From the Earth to the Moon (11 page)

Thus, in his invincible obstinacy, Captain Nicholl was risking no less than $15,000!

Despite the greatness of the sum he had offered to bet, on October 19, he received a sealed envelope containing this haughtily laconic reply:

M
EANWHILE THERE
was one matter that still had to be decided: a favorable place had to be chosen for the experiment. According to the recommendations of the Cambridge Observatory, the projectile would have to be fired perpendicular to the plane of the horizon, that is, toward the zenith. The moon rises to the zenith only in places located between zero and twenty-eight degrees of latitude; in other words, its declination
^*
is only twenty-eight degrees. The Gun Club therefore had to determine the exact spot on the globe where the immense cannon would be cast.

On October 20, at a general meeting of the club, Barbicane brought a copy of Z. Belltrop’s magnificent map of the United States. But before he could unfold it, J. T. Maston asked for the floor with his usual vehemence and began speaking as follows:

“Gentlemen, the matter we’re going to deal with today is of truly national importance, and it will give us an opportunity to perform a great act of patriotism.”

The members of the Gun Club looked at one another without understanding what he had in mind.

“None of you,” he went on, “would ever dream of compromising when the glory of our country is at stake, and if there’s one right that the Union can claim, it’s the right to have our formidable cannon within its boundaries. Now, under present circumstances …”

“Good old Maston …” said Barbicane.

“Let me finish my thoughts. Under present circumstances we’re forced to choose a place fairly near the equator so that conditions will be right for our experiment …”

“Will you please …” said Barbicane.

“I demand free discussion of ideas,” retorted the impetuous J. T. Maston, “and I maintain that the ground from which our glorious projectile will be launched must belong to the Union.”

“Of course!” said several members.

“Well, then, since our borders aren’t wide enough, since the ocean constitutes an insurmountable obstacle to the south, since we must seek that twenty-eighth parallel in a country adjacent to the United States, we have a legitimate reason for fighting, and I demand that we declare war on Mexico!”

“No! No!” cried the members from all over the room.

“No?” said J. T. Maston. “That’s a word I thought I’d never hear within these walls!”

“But listen …”

“Never! Never!” shouted the fiery orator. “Sooner or later that war will be fought, and I demand that it be declared this very day!”

“Maston,” said Barbicane, firing his detonating bell, “you no longer have the floor!”

Maston tried to make a rejoinder, but several of his colleagues succeeded in controlling him.

“I agree,” said Barbicane, “that the experiment can and
must take place only on the territory of the Union, but if my impatient friend had let me speak, if he had glanced at a map, he would know that there’s no need to declare war on our neighbors, because some borders of the United States are below the twenty-eighth parallel. As you can see from this map, we have the whole southern part of Texas and Florida at our disposal.”

The incident was closed, but it was not without regret that J. T. Maston let himself be convinced. It was decided that the cannon would be cast in either Texas or Florida. But this decision was to stir up an unparalleled rivalry between the towns of those two states.

When it meets the American coast, the twenty-eighth parallel runs across the Florida peninsula and divides it into two almost equal parts. Then it plunges into the Gulf of Mexico, passes beneath the arc formed by the coasts of Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana, cuts off one corner of Texas, extends into Mexico, crosses Sonora and Baja California, and heads into the vast Pacific. And so only those portions of Texas and Florida below this parallel fulfilled the conditions of latitude recommended by the Cambridge Observatory.

Southern Florida has no sizable towns, only forts erected against wandering Indians. Tampa was the only town that could point to its location and put forward a claim to be chosen as the site of the experiment.

In Texas, however, the towns are larger and more numerous. Corpus Christi in Nuecas County, all the towns on the Rio Grande, such as Laredo, Comalites, and San Ignacio in Webb County, Roma and Rio Grande City in Starr County, Edinburg in Hidalgo County, and Santa Rita, El Panda, and Brownsville in Cameron County formed an imposing league against the claims of Florida.

Shortly after the decision was made known, delegates
from Texas and Florida arrived in Baltimore. From then on, Barbicane and the influential members of the Gun Club were besieged night and day by overwhelming assertions and demands. Seven Greek cities quarreled over the honor of having been Homer’s birthplace, but two whole states now threatened to come to blows over a cannon.

These “fierce brothers” walked the streets of the city in armed groups. Each time they met there was danger of a conflict that would have had disastrous consequences. Fortunately Barbicane’s caution and adroitness warded off this danger. Personal feelings were given an outlet in the newspapers of the various states. The
New York Herald
and the
Tribune,
for example, supported Texas, while the
Times
and the
American Review
took up the cause of Florida. The members of the Gun Club did not know which to listen to.

Texas proudly pointed to its twenty-six counties and seemed to line them up in battle array; Florida replied that its twelve counties could do more than twenty-six in a state that was six times bigger.

