from the Aurora and running in this direction with a sheet of
paper in his hand. An enraged Fogg
follows limping well behind and one of his guards follows him. I feel sure Peters brings me something to
explain. For some strange reason, since
we gave our names to the inhabitants of this place, they defer to me somewhat.