The spot where the projectile sank under the waves was exactly
known; but the machinery to grasp it and bring it to the surface
of the ocean was still wanting.  It must first be invented,
then made.  American engineers could not be troubled with
such trifles.  The grappling-irons once fixed, by their help
they were sure to raise it in spite of its weight, which was
lessened by the density of the liquid in which it was plunged.
But fishing-up the projectile was not the only thing to be thought of.
They must act promptly in the interest of the travelers.  No one
doubted that they were still living.
"Yes," repeated J. T. Maston incessantly, whose confidence
gained over everybody, "our friends are clever people, and they
cannot have fallen like simpletons.  They are alive, quite alive;
but we must make haste if we wish to find them so.  Food and
water do not trouble me; they have enough for a long while.
But air, air, that is what they will soon want; so quick, quick!"
And they did go quick.  They fitted up the Susquehanna for her
new destination.  Her powerful machinery was brought to bear
upon the hauling-chains.  The aluminum projectile only weighed
19,250 pounds, a weight very inferior to that of the transatlantic
cable which had been drawn up under similar conditions.  The only
difficulty was in fishing up a cylindro-conical projectile, the
walls of which were so smooth as to offer no hold for the hooks.
On that account Engineer Murchison hastened to San Francisco,
and had some enormous grappling-irons fixed on an automatic
system, which would never let the projectile go if it once
succeeded in seizing it in its powerful claws.  Diving-dresses
were also prepared, which through this impervious covering allowed
the divers to observe the bottom of the sea.  He also had put on
board an apparatus of compressed air very cleverly designed.
There were perfect chambers pierced with scuttles, which, with
water let into certain compartments, could draw it down into
great depths.  These apparatuses were at San Francisco, where
they had been used in the construction of a submarine breakwater;
and very fortunately it was so, for there was no time to
construct any.  But in spite of the perfection of the machinery,
in spite of the ingenuity of the savants entrusted with the use
of them, the success of the operation was far from being certain.
How great were the chances against them, the projectile being
20,000 feet under the water!  And if even it was brought to the
surface, how would the travelers have borne the terrible shock
which 20,000 feet of water had perhaps not sufficiently broken?
At any rate they must act quickly.  J. T. Maston hurried the
workmen day and night.  He was ready to don the diving-dress
himself, or try the air apparatus, in order to reconnoiter the
situation of his courageous friends.
But in spite of all the diligence displayed in preparing the
different engines, in spite of the considerable sum placed at
the disposal of the Gun Club by the Government of the Union,
five long days (five centuries!) elapsed before the preparations
were complete.  During this time public opinion was excited to
the highest pitch.  Telegrams were exchanged incessantly
throughout the entire world by means of wires and electric cables.
The saving of Barbicane, Nicholl, and Michel Ardan was an
international affair.  Every one who had subscribed to the Gun
Club was directly interested in the welfare of the travelers.
At length the hauling-chains, the air-chambers, and the
automatic grappling-irons were put on board.  J. T. Maston,
Engineer Murchison, and the delegates of the Gun Club, were
already in their cabins.  They had but to start, which they did
on the 21st of December, at eight o'clock at night, the corvette
meeting with a beautiful sea, a northeasterly wind, and rather
sharp cold.  The whole population of San Francisco was gathered
on the quay, greatly excited but silent, reserving their hurrahs
for the return.  Steam was fully up, and the screw of the
Susquehanna carried them briskly out of the bay.
It is needless to relate the conversations on board between
the officers, sailors, and passengers.  All these men had but
one thought.  All these hearts beat under the same emotion.
While they were hastening to help them, what were Barbicane and
his companions doing?  What had become of them?  Were they able to
attempt any bold maneuver to regain their liberty?  None could say.
The truth is that every attempt must have failed!  Immersed nearly
four miles under the ocean, this metal prison defied every effort
of its prisoners.
On the 23rd inst., at eight in the morning, after a rapid
passage, the Susquehanna was due at the fatal spot.  They must
wait till twelve to take the reckoning exactly.  The buoy
to which the sounding line had been lashed had not yet
been recognized.
At twelve, Captain Blomsberry, assisted by his officers who
superintended the observations, took the reckoning in the
presence of the delegates of the Gun Club.  Then there was a
moment of anxiety.  Her position decided, the Susquehanna was
found to be some minutes westward of the spot where the
projectile had disappeared beneath the waves.
The ship's course was then changed so as to reach this exact point.
At forty-seven minutes past twelve they reached the buoy; it was
in perfect condition, and must have shifted but little.
"At last!" exclaimed J. T. Maston.
"Shall we begin?" asked Captain Blomsberry.
"Without losing a second."
Every precaution was taken to keep the corvette almost
completely motionless.  Before trying to seize the projectile,
Engineer Murchison wanted to find its exact position at the
bottom of the ocean.  The submarine apparatus destined for this
expedition was supplied with air.  The working of these engines
was not without danger, for at 20,000 feet below the surface of
the water, and under such great pressure, they were exposed to
fracture, the consequences of which would be dreadful.
J. T. Maston, the brothers Blomsberry, and Engineer Murchison,
without heeding these dangers, took their places in the
air-chamber.  The commander, posted on his bridge, superintended
the operation, ready to stop or haul in the chains on the
slightest signal.  The screw had been shipped, and the whole
power of the machinery collected on the capstan would have
quickly drawn the apparatus on board.  The descent began at
twenty-five minutes past one at night, and the chamber,
drawn under by the reservoirs full of water, disappeared
from the surface of the ocean.
The emotion of the officers and sailors on board was now
divided between the prisoners in the projectile and the
prisoners in the submarine apparatus.  As to the latter, they
forgot themselves, and, glued to the windows of the scuttles,
attentively watched the liquid mass through which they were passing.
