Twenty Thousand leagues Under Seas by Ruth Sacks

Twenty Thousand Leagues Under Seas

Ruth Sacks

Edited by Sean Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Toole

Garamond Press

Published with the support of The French Institute of South Africa as part of the France-South Africa Seasons 2012 & 2013 and Iwalewa Haus Africa Center of the University of Bayreuth

Published by Garamond Press ÂŠ Ruth Sacks Johannesburg, South Africa, 2013 Set in Caslon Pro

ISBN 978-1-920663-00-1

For Pathik

Table of Contents: Part I: 1.

A Shifting Reef

The Pros and Cons

As Master Wishes

Ned Drake

Random Acts

At Full Steam

An Unknown Species of Whale

Mobilis in Mobili

The Harpoonerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Temper

10. The Man of the Seas 11. A Floating Library 12. Beneath the Domes 13. Found in the Depths 14. All By Electricity 15. Some Figures 16. The Black Current 17. A Note of Invitation 18. A Submarine Forest 19. Four Thousand Leagues Under the Pacific 20. Vanikoro 21. Torres Straits 22. Birds of Paradise 23. Aegri Somnia 24. The Coral Kingdom

Part II: 1.

The Indian Ocean

A New Proposition

A Pearl Worth 10 Millions

The Red Sea

Arabian Tunnel

The Grecian Archipelago

The Mediterranean in 48 Hours

The Bay of Vigo

A Lost Continent

10. The Underwater Coalfields 11. The Sargasso Sea 12. Cachalots and Baleen Whales 13. The Ice Bank 14. The South Pole 15. Accident or Incident 16. Want of Air 17. From Cape Horn to Amazon 18. The Devilfish 19. The Gulf Stream 20. In Latitude 47° 24’ and Longitude 17° 28’ 21. A Mass Execution 22. The Last Words of Captain Nemo 23. Conclusion

“ In every place of great resort, the monster was the fashion. They sung about it in the cafés, ridiculed it in newspapers and represented it on the stage.” Jules Verne, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea

“ Of course, every style is unique, but Art Nouveau was unique among styles for it was desired, sought, aspired to, indeed, invented.” Norbert Wolf, Art Nouveau

PART I

1. A Shifting Reef Surely nobody has forgotten those extraordinary incidents that set 1866 apart? The inexplicable events of that year ignited wild speculation, setting the maritime population on edge, not to mention the imagination of the general public. Seafaring men were particularly agitated: Merchants, common sailors, naval officers, captains and skippers from Europe and America, not to mention the governments on the 2 continents, were deeply concerned by the business. “An enormous thing” had been seen from various vessels. It was long, spindle-shaped and infinitely larger than any whale, with more rapid and contorted movements. Reports included that it was sometimes phosphorescent The facts relating to this apparition that were entered in different logbooks agreed on the overall appearance of the object or creature in question, as well as the fact that it was extraordinarily powerful and able to travel at unheard of speeds. If it was a whale, it was far greater in bulk than any that had been classified by science up to that point. No naturalist, not Cuvier, Lacépède, Professor Dumeril or Professor de Quatrefages, would have accepted the existence of such a monster without having seen it with his own eyes. Looking at the average of all the observations made on different occasions and rejecting more tentative estimates of a length of 200 feet, along with those exaggerated views that took it as a mile wide and 3 long, one could conclude that this mysterious organism greatly exceeded all dimensions agreed upon by experts at that time (if, indeed, it was a living form at all). It was an undeniable fact that the phenomenon existed, so it could not be dismissed as pure fiction. The human tendency to be fascinated by that which is extraordinary ignited tremendous excitement across the globe for the supposedly supernatural apparition. On 20th July 1866, the steamer Sirjohnsoane, of the Calcutta and Burnach Steam Navigation Company, had met with a mass that moved 5 miles off the east coast of Australia. At first, Captain Burke thought he was in the presence of an unknown sandbank. He was about to establish its exact position, when, with a hissing noise, 2 columns of water shot out of the mysterious object about 150 feet into the air. Unless the ‘sandbank’ housed an erupting geyser, the Sirjohnsoane had to assume it was dealing with a previously unknown aquatic animal that had blowholes which spurted water, air and steam. Similar facts were observed on 23rd July of the same year in the Pacific Ocean. The Walpole, of the West India and Pacific Steam Navigation Company, saw an extraordinary creature that could transport itself with astounding speed. In an interval of 3 days, the Sirjonsoane and the Walpole had observed it 1

at 2 different points on the chart, separated by a distance of more than 700 nautical leagues. Exactly 15 days later and 2,000 leagues further off, the Hugo, from the Compagnie Nationale and the Westminster from the Royal Mail line, running on opposite tacks in that part of the Atlantic lying between the United States and Europe, respectively signalled to each other that the monster had been sighted in latitude 42° 15’ north and longitude 60° 35’ west of the Greenwich Meridian. Both ships judged the creature to be greater than 350 feet long. They based these deductions on the knowledge that the creature was larger than their respective vessels, each measuring 330 feet, stem to stern. I should let it be known here that the biggest known whales at that time were rorqual whales that frequent the seas around the Aleutian, Kulammak and Umgullich Islands. These have never exceeded a length of 57 yards. Reports kept coming in, further stoking the flames of public debate every time. There were new observations taken by the transatlantic liner, the Palladio; the Inman line’s Ossian running afoul of the monster; an official report drawn up by officers on the French frigate Ledoux; and reckonings obtained by the general staff of Commodore Richardson aboard the Abbotsford. In more lighthearted countries, people joked about the phenomenon, but the practical nations of England and America treated the matter with extreme seriousness. In every place of great resort, the monster was the fashion. They sung about it in the cafés, ridiculed it in newspapers and represented it on the stage. The tabloids took the opportunity to invent all manner of hoaxes around the topic. If they found themselves short of copy, they simply brought out new caricatures of every gigantic imaginary creature the world has ever seen, from the terrible white whale Moby Dick, to the stupendous kraken, whose tentacles could entangle a ship of 500 tons and drag it to the ocean depths. Even the ancient legends from historic bestiaries were revived. Excerpts from the writings of Aristotle and Pliny, who took the existence of such monsters as fact, were reprinted. So, too, were the Norwegian tales of Bishop Pontoppidan, as well as the narratives of Paul Egede and those of Captain Waterhouse, whose good faith is above suspicion. While aboard the Queen Anne in 1857, the captain had seen one of those immense sea serpents that, until that time, had only frequented the seas of France’s old extremist newspaper, The Constitutionalist. Then the inevitable, never-ending debates broke out between believers and sceptics. In academic societies and scientific journals, the question of the monster inflamed learned people. During this memorable period, journalists who made a profession out of science battled those whose trade was wit, spilling seas of ink in the process. Some moved on to drawing blood, as the arguments swiftly moved from sea serpents to offensive personal remarks. The war seesawed on for 6 months. The popular press delighted in ridiculing feature articles from the Geographic Institute of Brazil; the Royal Academy of Science in Berlin; the British Association; the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, DC; and discussions 2

in The Indian Archipelago; Cosmos, published by Father Moigno; Petermann’s Mittheilungen; and at scientific chronicles in the great French and foreign newspapers. When one of the monster’s detractors dug up a quote from the botanist Linnaeus, saying, “Nature doesn’t make leaps,” it was gleefully taken up by writers who considered themselves witty. Parodies ranged from, “Nature doesn’t make leaps of faith,” to suggestions that one should never give the lie to nature by believing in Leviathans, sea serpents and the other inventions of drunken sailors. The last straw came when the most popular columnist in a notorious satirical journal vanquished the monster once and for all, spurning it in the style of Hippolytus repulsing his mother Phaedra. Thus, the creature was dealt its death knell amidst a collective burst of laughter. It seemed that wit had, once again, defeated reason. During the first months of 1867, the thing was not sighted. The great question seemed buried without sign of resurrection. Then, new facts appeared that forced the situation out of the realm of theoretical discussion and into the very present world of physical danger. The conversation now took on an entirely different shape. The monster had become an islet, rock or reef again, but this time one that was unfixed and elusive. On 5th March 1867, the Tomsfuller, of the Montreal Ocean Company, finding herself in latitude 27˚ 30’ and longitude 72˚ 15’ during the night, struck a rock on her starboard quarter. But the deadly protrusion was not marked on any chart of that part of the sea. The ship, aided by steam and the wind’s 400-horsepower, was going at a rate of 13 knots. If the Tomsfuller’s hull had not been of a superior quality, she would certainly have been broken by the shock of the collision and gone down with 237 passengers on board. The accident happened at about 05:00, just as the day was breaking. The officers on watch rushed to the stern of the vessel. They examined the sea with the utmost attention to every detail. There was nothing there except for a strong eddy breaking about 3 cables’ length out, giving the impression that the surface had just been violently agitated. The bearings of the location were recorded in exact detail and the Tomsfuller continued her journey. There was some discussion as to whether the obstruction had been a rock or, perhaps, an enormous submerged wreck. There was no way of telling. On examination of the ship’s nether regions, it was found that half of her keel was broken. This occurrence, though grave enough in itself, might have been forgotten like so many other unexplained mysteries of the deep if, 3 weeks later, it had not been re-enacted under similar circumstances. Thanks to the nationality of the second victim, not to mention the reputation of its company, the event caused an immense uproar. It was on 13th April 1867, that the Walterscotia of the Cunard Company’s line found herself in longitude 15˚ 12’ and latitude 43˚ 37’, in a beautiful sea with a favourable breeze. She was going at the speed of 13.43 knots, under the thrust of her 1,000-horsepower engines, at 16:15, when a collision occurred. The passengers were all gathered in the great saloon for high tea at the time. The 3

Walterscotia’s hull had been damaged, in that quarter a little astern of her port paddle wheel. The ship had definitely not run afoul of something. She had been struck by something sharp and penetrating. The shock had been so slight that no one would have been alarmed, had it not been for the shout of the crewmen in the hold, who rushed on deck, crying, “We’re sinking! We’re sinking!” At first, the passengers were terrified, but Captain Panthion ensured that they remained calm by pointing out that there was no immediate danger. This ship was made up of 7 different compartments, separated by watertight bulkheads, so she could brave any leak with impunity. Captain Panthion made his way to the hold to discover it was the 5th compartment that had been injured. The leak was considerable. It was fortunate that the boilers were not in the same compartment as the furnaces, or they would have been extinguished immediately. Captain Panthion called for the ship to halt and some of the sailors dived down to assess the damage. They soon discovered a hole on the ship’s underside that was just less than 2 yards wide. It was impossible to patch up such a leak so, with her paddle wheels half swamped, the Walterscotia was obliged to continue her voyage. She was then 300 miles off Cape Clear. After 3 days’ delay, which caused great unease in Liverpool, she entered the company docks. The engineers visited the Walterscotia in dry dock and they could not believe their eyes. At least 2.5 yards below the watermark was a symmetrical rent, in the shape of a perfect, although elongated, isosceles triangle. The breech in the sheet iron was so perfectly defined that a punch could not have done a better job. It was clear, then, that the instrument producing the perforation was not of the common stamp. After having been driven with fantastic strength through 1.5 inches of sheet iron, it had not become embedded in the metal but, with an inexplicable backward motion, had managed to withdraw itself. It was the last fact that roused another torrent of public passion. From that point on, every maritime casualty that could not be otherwise accounted for was charged to the monster’s account. This outrageous animal now had to shoulder responsibility for all shipwrecks, whose numbers are considerable. Of those 3,000 ships whose loss was annually recorded at the maritime insurance bureau, the number of sailing and steam ships assumed lost with all hands on deck, in the absence of all news, amounted to no less that 200. Now this imaginary creature was, justly or unjustly, accused of their disappearance. Thanks to the monster, communication between the different continents became increasingly dangerous. The public demanded that the formidable cetacean be purged from the sea at any cost.