Texas bragged about its 330,000 inhabitants; Florida boasted that it was more densely populated with its 56,000 inhabitants, since its area was so much smaller. Furthermore, it accused Texas of specializing in malaria, which took the lives of several thousand people every year. And it was true.

Texas replied that Florida was second to none when it came to fevers, and that it was rash, to say the least, to accuse other places of being unhealthy when it had the honor of having
vomigo negro
in a chronic state. And this was also true.

“Besides,” the Texans added through the voice of the
New York Herald,
“it is unthinkable to snub a state that
grows the best cotton in the country, produces the best oak for ship construction, contains magnificent coal deposits, and has iron mines whose yield is fifty percent pure ore.”

To this the
American Review
answered that, while the soil of Florida was not as rich, it would be better for molding and casting the cannon because it was composed of sand and clayey earth.

“But,” said the Texans, “before casting anything in a place, you have to get there first, and travel to Florida is difficult, while the coast of Texas has Galveston Bay, which has thirty-five miles of coastline and is big enough to hold all the fleets in the world.”

“You may as well forget about your Galveston Bay,” replied the newspapers devoted to Florida, “because it’s above the twenty-ninth parallel. But we have Tampa Bay, which opens south of the twenty-eighth parallel and enables ships to go directly to Tampa.”

“A fine bay!” said Texas. “It’s half silted up!”

“Silted up yourself!” retorted Florida. “Are you trying to insinuate that I’m a land of savages?”

“Well, it’s true that the Seminoles still roam across you.”

“What about your Apaches and Comanches? I suppose they’re civilized!”

The war had been going on this way for several days when Florida tried to draw its adversary into another area. One morning the
Times
stated that since the project was “thoroughly American,” it should take place only on “thoroughly American” land.

Texas was stung to the quick. “American!” it cried. “We’re just as American as you are! Texas and Florida both became part of the Union in the same year: 1845!”

“Maybe so,” said the
Times,
“but we’d belonged to the United States since 1820.”

“You certainly had,” said the
Tribune.
“After being Spanish or English for two hundred years, you were sold to the United States for five million dollars!”

“What of it?” said the Floridians. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. All the land in the Louisiana Purchase was bought from Napoleon in 1803 for only fifteen million dollars.”

“It’s disgraceful!” cried the Texans. “A wretched lump of land like Florida dares to compare itself to Texas, which instead of selling itself, won its independence by driving out the Mexicans on March 2, 1836, declared itself a republic after Sam Houston’s victory over Santa Anna’s troops on the banks of the San Jacinto, and later
voluntarily
joined the United States!”

“Because it was afraid of the Mexicans,” said Florida.

Afraid! The word was much too strong. As soon as it was spoken the situation became intolerable. Everyone expected the two groups to fight a bloody battle in the streets of Baltimore at any moment. The authorities kept them under surveillance at all times.

Barbicane was at his wit’s end. He was inundated with notes, documents, and threatening letters. What decision was he to make? From the standpoint of suitability of soil, ease of communication, and speed of transportation, the two states were truly equal. As for political considerations, they were irrelevant.

This hesitation and perplexity had lasted for a long time when Barbicane finally resolved to put an end to it. He summoned his colleagues to a meeting, and the solution he proposed to them was profoundly wise, as will be seen.

“In view of what’s been happening between Florida
and Texas,” he said, “it’s obvious that the same difficulties will arise among the towns of whichever state is chosen. The rivalry will simply pass from the genus to the species, from states to towns. Texas has eleven towns that meet all the necessary conditions. If Texas is chosen, they’ll all fight for the honor of having the project, and they’ll only make more trouble for us. But Florida has only one town, so I think our choice is clear: Florida and Tampa!”

When this decision was made public it was a crushing blow to the delegates from Texas. They flew into an indescribable rage and personally challenged each member of the Gun Club to a duel. Only one course of action was open to the city authorities, and they took it. A special train was assembled; the Texans were put aboard it whether they liked it or not, and they then left the city at a speed of thirty miles an hour.

Despite the rapidity of their departure, they still had time to hurl one last sarcastic and threatening remark at their adversaries. Referring to the narrowness of the Florida peninsula, they claimed it would not be able to withstand the shock of such a great explosion and would be blown to pieces the first time the cannon was fired.

“Then let it be blown to pieces!” the Floridians replied with a laconicism worthy of ancient times.

O
NCE THE
astronomical, mechanical, and geographical difficulties had been resolved, the question of money arose. An enormous sum would have to be procured for the project. The necessary millions could not be provided by any single person, or even by any single country.

Therefore, although the project was American, Barbicane decided to make it a worldwide undertaking by asking for the financial cooperation of every nation. It was both the right and the duty of the whole world to take a hand in the affairs of its satellite. The subscription that was opened for that purpose extended from Baltimore to the whole world,
urbi et orbi.