The descent was rapid.  At seventeen minutes past two, J. T.
Maston and his companions had reached the bottom of the Pacific;
but they saw nothing but an arid desert, no longer animated by
either fauna or flora.  By the light of their lamps, furnished
with powerful reflectors, they could see the dark beds of the
ocean for a considerable extent of view, but the projectile was
nowhere to be seen.
The impatience of these bold divers cannot be described, and
having an electrical communication with the corvette, they made
a signal already agreed upon, and for the space of a mile the
Susquehanna moved their chamber along some yards above the bottom.
Thus they explored the whole submarine plain, deceived at every
turn by optical illusions which almost broke their hearts.
Here a rock, there a projection from the ground, seemed to be
the much-sought-for projectile; but their mistake was soon
discovered, and then they were in despair.
"But where are they? where are they?" cried J. T. Maston.  And the
poor man called loudly upon Nicholl, Barbicane, and Michel Ardan,
as if his unfortunate friends could either hear or answer him
through such an impenetrable medium!  The search continued under
these conditions until the vitiated air compelled the divers to ascend.
The hauling in began about six in the evening, and was not ended
before midnight.
"To-morrow," said J. T. Maston, as he set foot on the bridge of
the corvette.
"Yes," answered Captain Blomsberry.
"And on another spot?"
"Yes."
J. T. Maston did not doubt of their final success, but his
companions, no longer upheld by the excitement of the first
hours, understood all the difficulty of the enterprise.
What seemed easy at San Francisco, seemed here in the wide
ocean almost impossible.  The chances of success diminished in
rapid proportion; and it was from chance alone that the meeting
with the projectile might be expected.
The next day, the 24th, in spite of the fatigue of the previous
day, the operation was renewed.  The corvette advanced some
minutes to westward, and the apparatus, provided with air, bore
the same explorers to the depths of the ocean.
The whole day passed in fruitless research; the bed of the sea
was a desert.  The 25th brought no other result, nor the 26th.
It was disheartening.  They thought of those unfortunates shut
up in the projectile for twenty-six days.  Perhaps at that
moment they were experiencing the first approach of suffocation;
that is, if they had escaped the dangers of their fall.  The air
was spent, and doubtless with the air all their morale.
"The air, possibly," answered J. T. Maston resolutely, "but
their morale never!"
On the 28th, after two more days of search, all hope was gone.
This projectile was but an atom in the immensity of the ocean.
They must give up all idea of finding it.
But J. T. Maston would not hear of going away.  He would not
abandon the place without at least discovering the tomb of
his friends.  But Commander Blomsberry could no longer persist,
and in spite of the exclamations of the worthy secretary, was
obliged to give the order to sail.
On the 29th of December, at nine A.M., the Susquehanna, heading
northeast, resumed her course to the bay of San Francisco.
It was ten in the morning; the corvette was under half-steam, as
it was regretting to leave the spot where the catastrophe had
taken place, when a sailor, perched on the main-top-gallant
crosstrees, watching the sea, cried suddenly:
"A buoy on the lee bow!"
The officers looked in the direction indicated, and by the help
of their glasses saw that the object signalled had the
appearance of one of those buoys which are used to mark the
passages of bays or rivers.  But, singularly to say, a flag
floating on the wind surmounted its cone, which emerged five
or six feet out of water.  This buoy shone under the rays
of the sun as if it had been made of plates of silver.
Commander Blomsberry, J. T. Maston, and the delegates of the Gun
Club were mounted on the bridge, examining this object straying
at random on the waves.
All looked with feverish anxiety, but in silence.  None dared
give expression to the thoughts which came to the minds of all.
The corvette approached to within two cables' lengths of the object.
A shudder ran through the whole crew.  That flag was the
American flag!
At this moment a perfect howling was heard; it was the brave J.
T. Maston who had just fallen all in a heap.  Forgetting on the
one hand that his right arm had been replaced by an iron hook,
and on the other that a simple gutta-percha cap covered his
brain-box, he had given himself a formidable blow.
They hurried toward him, picked him up, restored him to life.
And what were his first words?
"Ah! trebly brutes! quadruply idiots! quintuply boobies that we are!"
"What is it?" exclaimed everyone around him.
"What is it?"
"Come, speak!"
"It is, simpletons," howled the terrible secretary, "it is that
the projectile only weighs 19,250 pounds!"
"Well?"
"And that it displaces twenty-eight tons, or in other words
56,000 pounds, and that consequently it floats!"
Ah! what stress the worthy man had laid on the verb "float!"
And it was true!  All, yes! all these savants had forgotten
this fundamental law, namely, that on account of its specific
lightness, the projectile, after having been drawn by its fall
to the greatest depths of the ocean, must naturally return to
the surface.  And now it was floating quietly at the mercy of
the waves.
The boats were put to sea.  J. T. Maston and his friends had
rushed into them!  Excitement was at its height!  Every heart
beat loudly while they advanced to the projectile.  What did
it contain?  Living or dead?
Living, yes! living, at least unless death had struck
Barbicane and his two friends since they had hoisted the flag.
Profound silence reigned on the boats.  All were breathless.
Eyes no longer saw.  One of the scuttles of the projectile was open.
Some pieces of glass remained in the frame, showing that it had
been broken.  This scuttle was actually five feet above the water.
A boat came alongside, that of J. T. Maston, and J. T. Maston
rushed to the broken window.
At that moment they heard a clear and merry voice, the voice of
Michel Ardan, exclaiming in an accent of triumph:
"White all, Barbicane, white all!"
Barbicane, Michel Ardan, and Nicholl were playing at dominoes!