2. The Pros and Cons When these events were taking place, I had just returned from a scientific expedition in the badlands of Nebraska in the United States. The French government had assigned me to the project in my capacity as Assistant Professor at the Museum of Natural History, in Paris, where I ran the Jardin des Plantes. After 6 months in Nebraska, I arrived in New York towards the end of March, laden with a precious collection. My departure for France was fixed for the first days of May. I was busy with classifying my mineralogical, botanical and zoological treasures, when the Walterscotia incident occurred. Of course, given my area of expertise, I was completely up to date on the question of the day. I had read and reread all the European and American papers without being any nearer to a conclusion than anybody else. On finding it impossible to form any views, I jumped from one extreme to the other. One thing was certain: Something really was out there. Any incredulous person could simply be directed to examine the curious wound found on the Walterscotia. On my arrival in New York, the question had reached boiling point. The theory of the floating island and the elusive reef, supported only by foolish minds, had been abandoned. It had always been ridiculous as, unless the reef had an engine in its belly, it could never manoeuvre so quickly. For the same reason, the idea of the floating hull of some enormous wreck had to be abandoned. There remained only 2 possible solutions to the question, which resulted in 2 distinct groups of supporters. On the one side, there were those who espoused the idea of a monster of colossal strength while, on the other, were those who backed the idea of an underwater boat with tremendous motor power. As plausible as the latter theory might be, it could not hold up against the inquiries that had been made in the old world and the new. In these turbulent times, when manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ingenuity is increasingly taxed on to build ever more powerful weapons of war, a government may well have created such a formidable engine without the knowledge of others. One only needs to look at how the Chassepot rifle led to the torpedo, which led to the underwater battering ram that will, no doubt, finally lead to the world putting its foot down (at least, I hope it will). But the hypothesis of a war machine collapsed in the face of formal denials from the various governments capable of such feats. The level of public interest, not to mention the fact that all transoceanic travel was suffering, ensured that their veracity could not be doubted. Besides which, it was quite impossible that the construction of such an underwater boat could have escaped the public eye. It would have been difficult enough, indeed, well-nigh impossible, for a private gentleman to 5

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keep such a secret under the circumstances, let alone a state whose every move is under constant surveillance by rival powers. After extensive inquiries had been conducted in England, France, Russia, Prussia, Spain, Italy, America, and even the Ottoman Empire, the notion of an underwater Moniter had to be rejected. The monster had resurfaced. In spite of the endless witticisms heaped on it in the popular press, the general imagination was, once again, caught up in outrageous ichthyological fantasies. Now that I was at hand in New York, several people did me the honour of consulting my opinion of the phenomenon in question. One of my publications to date had been an extensive quarto 2-volume affair entitled Mysteries of the Great Submarine Grounds. Because it had won high approval internationally, as well as in my own country, I had gained a reputation of specialization in this rather obscure branch of natural history. My advice was asked. I gave a simple reply of, â&#x20AC;&#x153;no comment,â&#x20AC;? for as long as I could, but I soon found myself in a corner. I was then obliged to give my opinion. The New York Herald summoned me to state my views and I was unable to refuse. As I had not been allowed to hold my tongue, I let it wag to a considerable degree. Addressing the question from every possible angle, political and scientific, the result was a meticulously researched article published on 30th April supporting the idea of a gigantic narwhal. It ended on a somewhat cowardly note on my part, allowing for the possibility that mankind might not yet have seen everything in the world there is to experience. But I wished to shelter my dignity as a professor and not give the Americans too much cause for laughter. For when they do manage to laugh, it is long and loud. I had reserved an escape route for myself, but deep down, I had admitted to the existence of the monster. Needless to say, my article was debated with high feeling. Despite the uproar it left in its wake, I believe it garnered me a number of supporters. At least the solution it proposed gave full liberty to the imagination. The human mind delights in grand conceptions of supernatural beings and the sea is one of its best vehicles. It is the only medium on earth suited to breeding giants next to which elephants and rhinoceroses are dwarfed. The ocean supports the largest known species of mammals and may well harbour molluscs of immense size and crustaceans too enormous for us to conceive of. There is no reason why there should not be 110 yard lobsters and crabs weighing 200 tons. In prehistoric times, land animals like quadrupeds, apes, reptiles and birds, existed on a colossal scale. Our Creator cast them in gigantic moulds that have been whittled down by time. The seaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s untapped depths, which have been subject to less upheaval, could well have kept its titanic species from another age alive. But there is no use in pursuing fairytales. The reality was that public opinion had begun to crystallize around the nature of the phenomenon. And it had settled on the existence of a prodigious creature that had little to do with the dragons and sea serpents of fable. Practical people, primarily in America and England, were 8

determined to rid the seas of this daunting nuisance and ensure safe transoceanic travel. The industrial and commercial papers backed this point of view. The Shipping and Mercantile Gazette; Lloydâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s List; the Packet-Boat; the Maritime and Colonial Review; and all papers devoted to insurance companies that were threatening to raise their premium rates, were unanimous on this point. Public opinion had been pronounced and the United States was the first to act. In New York, preparations were under way for an expedition to pursue the narwhal. The Thomas Jefferson, a frigate of great speed, was equipped to go to sea at short notice. The arsenals were opened to Commander Doric, who hastened the arming of the frigate. But, as often happens, the moment the decision had been made to pursue the monster, it refused to show its face. For 2 months, there was no word of the creature. Not a single ship encountered it. It seemed that the unicorn was wise to the plots being woven around it. Jesters suggested that, given the excess of discussion around it, the creature had probably intercepted a telegram on the Atlantic Cable concerning itself and was now avoiding all contact with humans. When the frigate had been fully armed for a long campaign and provided with formidable fishing apparatus, no one knew what course it should pursue. Impatience had grown to boiling point when, on 2nd July, word was sent from the Puginco. This steamer on the San Francisco line from California to Shanghai had sighted the animal 3 weeks before, in the North Pacific Ocean. The news was met with great excitement. The Thomas Jefferson was not even granted a 24-hour reprieve before setting off. Her provisions were loaded and the coalbunkers were filled to overflowing. But this was hardly a problem, as Captain Doric wanted nothing more than to set forth. Three hours before the Thomas Jefferson was due to leave the Brooklyn pier, I received a letter. It read as follows: To Mr Jeanneret, Professor in the Museum of Paris, 5th Avenue Hotel, New York Sir, if you will consent to join the Thomas Jefferson in this expedition, the Government of the United States would be delighted to see you as Franceâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s representative in this great undertaking. Commander Doric has placed a cabin at your disposal, should you wish to occupy it. Very cordially yours, K Douglas Secretary of the Navy

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3. As Master Wishes Before the arrival of the navy secretary’s letter, I had no more thought of pursuing the unicorn then of attempting the Northwest Passage. About 3 seconds after reading the honourable Secretary’s letter, I knew that the sole aim of my life was to chase the provoking creature and purge it from the world. But I had just returned from a tiring journey and was in need of some rest. I wanted nothing more than to see my country again. My friends, our modest lodgings at the Jardin des Plants and my much beloved and precious collections were calling me. But nothing could keep me back now. I pushed all fatigue aside, along with friends and collections. I accepted the American government’s offer. “Besides,” I thought, “all roads lead back to Europe. And the unicorn may be obliging enough to lead me directly to the coast of France. That worthy animal may even allow itself to be caught in European seas especially for my benefit. I will then insist on not bringing back less than 180 inches of his ivory halberd to the Museum of Natural History.” But, in the meantime, I would have to seek this narwhal in the North Pacific Ocean, which meant that my return route to France was via the Antipodes. “Milou,” I called, rather impatiently. Milou was my manservant. He was a true, devoted Flemish boy who had accompanied me on all my travels. I liked him and he returned the sentiment with redoubled enthusiasm. Milou was an unashamed stoic, punctilious on principle, habitually hardworking and was never caught off guard by any of the surprises that life throws at one. He was also quick with his hands and apt at any service required of him. The boy was loath to give advice, even when asked for it. The young Fleming had come to know quite a bit from being exposed to the scientists around the Jardin des Plantes. He had become a seasoned specialist in biological classification and could run up and down the whole ladder of branches, groups, classes, subclasses, orders, families, genera, subgenera, species and varieties of the natural world with acrobatic agility. Classification was his great passion and he knew little else. Well versed in terminology, he lacked practical application and I doubted he could tell a sperm whale from a baleen. Nevertheless, he was a fine, brave boy. He had followed me for the last 10 years, wherever science had led, and not once did I hear him complain about the hard conditions of a journey. However far away our destination might be, whether it was China or the Congo, he never made the slightest objection to 12

packing his suitcase and setting off. On top of all this, he enjoyed excellent health, defying all foreign sickness and was possessed of solid muscles. My manservant was very far from the type given to fits of nerves. It almost does not need to be said that his morals were impeccable. The boy was 30 years old at the time I am describing, making him 10 years younger than his master (if the reader will forgive the insertion). Milou had but one flaw. He stood on ceremony to an unnecessary degree. As a result, he only addressed me in the third person, which could be provoking at times. “Milou?” I called, while feverishly making plans for my departure. Certainly, I was sure of the boy’s constancy. As a rule, I did not ask him if it was convenient for him to follow me on my travels, but this time, the trip might be prolonged. Moreover, an enterprise involving a beast capable of sinking a frigate as easily as a nutshell could prove to be hazardous. Deciding to be part of this undertaking required some reflection, even from the most devoted of men. I called him a third time and he appeared. “Did Master call?” he said, entering. “Yes, my boy, get my things and yours ready. We leave in 2 hours.” “As Master pleases,” replied Milou. “There’s not an instant to lose. Pack my trunk with as much as you can squeeze in: My travelling kit, coats, shirts and stockings. Don’t bother counting, just hurry as fast as you can.” “What about Master’s collections?” he asked. “We’ll deal with them later.” “All of the archaeotherium, hyracotherium, oreodonts, cheiropotamus and Master’s other fossil skeletons?” “They’ll keep them at the hotel.” “What about Master’s live babirusa?” “They’ll feed it during our absence. Actually, it occurs to me now, we’ll leave careful instructions to ship the whole menagerie to France.” “Is the collection returning without us, then?” “Oh, we’ll certainly return to France,” I answered, “but by making a detour.” “Whatever the Master wishes.” “Oh, it will be nothing really. Just not quite so direct a road. We’ll be taking our passage on the Thomas Jefferson.” “Whatever Master thinks is best,” replied Milou, unruffled. “You see, my friend, it has to do with the monster, the notorious narwhal. We are going to purge it from the seas. The author of a 2-volume work in quarto on the Mysteries of the Seas cannot refuse to set sail with Commander Doric. It’s a glorious mission, but a dangerous one and we cannot tell where it will take us. But go I shall.” “I’ll do as Master does,” Milou replied. “But think it over,” I cautioned. “This may be one of those endeavours from which the crew never return.” “As Master wishes.” 13

Our trunks were ready within 15 minutes. I had the fullest confidence that Milou had left nothing out as his classification skills extended to shirts as much as plants and mammals. The brass hotel elevator delivered us to the ground floor. There, I settled the bill at the reception counter, which was permanently under siege by a considerable crowd. Leaving clear instructions for the shipping of my containers of stuffed animals and dried plants to Paris, I also opened a line of credit sufficient to cover the needs of my babirusa. Then, with Milou at my heels, I jumped aboard the nearest carriage. It cost 20 Francs to drive down Broadway to Union Square, take 4th Avenue to Bowery Junction, turn into Katrin Street and then stop at Pier 34. From there, the Katrin Ferry took men, horses and carriages over to Brooklyn, the great New York annex found on the left bank of the East River. In a matter of minutes, we had arrived at the wharf next to which the Thomas Jefferson spewed torrents of black smoke. Our baggage was quickly taken to the deck of the frigate. I hastened on board and asked for Commander Doric. One of the sailors conducted me to the poop, where I found myself in the presence of a smart-looking officer who extended his hand to me. “Monsieur Pierre Jeanneret?” he said? “Indeed,” I said. “Commander Doric?” “In person. Welcome aboard, Professor. Your cabin is ready for you.” I bowed and left him to continue with the business of getting under way. I was conducted to my cabin. The Thomas Jefferson had been well chosen and equipped for her new destination. She was a high-speed frigate, fitted with superheating equipment allowing her steam tension to build up to 7 atmospheres. Under these conditions, the Thomas Jefferson attained an average speed of nearly 160 knots per hour, a considerable speed under ordinary circumstances, although insufficient to grapple with a gigantic cetacean. The frigate’s interior accommodations complemented its nautical virtues. I was well satisfied with my cabin, which was in the stern and opened onto the officer’s mess. “We’ll be quite content here,” I said to Milou. “With all due respect to Master, as snug as a hermit crab in a whelk shell.” I left him to stow away our trunks and any further idioms he might have concocted, choosing to return to the deck to watch the preparations for departure. At that moment, Commander Doric was ordering the last moorings that held the ship to the Brooklyn pier to be cast loose. If I had been delayed by 10 minutes, the Thomas Jefferson would have sailed without me and I would have missed the extraordinary journey that I am about to relate. But Commander Doric did not want to lose a single day or even an hour in scouring the seas in which the animal had been sighted. He sent for his engineer. “Are we up to pressure?” he asked. 14

“Aye, Sir,” the engineer responded. “Go ahead, then!” the captain called. The order was relayed to the engine through a compressed air device and the mechanics activated the start-up wheel. Steam rushed into the gaping valves with a whistling sound. Long horizontal pistons groaned and pushed the drive shaft’s tie rods. The propeller’s blade churned the waves with increasing speed and the Thomas Jefferson moved out majestically, amid an escort of hundreds of ferries and tenders, all filled with eager, cheering spectators. The Brooklyn wharves, and every space with a view of the water along the East River embankment, were crowded with excited throngs of people. Cheering burst forth from 500,000 throats. With such a crush, one could have been mistaken into thinking the famed opera singer Jenny Lind was on board. Countless handkerchiefs were waving above tightly packed crowds, who continued to hail the Thomas Jefferson until she reached the waters of the Hudson River. The frigate followed the New Jersey coast, that wonderful right bank of the waterway, which almost sinks beneath the weight of luxurious country homes. We passed forts that saluted with their grandest canons. The Thomas Jefferson replied by lowering and hoisting the American flag 3 times w “Go ahead, then!” the captain called. The order was relayed to the engine through a compressed air device and the mechanics activated the start-up wheel. Steam rushed into the gaping valves with a whistling sound. Long horizontal pistons groaned and pushed the drive shaft’s tie rods. The propeller’s blade churned the waves with increasing speed and the Thomas Jefferson moved out majestically, amid an escort of hundreds of ferries and tenders, all filled with eager, cheering spectators. The Brooklyn wharves, and every space with a view of the water along the East River embankment, were crowded with excited throngs of people. Cheering burst forth from 500,000 throats. With such a crush, one could have been mistaken into thinking the famed opera singer Jenny Lind was on board. Countless handkerchiefs were waving above tightly packed crowds, who continued to hail the Thomas Jefferson until she reached the waters of the Hudson River. The frigate followed the New Jersey coast, that wonderful right bank of the waterway, which almost sinks beneath the weight of luxurious country homes. We passed forts that saluted with their grandest canons. The Thomas Jefferson replied by lowering and hoisting the American flag 3 times while her 39 stars gleamed from the gaff of the mizzen sail. The ship then had to change speed to go along the buoy-marked channel that curved into the inner bay formed by the spit of Sandy Hook. She hugged that strip of land, which was also crowded with thousands of spectators, hailing us for the last time. Our escort of boats and tenders still tailed after our brave ship. They only left when we came abreast of the 2 signal lights that mark the entrance to the narrows of the Upper New York Bay. 15

It was 15:00. The time had come for the harbour pilot to depart in his dinghy to join a small schooner that was waiting for him to leeward. The furnaces were stoked and the propeller churned the waves more rapidly. Our frigate now skirted the yellow coast of Long Island. By 20:30, the Fire Island lights had disappeared into the northwest. We then knew we were running at full steam into the dark waters of the Atlantic.

4. Ned Drake Captain Doric was a good seaman and innately worthy of the frigate he commanded. His vessel and he were one. On the question of the monster, there was no doubt whatsoever in his mind. He would not allow even a mention of the dispute over the animal’s veracity on board his ship. The captain believed in the giant cetacean in the way that certain good women believe in the Leviathan. That is, by faith, not reason. The monster existed and he had sworn to rid the seas of it. Either Captain Doric would kill the narwhal or the narwhal would kill the captain. There was no third option. The ship’s officers supported their leader’s views to the hilt. Their ongoing conversations and arguments revolved around calculating the various possible ways in which we might encounter the creature. They watched the vast surface of the ocean intently. More than one voluntarily took a turn as lookout in the crosstrees, which under normal circumstances would have been highly unusual behaviour. As long as the sun was in the sky, the rigging was crowded with sailors. Their zeal was so great that many burnt the bottoms of their feet on the heat of the deck by standing on it for too long. The ship’s company wanted nothing more than to find the unicorn, harpoon it and carve it up. Their incessant monitoring of the waves matched the eagerness of everybody else on board. Such was the crew’s enthusiasm before the Thomas Jefferson had even breached the suspect waters of the Pacific. I should point out that Captain Doric had offered a sum of $2,000 to the first person to sight the monster, regardless of whether that person was a cabin boy, common sailor or officer. I leave my reader to judge how eyes were used on board the Thomas Jefferson. As for myself, I was by no means lax in my continuous scouring of the ocean. The frigate may as well have been called the Argus, that creature from mythology who boasted a hundred eyes. Only Milou, with his dignified indifference, was removed from the general hysteria. I have already noted that Captain Doric had provided his ship with every conceivable piece of gear that might come in handy when fishing for giant cetaceans. The Thomas Jefferson was not wanting for any suitable means of destruction. And, on top of that, she had the greatest weapon of all: Ned Drake, the King of Harpooners. Ned Drake was a Canadian of uncommon ability. His quickness of hand was unrivalled and he had no equal in his dangerous occupation. He possessed skill, audacity and cunning to the highest degree. It was an exceptional whale indeed that managed to escape his harpoon. The Canadian was about 40 years old. He was a tall 17

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man, more than 6 feet high, and powerfully built. He had a serious turn of mind, shying away from company and his violent temper was well known. I was of the opinion that Commander Doric had made a wise move in hiring such a person to join our endeavour. His eye and throwing arm alone were worth as much as the whole crew put together. I can do him no better honour than to describe him as a powerful telescope that could double as a cannon, always ready to fire. Canadians are essentially French and, as unsociable as Ned Drake was, he seemed to take a liking to me. No doubt, this was due to my nationality. It provided the opportunity for him to talk and, in turn, I was able to hear that old Rabelaisian dialect still in use in certain Canadian provinces. The harpooner’s family was originally from Quebec and had been a tribe of hardy fishermen since the times when France had owned that land. Ned Drake gradually acquired the taste for chatting with me. I loved to hear his tales of adventures in the polar seas. He related his fishing trips and the battles that ensued from them with a natural lyricism. His recital took the form of an epic poem and I fancied I was listening to a Canadian Homer, singing the Iliad of the High Arctic regions. Ned Drake’s opinion on the question of the marine monster was a topic he noticeably avoided. He flatly did not believe in the unicorn. As he was the only person on board who did not share in the all-consuming conviction, he steered well clear of any talk concerning our prey. On the magnificent evening of 30th July, 3 week’s after our departure, the frigate was abreast of Cape Blanc, 30 miles leeward of the coast of Patagonia. We had crossed the tropic of Capricorn and the Straits of Magellan opened more than 700 miles to the South. Before 8 days were over, the Thomas Jefferson would be ploughing the waters of the Pacific. Ned Drake and I were sitting on the poop, chatting about one thing and another as we contemplated the mysterious sea, whose great depths are inaccessible to the eyes of man. I, naturally, led the conversation towards the giant narwhal, weighing up the various chances of our expedition’s success or failure. Ned Drake let me prattle on without joining in. I pressed him more closely: “Well, Ned, is it possible that you are not convinced of the existence of this creature we are following? Have you any particular reason for being so sceptical?” The harpooner looked hard at me for a few moments before answering. In one of his characteristic gestures, he slapped his broad forehead, as if to collect himself, and said: “Perhaps I have, Professor Jeanneret.” “But, Ned, you’re a professional whaler and familiar with all the great marine animals. You ought to be the last to doubt under such circumstances.” “That is precisely where you’re mistaken, Professor,” replied Ned. “The common man may still believe in comets crossing outer space and prehistoric monsters living at the earth’s core, but astronomers and geologists don’t. As a whaler, I have followed many a cetacean, 20

harpooned a great number and killed a substantial amount. But, however strong or well armed they may have been, neither their tails nor their tusks would have been able to even scratch the iron plates of a steamer.” “But Ned, they tell of ships which narwhal teeth have run clean through.” “In wooden ships, that is entirely possible,” replied the Canadian. “But I’ve never seen anything like it. And, until shown further proof, I deny that whales, cetaceans or sea unicorns could ever produce the effect you describe.” “Listen, Ned …” “No, Professor. I’m happy to go along with anything you want, except that. Some gigantic devilfish maybe?” “Even less likely, Ned. The devilfish is only a mollusc and, as that name belies — it’s Latin for soft one — its flesh is semi-liquid. The devilfish doesn’t belong to the vertebrate branch. Even if it were 500 feet long, it would never be able to make the slightest impact on ships like the Walterscotia or the Thomas Jefferson. Consequently, the feats of krakens or other monsters of that ilk must be relegated to the realm of fiction.” “So, Mr Naturalist,” Ned Drake continued in an amused tone, “you’re going to continue to believe in the existence of some enormous cetacean?” “Well, Ned, my conviction is lodged in facts. I certainly do believe in the existence of a powerfully organized mammal belonging to the branch of vertebrae, like the whale, cachalot and dolphin, which is furnished with a horn of great penetrating power. “Hm,” said the harpooner, shaking his head in the manner of a man not to be convinced. “My worthy Canadian, I would like you to bring your attention to one thing,” I said, “if such an animal exists, inhabiting the depths of the ocean lying miles below the surface of the water, it has to be constituted with a strength that defies all comparisons.” “And why so powerful?” demanded Ned. “Because any creature that is capable of living in the deep strata has to have an unbelievably strong constitution just to be able to withstand the extreme pressure.” “Oh, really?” said Ned, tipping me a conspiratorial wink. “Ned, I’m being deadly serious. And I can prove it to you with a few simple figures.” “Bosh!” Ned replied. “You can make figures do anything you like without proving anything.” “In business, I would tend to agree with you, Ned, but not in mathematics. Do me the honour of listening. Let’s start with the fact that the pressure of one atmosphere is represented by the weight of a column of water 32 feet high. In reality, the column would be shorter than this, as this is seawater we are talking about, filled with salt and therefore with a greater density than that of fresh water. When you dive, Ned, your body has to tolerate the pressure of 1 atmosphere for every 32 feet of water above you. 21

That means an extra 8 pounds for every square inch of your body’s surface. So it follows that 320 feet down, the pressure is equal to 10 atmospheres, at 3,200 feet it will be 100 atmospheres and at 32,000 feet, which is about 2.5 vertical leagues down, no less than 1,000 atmospheres. Which is the same as saying that if you could reach such a depth in the ocean, each square inch on your body’s surface would be experiencing 2,205 pounds of pressure. Now, my brave Ned, do you know how many square inches you have on your bodily surface?” “I haven’t the faintest idea, Professor Jeanneret.” “About 6,693.” “That many?” “Yes. And in reality, the atmospheric pressure is actually slightly more than 8 pounds per inch, so your 6,693 square inches are tolerating 39 at this very moment.” “Without my noticing it?” “Exactly. And if such a pressure doesn’t crush you, it’s because the air penetrates the interior of your body with equal force. Hence, there is perfect equilibrium between the interior and exterior pressure, which neutralize each other and allow you to bear it without discomfort. But, in the water, it is quite another matter.” “Yes, I understand, “ replied Ned, becoming more attentive, “because the water surrounds me but doesn’t penetrate.” “Precisely. So, at 32 feet beneath the surface of the sea you would undergo a pressure of 38,7 pounds. So, at 32,000 feet, or 1,000 times greater pressure, it would be 38,700,000 pounds. In other words, you would be flattened, squashed as flat as if you’d been drawn from the plates of a hydraulic press.” “The devil!” said Ned. “Very well, my worthy harpooner, if some vertebrate, several hundred yards long and proportionate in bulk can maintain itself in such depths for hundreds of years and whose surface area is made up of millions of square inches, we must estimate the pressure they undergo must be in the billions of pounds. Imagine the resistance to their bony structure and the strength of their make-up that allows them to withstand such pressure.” “They would need to be manufactured,” said Ned Drake. “From iron plates about 8 inches thick, like armoured frigates.” “It’s as you say, Ned. Now think of the damage such a powerful mass could inflict if it were hurled, with the speed of an express train, against the hull of a vessel.” “Yes, perhaps,” replied the Canadian. He was clearly shaken by the figures but not yet willing to give in.” “Well, have I convinced you?”” “You’ve certainly convinced me of one thing, Mr Naturalist. If such animals do exist at the bottom of the ocean, they must be as strong as you say. If they exist.” “But if they do not exist, how do you explain the accident to the Walterscotia?” “That’s maybe …” he hesitated. “Go on, Ned.” 22

“Because … it just couldn’t be true!” was his final word. But the reply only served to prove how pigheaded the harpooner could be. I did not press him further. There was, however, no denying the damage done to the Walterscotia. The damage done to it was real enough to warrant substantial repairwork before the ship was seaworthy again. And the hole, which was the source of all the mischief, did not make itself. As it’s origin could not be the rocks of the ocean floor or some sort of man-made machine, it must have been caused by an animal that possesses the means with which to perforate metal. I firmly believed that this animal was a member of the branch Vertebrata, class Mammalia, group Pisciforma, order Cetacea. In order to establish the exact family, genus and species in which it would find its proper home, I would have to dissect the creature. So it had to be caught before my endeavour could achieve its goal.

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5. Random Acts For a long time, there were no remarkable events punctuating the Thomas Jefferson’s voyage. One incident occurred that served to demonstrate Ned Drake’s impressive abilities and proved the extent to which we could place our trust in him. It was 30th June when our frigate came into contact with some American whalers on board the Wren. We learned that they knew nothing whatsoever about the narwhal. But the captain, on hearing that Ned Drake was with us, begged for his help in chasing a baleen whale they had in sight. Eager to see the Canadian at work, Commander Doric gave his permission. The outcome was that Ned harpooned not only one whale, but 2. The first was struck straight through the heart and the second was caught after a few minutes chase. I decided that, if the monster was ever in his hands, I would not hold much hope for its chances of escaping. The Thomas Jefferson skirted the east coast of South America with great speed. On 3rd July, we were at the opening of the Straits of Magellan, level with Cape Virgenes. Commander Doric wisely did not take this dangerous passage choosing rather to double Cape Horn. The ship’s crew were in complete agreement with him. In any case, it was highly unlikely we would find the narwhal in such a narrow strait. It was simply too large to navigate it. On 6th July, at about 15:00 in the afternoon, the Thomas Jefferson doubled the solitary islet at the southernmost tip of the South American continent. We were then 15 miles from the shores of what Dutch sailors had long ago named Cape Horn, after their hometown of Hoorn. Our course was set for northwest. By the next day, the frigate’s propeller was beating against the waters of the Pacific. “Keep your eyes open!” the sailors kept calling. They were open very wide indeed. Admittedly, dazzled by the prospect of the $2,000 reward, the eyes of the crew seldom had any rest. The ocean surface was closely monitored, day and night. Although money held no charms for me, I was by no means the least attentive on board. I gave only a few minutes to my meals and a few hours for my sleep. Indifferent to rain or sunshine, I hardly ever left the ship’s deck. Sometimes leaning on the netting of the forecastle and at others on the taffrail, my eyes devoured the cotton-coloured foam that whitened the sea all around us. I believe I looked until I was nearly blind, to the gentle accompaniment of Milou repeating: “If Master would stop keeping his eyes so wide open and remember to blink more often, Master would see better.” 26

I shared the high spirits of the crew when an arbitrary whale raised its black back above the waves. In an instant, the poop was crowded. A veritable torrent of sailors and officers poured forth from the cabins and each watched the cetacean’s course with a heaving breast and anxious eye. But all our efforts were in vain. When the Thomas Jefferson changed course to give chase to the animal, it turned out to be no more than a simple whale, or a common cachalot, which soon disappeared amid a storm of abuse on board. At least the weather was good. The voyage was taking place under the most favourable conditions. It was then the bad season in the southernmost regions, the July of that zone corresponding to our January in Europe. But the sea was calm and smooth and we were able to see for miles around the vessel. Ned Drake maintained his scepticism with great tenacity. When he was not on official watch, he made a point of seeming not to look at the ocean at all, staying in his cabin to read or sleep. Yet his eyesight was so highly developed that he could easily have spotted something the rest of us might not. When I reproached him for his lack of camaraderie, his response was: “Bah! Professor Jeanneret, there’s nothing out there. And even if there was, what chance would we have of spotting it? We’re just wandering around at random. People say they have seen this mysterious beast in the Pacific high seas — and I’m truly willing to believe that they have seen something unusual — but 2 months have already passed since then. Judging by the personality your narwhal has displayed so far, it doesn’t take very kindly to hanging around the same place for too long. It’s blessed with a fantastic gift of getting around at an impressive speed. Professor, you know better than I do that nature doesn’t bestow the gift of speed on a creature that is naturally slow. It would need to exercise its talent. So, if your narwhal exists, it will already be long gone from these parts.” There was no way to respond to this. Of course we were travelling blind, but there was no alternative course of action that I could see. I did accept that our chances of success were quite limited, yet everyone on board seemed confident. The mood was so buoyant at that point that, barring the Canadian, there was not a sailor on board that would have bet against the narwhal appearing. On 20th July, the Thomas Jefferson cut the tropic of Capricorn at longitude 105˚. On the 27th of the same month, we crossed the equator on the 110th meridian. After that, the frigate took a decidedly western direction, scouring the central waters of the Pacific. Commander Doric thought, with good reason, that it was better to remain in deep water and keep clear of continents or islands, which the beast seemed to shun. Our bosun voiced the general opinion, which was that the monster was too large for more shallow waters. So, the Thomas Jefferson kept well out when passing the Marquesas Islands and the Sandwich Islands. We crossed the Tropic of Cancer at longitude 132° and made for the China seas. Our ship was now in the area of the monster’s most recent antics. The entire crew was undergoing a nervous excitement of extreme 27

proportions. Nobody ate and very few slept. At least 20 times a day, a sailor perched in the crosstrees made a mistake, or experienced an optical illusion that led to intolerable levels of disappointment. These continual false leads kept us in a state of irritability that could only lead to a violent eruption. This soon showed itself. For 3 whole months, during which a day seemed an age, the Thomas Jefferson ploughed the waters of the Northern Pacific, racing after whales, abruptly veering off course and swerving sharply from one tack to another. She would also suddenly put on steam, stop and then reverse, all in such quick succession that she ran the risk of stripping her gears. Not one point between the shores of Japan and the beaches of America were left unexplored. Yet we found nothing in those waves that even vaguely resembled a giant narwhal, living island or runaway reef. The inevitable reactions then set in. At first there was discouragement, which gave way to disbelief. A mean-spirited mood began to pervade the atmosphere on board, made up of 30% shame and 70% fury. The crew now saw themselves as outright fools for being hoodwinked by a fairytale and grew steadily angrier. All of the good cheer that had been built up over a year collapsed in a flash. The men now insisted on catching up with their sleep, not to mention eating and drinking. Predictably, those who had been the most enthusiastic supporters of the enterprise now became its biggest detractors. The reaction mounted from the quarters of the bunker hands to the general staff mess room. The sailors could not hide their discontent and, had it not been for Commander Doric’s stern determination, the frigate would have headed due southward. But it was clear that the search could not last much longer. The Thomas Jefferson had done all she could to succeed and had no cause to lay blame at anyone’s door. Never had an American crew demonstrated such zeal and patience and they certainly were not responsible for the mission’s failure. There remained no option except to return. A request was made to the commander, who refused to give in. What followed was not exactly mutiny, but service suffered in the extreme. After a reasonable period of grave silence, Captain Doric followed in Columbus’s footsteps and asked his men for 3 day’s grace. If, after this time, if the monster had not appeared, the helmsman would give 3 turns at the wheel and the Thomas Jefferson would make for European seas. This promise was made on 2nd November. It had the immediate effect of rallying the crew’s spirits. Once more, the ocean was watched with great attention. Everyone wanted a last glance, so that they could remember doing the trip justice. Spyglasses were used with feverish activity. A final summons had been issued to the giant narwhal and we felt there was no acceptable excuse for it not to appear. Two days passed. The ship stayed at half steam. Thousands of schemes were attempted to try and attract the whale’s attention, in case it was in the vicinity. Small craft radiated in all directions around the frigate when she 28

lay to, so as not to leave any spot of the sea unexplored. When the night of 4th November arrived, the great mystery of the sea was nowhere close to being unveiled. At noon the next day, our time would expire. Commander Doric, faithful to his promise, was ready to fix our position and set the course for southeast, abandoning the northern regions of the Pacific. The frigate was then in latitude 31˚ 15’ north and longitude 136˚ 42’ east. The Japanese coast lay less than 200 miles to leeward. Night was approaching and 8 bells had been struck. Large clouds veiled the moon, then in its first quarter. The sea undulated peaceably under the stern of the vessel. At that moment, I was in the bow, leaning forward on the starboard rail. Milou stood near me, staring straight ahead. Most of the crew were roosted in the shrouds, examining the horizon, which was shrinking and darkening, little by little. Officers were using night spyglasses to scour the growing darkness. Sometimes the murky waters sparkled under the moonbeams darting between clouds. Then all trace of light was lost in the darkness. Glancing towards Milou, I could see that even he had been susceptible to the general mood on board. At least, I thought so. It seemed like even he was experiencing a slight tingle of curiosity as to what would happen next. “Come, Milou,” I said. “This is the last chance of pocketing the $2,000.” “If Master doesn’t mind my saying so, “ he began, “I never had ambitions to pursue that prize. Besides, if the American government had offered $100,000 it would have been none the poorer.” “You’re right, Milou. It turned out to be a foolish affair after all. And one which we embarked on too lightly. We should have headed back to France 6 months ago.” “By now, I would have already classified all Master’s fossils. And the babiroussa would have been installed in its cage in the Jardin des Plantes, attracting every curiosity seeker in town.” “As you say, Milou. What’s more, I imagine there’s a good chance we’re going to be laughed at for our pains on our return.” “That’s quite certain,” said Milou, quietly. “I think there’s going to be a lot of fun made at Master’s expense. And, may it be said … ? “ “Go on, my good friend.” “Well, it will serve Master right.” “Indeed, I must agree with you, Milou.” “When one has the honour of being as distinguished as Master, one should not expose oneself to … “ Milou never had the time to finish his compliment. A voice rang out from the silence. It was Ned Drake shouting: “Look out there! The thing you’re looking for — it’s on our weather beam!”

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6. At Full Steam At the harpooner’s cry, the whole ship’s crew rushed towards him. Commander, officers, masters, sailors and cabin boys all ran out to see. Even the engineers and stokers abandoned the furnaces. The order to stop had been given and the frigate now coasted along on her own momentum. The darkness, by this time, was intense. Regardless of how good the Canadian’s eyes were, I wondered if perhaps he had made a mistake. My heart beat as if it was about to burst. But Ned Drake was not mistaken. At 2 cables’ length from the Thomas Jefferson, on the starboard quarter, the sea seemed to be lit up from below. We could all now see that this was not a mere phosphoric phenomenon as the shape of the monster was visible. It was submerged a few fathoms below the water, emitting that inexplicable, very intense glow mentioned by several captains that had seen it. Only something imbued with a force of great luminosity was capable of producing such magnificent radiance. The outermost edge of light traced an immense, elongated, oval onto the surface of the water, condensing at the centre into a blazing core of overpowering brilliancy. “It is only a gathering of phosphoric particles,” cried one of the officers. “No, Sir,” I replied. “Not even angel-wing clams or salps are able to give off that much light. That brightness has to be of an electric nature. Besides, look, it’s moving! It’s going backwards and forwards … I do believe it’s coming towards us!” A general cry arose from the frigate. “Silence!” ordered Commander Doric. “Helm hard to leeward! Reverse the engines!” Sailors hastened to the helm and the engineers returned to their machinery. Almost immediately, the Thomas Jefferson was under reverse steam, beating to port in a sweeping semi-circle. “Right our helm! Engines forward!” called Captain Doric. These orders were executed and the frigate quickly moved away from the searing light. But as she tried to retreat, the unearthly animal came at her at twice the speed of the ship. We gasped. It was not fear so much as shock that kept us frozen in our positions. The animal gained on us, making as if it was playing a game. It circled around the frigate at a speed of about 14 knots, enveloping the ship with its electric wings of light, like luminous dust. Then it retreated by 2 or 3 miles, leaving a phosphorescent track in its wake, reminding me of the swirls of steam that shoot off from express trains. Then, seemingly all the way from the dark horizon where it had 32

been gathering momentum, the monster suddenly rushed towards the Thomas Jefferson with terrifying speed. It came to an abrupt halt about 20 feet from the hull and it’s light stopped along with it. As the brilliant glow vanished, all at once rather than gradually, I assumed it had not sunk under the water. For some reason, the source of emanation had dried up. The monster then reappeared on the other side of the vessel, suggesting it must have either circled us again or swum under the hull. A fatal collision could have occurred at any point. I was astonished that the frigate continued to flee and did not stand and fight. A ship designed to be on the offensive was itself under attack. I glanced at Commander Doric, who was then by my side. His usually impassive face was betraying signs of extreme shock. “Professor Jeanneret,” he said, “I don’t know with what nature of formidable creature I have to deal with and I won’t imprudently risk my frigate in the midst of this darkness. Besides, how does one attack this unknown thing and defend oneself from it? Let’s wait for daylight and then it will be easier to take control of the situation.” “Captain, do you have any further doubts as to what kind of animal this is?” “No, Sir. It is evidently a giant narwhal. And what’s more, an electric one.” “Perhaps,” I said, “it will be as unapproachable as an electric eel or ray.” “Undoubtedly,” replied the captain. “If it shares those animals’ power to electrocute, it must be the most fearsome beast ever created. That is why, Sir, I must be on my guard.” The crew were on their feet all night. No one gave any thought to sleep. The Thomas Jefferson, unable to compete with the monster’s speed, had checked her pace and now sailed at half steam. For its part, the narwhal imitated the frigate and slowed down to allow the waves to rock it at will. The creature seemed determined not to leave the battlefield. It was around midnight that it suddenly disappeared. Or, to use a more appropriate term, it “died out”, like a giant glow-worm. I feared then that it had left us. But, at 7 minutes to 01:00, we heard an overpowering hissing sound. It resembled the noise made by a waterspout being expelled with great strength. The captain, Ned Drake and I were then on the poop, eagerly peering into the darkness. He inquired if the harpooner thought the noise we were hearing was that of a whale. Ned replied in the affirmative, although it was much louder than usual. It was then agreed that a whaleboat would be put at the Canadian’s disposal at daybreak. “Please bear in mind that this will mean gambling with the lives of my men,” warned Captain Doric. “And mine too,” said the harpooner, simply. Towards 02:00, the burning light reappeared, no less intense, about 5 miles windward of the Thomas Jefferson. Despite the distance and the noise of the wind and sea, one could distinctly hear the noisy 33

thrashing of the animal’s tail and its panting breath. I assumed that the enormous narwhal had come to take a breath at the surface of the water. Air must have been sucked into its lungs like steam into the vast cylinders of a 2,000-horsepower machine. We were dealing with a cetacean with the strength of a cavalry regiment. The hours till daylight were spent preparing for combat. Whaling gear was laid along the railings and the chief officer loaded the blunderbusses, which can throw harpoons to the distance of a mile, as well as long duck-guns with explosive bullets that inflict mortal wounds on even the strongest animals. Ned Drake contented himself with sharpening his harpoon, a terrible weapon in his hands. The day began to break at 06:00. With the first glimmer of sunlight, the narwhal’s light vanished. An hour later, the day was sufficiently advanced for us to take action, but a very thick sea fog obscured our view and even the best spyglasses could not pierce it. This produced more than a fair amount of disappointment and anger. I hoisted myself up the crosstrees of the mizzenmast. Some officers were already perched on the mastheads. By 08:00, the heavy fog had rolled over the waves and its enormous curls were lifting, little by little. The horizon grew wider and clearer at the same time. Then, as on the day before, Ned Drake’s voice was heard: “The thing itself, astern to port!” Every eye was turned towards the point indicated. Well over a mile from the frigate, a long, blackish body emerged a yard above the waves. Its tail was violently agitated and produced a considerable eddy. Never had I seen a tail beat the sea with such violence. An immense track of dazzling whiteness marked the passage of the animal, describing a long curve. The frigate approached the cetacean. I examined it with greedy eyes. The reports of the Hugo and the Westminster had rather exaggerated its size and I estimated its length at only 270 feet. Its girth was more difficult to ascertain, but overall, the animal seemed to be of admirable proportions. I was still missing the variety, species, genus and family of the monster and expected to do be able to ascertain these with the assistance of Heaven and Commander Doric. The crew waited impatiently for their chief ’s orders. The latter, after having carefully observed the animal, ordered the engineers to clap on steam. This was greeted with 3 cheers. The time for battle was finally upon us. Some moments later, the frigate’s funnels were vomiting torrents of black smoke and the bridge quaked from the trembling of her boilers. The Thomas Jefferson went straight at the animal. The seemingly unconcerned creature allowed her to come within half a cable’s length and then, as if disdaining to dive, took a neat little turn and stopped a short distance off. It was content to keep its distance in this manner, again and again. The pursuit continued and lasted for the better part of an hour, without the frigate gaining even 2 fathoms on the cetacean. It became quite obvious that we would 34

never be able to catch up with it. Ned Drake’s opinion was asked for and he volunteered to position himself on the bobstays under the bowsprit and attempt to harpoon the beast. The harpooner manned his post and the Thomas Jefferson increased speed to the rate of 18.5 miles an hour. But the accursed animal swam at the same speed. For a whole hour, the frigate kept up its pace, without gaining a fathom on the creature. It was humiliating for one of the swiftest racers in the American navy. The crew were working themselves into a blind rage and sailors verbally abused the monster loudly. It didn’t bother responding. Commander Doric was no longer content to merely twist his beard in frustration, but had started to gnaw it. The engineer was called in again and, despite being at full speed, was ordered to raise the pace yet again, this time to 10 atmospheres. This was as typical an American response as I had ever heard. That nation’s competitive spirit always wins out in the end. It warmed my heart to think that such a command would have been more appropriate on some Mississippi paddle-wheeler race.” “Milou,” I said, “do you realise we’re probably going to blow ourselves up at this rate?” “As Master wishes,” was his inexorable reply. The valves were now charged and even more coal had been consumed by the furnaces. Ventilators started shooting torrents of air over the braziers. The Thomas Jefferson’s speed increased. Her mast trembled down to her blocks and the swirling clouds of smoke could barely find their way out of the narrow funnels. We heaved the log a second time. The helmsman informed that captain that our speed was now a whopping 19.3 miles per hour. But the cetacean, without the slightest evidence of strain, sped up to match our pace. It was the pursuit of a lifetime. I cannot describe the emotion that shook my very being. Ned Drake kept his post, harpoon taut in hand. The animal let us gain upon it several times, at which point there was a general cry of, “We shall catch it!” But, just as the harpooner was going to strike, the cetacean sped out of range at a speed that I could only guess at being at least 30 miles an hour. Even at our maximum speed, the creature taunted the frigate, circling around her with apparent ease. A howl of fury soon broke out on board. At noon we were no farther advanced than we had been at 08:00 in the morning. The captain then decided to take more direct means. “So, this animal goes quicker than the Thomas Jefferson. Very well, then let us see whether it can escape our conical bullets. Send your men to the bow, Sir.” The forecastle gun was immediately loaded and slewed round. But the shot passed some feet above the cetacean, which was half a mile off. “Give the gun to somebody with better aim,” cried the commander, “and also $500 to whoever hits that infernal beast first.” A grey-bearded gunner with calm eyes and a grave face, who I can 35

still picture to this day, went up to the gun and took a long aim. A mighty explosion rang out, which mingled with the cheers of the crew. The shell did its job. It hit the animal but, weirdly, bounced off its rounded body and was lost in the depths of the sea about 2 miles out. “Impossible!” said the gunner. “That rapscallion must have armour plating 6 inches deep.” “Curse the beast!” roared Commander Doric. The chase was on again. The captain, leaning towards me, said, “I will pursue that beast till my frigate burns up.” There was still the wild hope that the animal would exhaust itself as it was a living being and not reliant on steam. But hours passed, without it showing the least sign of fatigue. It should be said in the Thomas Jefferson’s favour that she struggled on like a warrior. My reckoning was that she covered about 300 miles during that ill-fated day, 6th November. Night eventually fell and engulfed the tumultuous waves in shadow. I thought, then, that it was all over and we would never see the extraordinary animal again. I was mistaken. At 22:50, the electric light reappeared, 3 miles to windward of the frigate, as clear and intense as during the preceding night. The narwhal seemed motionless. Perhaps it was finally tired and sleeping off its day’s work. It floated on the surface, letting the waves rock it at will. This was the kind of chance that the captain had resolved to take advantage of. He gave his orders. The Thomas Jefferson kept up half-steam and advanced cautiously, so as not to wake its adversary. It is a rare thing to be in the middle of the ocean and encounter a whale so sound asleep that it can actually be attacked, but Ned Drake had done so more than once. The Canadian went to resume his place under the bowsprit. The frigate approached without making a sound and stopped at 2 cables’ length from the animal. She now allowed herself to coast. No one dared breathe and deep silence reigned on board. We were not 100 feet away from the blazing core from which the phosphorescence emanated. The light had now increased and dazzled our eyes. At that moment, leaning from the forecastle bulwark, I saw Ned Drake below me. He was grappling the martingale in one hand and brandishing his terrible harpoon in the other. The motionless animal was scarcely 20 feet from him. Suddenly, his arm shot forward. The harpoon had been thrown. I heard the weapon strike with a resounding clang, suggesting it had made contact with a solid mass. The electric light abruptly went out. A couple of enormous waterspouts crashed onto our bridge, rushing like a torrent from stem to stern, overthrowing men and tearing spare masts and yardarms from their lashings. A fearful shock followed. Having no time to stop myself, I was thrown over the rail into the sea.

7. An Unknown Species of Whale While the unexpected fall gave me a shock, I still have a clear recollection of my sensations. I was, at first, drawn to a depth of about 20 feet. I am a good swimmer, without making claims to rival other authors like Lord Byron or Edgar Allan Poe, who were masters of the art. Throughout that plunge, I did not lose my presence of mind. Some vigorous kicking brought me back to the water’s surface. My first concern was to locate the frigate. I wondered if the crew had seen me go overboard and if the Thomas Jefferson had managed to turn around. Should the captain have managed to put out a boat for me, I had some hope of being saved. The darkness was intense. I caught a glimpse of a black mass disappearing in the east, with its running lights dying out in the distance. It was the frigate. I then knew I was in serious trouble. In my desperation, I shouted for help, swimming towards the Thomas Jefferson. My clothes were weighing me down. They seemed glued to my body and seriously impeded any progress. It felt like I was sinking, suffocating … I think I cried for help one last time before my mouth filled with water. Then I was struggling against being drawn down into the watery abyss. Suddenly, a strong hand seized my clothes. I felt myself being quickly drawn up to the surface. “If Master would be so good as to lean on my shoulder, he would swim with much greater ease.” I grabbed my faithful Milou’s arm with one hand, overjoyed at his presence. We managed a short, gasped conversation, in which I established that he had seen me thrown overboard and jumped in after me. The worthy fellow seemed to think this was entirely natural behaviour. “And the frigate?” I asked. “The frigate,” Milou responded while turning on his back, “I think Master had better not count on her too much.” “Why?” “At the time I threw myself into the sea, I heard the men at the wheel say that the propeller and rudder were broken.” “Broken?” “Yes, smashed by the monster’s teeth. It is the only injury that the Thomas Jefferson has sustained, but it’s bad for us. She no longer answers to her helm.” “Then we are lost.” “Perhaps, so,” Milou answered calmly. “However, we still have several hours. And one can do a great many things in that time.” Milou’s unassailable composure cheered my spirits. I began to 37

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swim more vigorously, but was still held back by my clothes, which stuck to me like a leaden weight. Milou saw this and, after asking permission, slipped a knife under my clothes and rapidly ripped them from top to bottom. He then cleverly slipped them off me while I swam for both of us. Once I had done the same for him, we soldiered on side by side. Despite these measures, our situation was no less terrible. Our disappearance might not even have been noticed amidst all the confusion. And even it had, the frigate could not tack backwards without a helm. We could only hope for the longboats to come for us. Milou had coolly weighed up these options and made his plans accordingly. The self-possessed boy was a truly amazing character. He seemed as comfortable in the middle of the ocean as anywhere else. Having decided that our only means of safety was to be picked up by one of the Thomas Jefferson’s boats, it was best for us to wait for one of them for as long as possible. I resolved that we would need to husband our strength, so that we would not both be exhausted at the same time. And that was how we managed. While one of us lay quite still on his back, with arms crossed and legs stretched out, the other would swim, pushing his companion on in front. Each towing session did not last more than 10 minutes each. By relieving each other in this way, we could swim for hours, perhaps even till daybreak. It was a slim chance, but we were hopeful. Milou’s determination ensured that I could not despair, even if I wanted to. The collision of the frigate with the cetacean had occurred at about 23:00 in the evening. I reckoned that we would have 8 hours to swim before sunrise, which seemed manageable if we continued to relieve each other. Luckily, the sea was very calm. Sometimes, I tried to see into the dense darkness surrounding us that was only relieved by the phosphorescent flickering of our movements. I watched the luminous waves break over my hand, shimmering and spotted with grey blotches. At nearly 01:00, I was seized by dreadful fatigue and my limbs stiffened under the strain of a violent cramp. Milou was obliged to keep me up and our survival now relied on him alone. I heard the poor boy pant. His breathing became short and hurried. I saw that he could not keep up much longer and implored him to leave me. “Leave my Master? Never,” was the firm response. “I would rather drown.” Just then, the moon appeared past fringes of thick cloud that the wind was driving to the east. The surface of the sea glittered under its rays and the kindly light helped us regain our strength. I held my head up again and desperately searched all points of the horizon. I saw the frigate. She was a dark, hardly discernable mass about 5 miles away. There were no longboats in sight. Crying out would have made no difference at such a distance. Besides, my lips were swollen and couldn’t make much noise. Milou managed to articulate and I heard him repeat, “Help! Help!” at intervals. We ceased all movements for an instant and listened. It might have only been the blood welling in my ear, but it sounded like a cry had 40

answered Milou’s. Milou tried again with another desperate plea. This time there was no mistake. A human voice responded. It could have been another poor devil abandoned in the middle of the ocean, also a victim of the vessel’s collision. But there was a chance it was a boat from the frigate hailing us through the gloom. Milou made a last effort and, leaning against me while I struck out, he raised himself half out of the water. Then he fell back, exhausted. “What did you see?” “I saw … no, let’s not talk. We should reserve our strength.” Milou continued to tow me. Sometimes, he raised his head and called for directions and the voice answered him. We seemed to be getting closer, but my strength was at an end. The voices grew faint as my fingers started to stiffen. My hands gave out and my mouth kept opening convulsively and filling with salt water. Cold crept over me. I raised my head briefly and then collapsed. Something large and hard banged against my body. I was slowly groping to find a hold on it when felt that I was being pulled upwards again. I was brought to the surface of the water, but my chest caved in and I fainted. I soon came to, thanks to being vigorously massaged. I half opened my eyes. “Milou?” “Does Master call me?” his voice came from a few feet away. By the light of the waning moon, which was now sinking to the horizon, I began to make out that the face closest to mine was not Milou’s. “Ned!” I cried. The same, Sir, and still seeking his prey,” replied the Canadian. “Were you thrown into the sea by the shock of the frigate?” “Yes, Professor. But I was more fortunate than you. I was able to find a footing almost directly upon this floating island or, more correctly speaking, on our gigantic narwhal.” “Please explain yourself, Ned.” “It’s only that I soon found out why my harpoon had not punctured the creature’s skin and was blunted.” “Why, Ned?” “Because the beast’s skin is made out of boilerplate steel.” At this point of the story, I need to take firm hold of my recollections and ensure that I reconstruct exactly what happened on these pages. The Canadian’s words produced an absolute revolution in my brain. I hoisted myself to the top of the half-submerged thing that served as our refuge, aware of curving ridges on its surface as I did so. One sharp kick established that it was a hard, impenetrable body and not the soft flesh that makes up great marine mammalia. But this hard substance might be a bony carapace, like that of some prehistoric animals. I should then be free to class this monster among amphibian reptiles, such as turtles and alligators. But, the dark back that supported us had no overlapping scales. My blows produced a metallic sound. Incredible as it might be, I could 41

have sworn it was made out of riveted plates. The twisting shapes my hands had encountered, which I had assumed to be the random winding calcium deposits of sea snails and barnacles, were too hard and smooth to be made of anything other than cast metal. There was no doubt about it. The monster, that natural phenomenon that had puzzled the learned world and misled the imagination of seamen from both hemispheres was even more astonishing than we had first thought: It was a human construction. The discovery of some fabulous, mythical beast would have given me less of a shock. It is easy enough to accept that the Creator had seen fit to make a spectacular creature, but to find that the impossible had been achieved by man was simply staggering. However, there was no time to lose. We were lying on the back of a kind of underwater boat, which, as far as I could tell, was designed along the lines of a huge fish of iron. Ned Drake certainly had firm views on the matter. Milou and I could only agree with him. I reasoned that, because the contraption was able to travel at great speed, it would therefore have to have an engine and also a mechanic to operate the machinery. There had to be an entire crew on board and we only had to make contact with them to be saved. Ned Drake was doubtful, having already spent 3 hours on the metal shell, without encountering any sign of life from within. Just then, as if to take my side of the argument, a bubbling began at the back of the bizarre thing we were on, making it obvious that a propeller drove it. The boat began to move. We had only just enough time to seize hold of its topside, which rose about 3 feet out of the water and seemed distorted by the strange metallic bulges that clung to the surface of its structure. Happily, its speed was not great. “As long as it sails horizontally,” muttered Ned Drake, “there will be no problem. But if it takes a fancy to dive, I would not give $2 for my life.” He could have quoted a much lower price. Clearly, the time had come to communicate with the beings inside the machine, whoever they might be. I searched all over the available surface for an aperture or a panel, but all my attempts at twisting and pulling at the bulging metal forms that protruded from the vessel’s outer skin in my vicinity had no effect. There seemed to be no handle or button to some kind of ‘manhole’ that could be opened from the outside. And then the moon disappeared again, leaving us in total darkness and no more opportunity to explore the boat’s surface. We would have to wait for daylight before finding a way of entering the underwater ship. Our only salvation lay entirely in the hands of the mysterious helmsman who steered this submersible. If he chose to make a dive, there was no question that we would perish. Aside from this option, I was confident we could make contact with those inside. Presuming that they did not produce their own oxygen, they would have to open a door or window at some point in order to replenish their air supply. It was impossible that there was no communication between the boat’s interior and the atmosphere. 42

I had to abandon any hope of being rescued by Commander Doric The metal vessel was taking us westward at a speed I estimated to VVbe about 12 miles per hour. The foreign propeller churned the water with precision, regularly emerging above the waves to fling phospherescent spray high into the air. It was nearly 04:00 when the submersible began to pick up speed. We could barely manage the dizzying rush as the waves battered us at close range. Luckily, Ned Drake had located a large mooring ring fastened to the topside earlier and we all clung to it for dear life. At last, even that long night passed. My indistinct memory of it prevents describing all the impressions it made. I can only recall one detail. During some lulls of the wind and sea, I thought I could hear music, a sort of elusive harmony produced by distant, melancholy chords. I wondered at the mystery of this craft that the whole world sought for in vain. The nature of the inhabitants of such a strange boat and the mechanical agent that caused its prodigious speed were uppermost amongst the questions whirling around my battered mind. Daylight finally broke. The morning mists surrounded us at first, but soon melted away. I was about to examine the hull that was emerging from the water, which formed a curiously ornamented deck, when I became aware of a gradual sinking. “Damnation!” Ned Drake shouted, kicking the metal plates with a resonant twang. “Open up you anti-social rascals!” The noise of the propeller must have been much louder than that of the harpooner, but, fortunately, the sinking ceased. From the inside of the boat, I could hear the sound of iron fastenings being roughly pushed aside. One of the metal plates flew up and a man appeared. He uttered an odd cry on seeing us and disappeared immediately. Moments later, 8 strong men with masked faces appeared and dragged us down into the formidable machine without making a sound.

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8. Mobilis In Mobili Our abduction had been carried out quicker than lightning. My guess was that we were probably dealing with some new sort of pirate, roaming the sea in search of gain and spoils. The panel above me had hardly closed when I was enveloped in darkness. I was not sure how my companions felt about being plunged into an aquatic prison, but I began to shiver all over. My eyes, still dazzled by the outer light, could distinguish nothing. I was aware of my naked feet clinging to the rungs of a ladder and then cold metal steps as we went down. Ned Drake and Milou were being made to follow. At the bottom of the stairs, a door opened to let us through and then shut, with a reverberating clang. We were alone. Where, I could not say, or even imagine. All was black. And such a dense black that, after some minutes, my eyes could not discern even the faintest glimmer of light. Ned Drake was infuriated by such treatment and gave full vent to his indignation: “Confound It! These people are about as hospitable as the savages of New Caledonia! Come to think of it, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were cannibals. But they are never going to eat me without a fight, that’s a certainty.” “Calm yourself,” was Milou’s response. “Don’t cry out before you’re even hurt. We aren’t yet in a kettle.” “Not in a kettle, no” was the Canadian’s sharp response, “but in an oven, certainly, it’s dark enough for that. Happily, I still have my bowie knife and I can always see well enough to use it. The first of these pirates who lays a hand on me … ” “Don’t excite yourself so,” I said, “and please don’t compromise us with useless violence. Who knows if they might be listening to what we say? We should rather try to establish where we are rather than wasting our energies on temper.” I groped about in the dark. In 5 steps, I came to an iron wall, made of plates bolted together. It seemed to have similar curling protrusions to those I had found on the outside of the boat. No windows or doors were immediately evident. Turning around, I struck against a wooden table, around which several chairs were placed. There was a thick, soft mat on the floor, which deadened the noise of our feet. I bumped into Milou who had gone round the reverse way and we went back to the middle of the cabin together, marking it to measure about 20 feet by 10. As to its height, Ned Drake, in spite of being extremely tall, could not reach the ceiling with an outstretched arm. Half an hour had passed when the thick darkness suddenly gave way to dazzling light. Our prison was filled with a luminescence so strong that I could not bear it at first. In its whiteness and intensity, I recognized the electric light that had played around the 46

submarine boat like a magnificent episode of phosphorescence. After involuntarily shutting my eyes, I reopened them and saw that the light emanated from a frosted half globe that arched out of the naked metal of the cabin’s roof. “At last one can see!” cried Ned Drake who, brandishing his knife, stood on the defensive. “But we’re still in the dark concerning our situation,” I said. “Master should be patient,” was Milou’s nonchalant observation. The sudden lighting enabled me to examine the cabin. The room had curved walls that led up to a concave oval ceiling whose highest point was about 10 feet. At first, it seemed to me that the seawater had been leaking into the interior, causing the walls to distort. Pushing out from the walls and ceiling were the curled and bulging lines I would normally have associated with water damage. On closer inspection, I realized that they were far from random spoilage, but carefully considered ornamentation. While no shape seemed to symmetrically mirror another, every line was thoughtfully placed, artfully balancing an overall pattern. They were unlike any decoration I had seen before. The swollen lines began at the floor’s edge, creeping sinuously around it’s border and then sprouting upwards like the stems of plants to the ceiling, where they inflated into bulbous endings that joined together in a interwoven pattern of buds and knots above our heads. In my bewildered state, it seemed that the flowery buttresses from the Notre Dame, so close to my home in Paris, had escaped into the ocean and now ran riot with twisting sea serpents amidst a kelp forest. The centre of the room was occupied by the table and chairs I had discovered by touch. These, too, seemed to have a watery quality to their design. Their wood had been carved in such a way that the table and chair legs swelled at the edges, so that the overall form appeared to be frozen at a point just before overflowing. The rug, soft as moss on my bare feet, was of a material I was not able to name. All in all, I was astounded by the overall craftsmanship and detailing that must have gone into the decoration of what was evidently a simple sort of holding room. Disturbingly, throughout the undulating surfaces of the space, I could discern no sign of the door through which we had entered. It was anyone’s guess how we were going to fare in this peculiar environment. Not a sound reached our ears. All seemed dead in the interior of this boat and I couldn’t ascertain if we were moving or not. But I had to assume we would be meeting the crewmen soon. One does not light up a dungeon if one intends to send its inmates to oblivion. Sure enough, there was a noise of bolts scraping against metal. The door opened and 2 men appeared. One was short and very muscular, with broad shoulders and robust limbs. His squat head sported a heavy moustache and an abundance of thick black hair. His appearance, especially his bright and penetrating eyes, reminded me of the people of Provence in 47

France. The philosopher Diderot has very aptly pointed out that the clue to a man’s character lies in his bearing. This stocky little man certainly gave the sense that even his most mundane conversation was packed with vivid figures of speech. I never had the opportunity to verify this assumption, as he never spoke anything other than an alien and utterly indecipherable language around me. The second stranger demands a more detailed description. I felt immediately reassured in his presence and was confident of a positive outcome in our interaction. I could not tell whether this person was 30 or 60 years of age. He was tall with a large forehead, straight nose, clear-cut mouth, beautiful teeth and fine, tapered hands one could call ‘psychic’ — to borrow a word from palmistry — in that they were the type that served higher spirits. He was, without question, the finest physical specimen of human being I had ever met. The man had the singular feature of having eyes that were a little too far apart from each other, giving the impression that he could take in nearly a quarter of the horizon at once. I later discovered that his range of vision was, indeed, far superior to most people, surpassing even Ned Drake’s abilities. When his gaze fixed upon an object, his eyebrows furrowed and eyelids closed around his pupils to contract his field of vision. With these instruments, he had an astounding ability to see, magnifying objects far in the distance and piercing sheets of water that were opaque to ordinary humans, enabling him to read the depths of the sea. To this day, I have never fully shaken off the feeling that he was capable of probing one’s very soul. The strangers wore caps made from sea otter fur and boots of sealskin. Their clothes had a particular texture, which seemed to flatter the figure and also allow for great freedom of movement. The same whiplash tendrils that clasped the ship’s walls were once again evident, this time in miniature in a purplish-blue hue. They wound delicately across sections of the fabric, accentuating buttons and body shape. There was something Moorish, or possibly oriental, about this loose-fitting garb. Once this struck me, I started to wonder if the ornamentation of the whole ship didn’t have similar origins. The man with the extraordinary eyes was obviously the leader on board. He examined us with great attention, without saying a word. He then turned to his companion and talked in an unknown tongue. It was a sonorous, harmonious and flexible dialect in which the vowels seemed to admit a wide variety of accentuations. The other replied with a shake of the head and added 2 or 3 completely incomprehensible words (it was hard to tell where words began and ended). Then he seemed to question me directly with a long look. I replied in good French that I did not know his language, but he did not seem to understand me, making my situation rather difficult. “If Master were to tell our story,” said Milou, “perhaps these gentlemen may understand some of the words.” I began to tell of our adventures, articulating each syllable clearly and without omitting a single detail. I also announced our names 48

and rank, introducing ourselves as Professor Jeanneret, his servant Milou and Mr Ned Drake, the harpooner.” The man with the soft, calm eyes listened to me quietly, even politely, and with extreme attention. But nothing in his countenance suggested that he had understood my story. When I had finished, he did not say a word. We had one more resource, which was to speak English. There was always a possibility they knew this nearly universal language. As with German, I knew it well enough to read fluently, but not sufficiently to speak correctly. “Go on,” I said to the harpooner, “speak your best Anglo-Saxon, Mr Drake, and try to get better results than I did.” Ned needed no persuading and told our story again from the start. I could follow sufficiently to tell that the content was the same but the delivery very different. The Canadian put a great deal of feeling and emphasis into his version, finishing with a vehement complaint concerning his civil rights and threatened to press charges against anyone who held him illegally. He ranted and gesticulated wildly and finished up with an expressive gesture denoting that he was starving to death. His little drama reminded me that we were in sore need of some sustenance. To his great disgust, he did not seem to make any more of an impression than I had. Our visitors did not so much as bat an eye. Apparently they were skilled engineers who had somehow managed to progress without knowledge of the language of either the French physicist Arago or the English Faraday. Having exhausted all of our philological resources, I was completely flummoxed as to what to do next. Then Milou said: “If Master will permit me, I will relate the whole business in German.” “How do you know German?” I asked. “With all due respect to Master, all Flemish people know German,” he said. “On the contrary, my boy, all respect goes to you. By all means, do your best.” In spite of the elegant terms and good accents of the narrator, the German language also had no success. As a last resort, I dredged up my earliest lessons and attempted to narrate our adventures in Latin. Cicero would no doubt have stopped his ears and sent me to the scullery, but I managed to come out with something all the same. But this too drew a blank. Our last attempt being complete, the strangers exchanged some words in their incomprehensible tongue and retired. The door shut. Ned Drake took the opportunity to give vent to his feelings for the umpteenth time. He was unable to conceive of decent people existing in the world who were ignorant of all the languages we had presented. I could only try calm him down and warn against jumping to conclusions. “My opinion is formed. They are rogues,” declared the harpooner. “All right, then. And from what country do they come?” I 49

asked, wearily. “From the Land of Rogues.” “My brave Ned, that country is not indicated on any map of the world that I have ever seen. I do admit that the nationality of the strangers is hard to determine, given that English, French and German had no effect. I am inclined to think that the Commander and his companion were born in low latitudes, with southern blood in them. But I cannot decide, from their appearance, whether they are Spaniard, Turks, Arabians or Indians. As to their language, it is absolutely incomprehensible.” “That’s the disadvantage of not knowing all languages,” said Milou, “or the drawback of not having one, universal language.” “Which wouldn’t help us a jot,” Ned Drake replied. “Can’t you see that these people have invented and developed a language all to themselves in order to keep decent folks like us in want of dinner. There isn’t a country in the world where, if one smacks one’s lips and rubs one’s tummy, it isn’t a clear request for a morsel. From Quebec to the Tuamotu Islands, Paris to the Antipodes, one can communicate hunger, but not on this ship.” As he was saying these words, the door opened again and a steward entered. He brought us clothes, cloaks and loose trousers, made of the soft material I could not place and all in muted brown or lavender tones. They were patterned with crimson stitches of arabesques and baroque swirls along the lining, culminating in a rounded double-serif motif across the chest and back. I hastened to dress and my companions followed. During that time, the steward, dumb and perhaps also deaf, had arranged the table and laid 3 plates. “This bodes well,” declared Milou. “Bah,” said the angry harpooner. “What the devil do you suppose they eat here? Turtle liver with filleted shark and sea dog steaks?” “We shall soon see.” Various platters had been placed on the table, overlaid with bellshaped metal coverings. The covers themselves were made of brass and edged with an engraved curling line that echoed those of the walls that enclosed us. We took our places eagerly. I decided we were undoubtedly in the hands of civilised people and, had it not been for the electric light that flooded us from above instead of the habitual kerosene, I could have imagined that I was in some futuristic underwater form of the Adelphi in Liverpool or Paris’ Grand Hotel. There was, however, a noticeable lack of bread or wine. The water was fresh and clear, but it was still water, something that did not suit Ned Drake one little bit. Amongst the dishes that were brought to us, I recognized several fish, delicately dressed. While all the food was excellent, I could give no opinion as to where most of it was from, or even if it was animal or vegetable. There were dainty pink and pale orange pates and terrines as well as darker ochre and green minces alongside slabs of more robustly flavoured foodstuffs. It was an experience to behold as much as to partake of. At first, glance, one might have been mislead into thinking that the 50

dinner service had melted. Only after some careful consideration — that I was learning to give even the smallest detail of these new surroundings — did I realise that the silver had been intentionally skewed and twisted into the shape of what I took to be fragments of cuttlefish and crab shells. Each utensil had a letter engraved in it, with a motto beneath, reading: N Mobilis in Mobili The phrase means, ‘moving within a moving element,’ which seemed a highly appropriate motto for this underwater machine. So long as the ‘in’ was intended to mean ‘within’ and not ‘on’. At the time, I was too discombobulated to pick up on the use of Latin, a language that, albeit poorly spoken, had garnered scant response from our host. The serving spoons and larger dishes were inset with the letter ‘N’ in small precious stones and amethysts. The larger bowls were lined with glass or mother of pearl. Ned and Milou were not given to reflection on such fine points. They devoured the food and I soon followed their example. I was now more reassured as to our fate. At least our hosts had no intention of letting us die of hunger. But everything has an end, even the appetite of people who have not eaten for 15 hours. Our hunger sated, we felt overcome with sleep, which seemed natural enough given the exertions we had experienced. Yawning and bidding me a good rest, my 2 companions stretched themselves out onto light foamy mattresses that had been brought with our clothes. They were soon sound asleep. For my part, too many thoughts crowded my brain. Insoluble questions pressed, keeping my eyes half open. I wanted to know where we were and what strange power kept us moving. I fancied the ship was carrying us down to the lowest depths of the ocean. Dreadful nightmares then washed over me. I saw a mysterious world of unknown animals, strangely twisted and elongated, in the walls of room. Ghostly tendrils of hair and sinewy limbs seemed to rear up and clutch at the walls, writhing and throbbing while they whirled around. Amongst these alien creatures, the submarine vessel itself became some kind of pulsating, formidable spirit. Eventually, my brain grew duller and darker and I succumbed to vague unconsciousness. I fell into a deep sleep.

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9. The Harpooner’s Temper I do not know how long we slept for, but it must have been a good deal of time as I awoke completely refreshed. I was up first. My companions had not moved and remained as still as inanimate objects. I began an attentive examination of our cell, but nothing had changed. Our unusual prison was still a prison and we were still prisoners. The steward had evidently cleared the table during our sleep. There was nothing to indicate any improvement on our situation and I started to contemplate what it would be like to spend the rest of our lives in such a cage. This seemed an especially painful option because I found that I was breathing with difficulty. Although the room was fairly large, we had evidently consumed a sizeable portion of its oxygen. It had become necessary to renew the atmosphere of our prison and, no doubt, the whole of the submarine boat. I wondered how the commander of this floating dwelling place would proceed. I knew it was possible to create air by chemical means, using heat to release the oxygen contained in chlorate of potash. If so, the man would have to keep up a good communication with someone on shore to maintain the materials needed for such an operation. He might also simply store air in high-pressure tanks and dispense it according to the needs of those on board. An even more convenient — and therefore more probable — alternative here, would have been to rise and take a breathe at the surface of water every 24 hours, like a whale. Whatever method was used, I hoped it would be set in motion soon as possible. My breathing had turned to short, quick gasps, in an involuntary effort to try eke as much oxygen from the cell’s heavy air as possible. Then, to my great relief, a current of pure air gushed through the interior. It was an invigorating sea breeze perfumed with a salty aroma. I opened my mouth wide and glutted my lungs with fresh particles. At the same time, I was aware of the boat swaying and rolling, as if rocked by waves. The iron-plated monster had evidently risen to the surface of the ocean to breathe as a good cetacean should. I had now established the mode of ventilation. As I inhaled greedily, I looked for the conduit pipe that conveyed this lifeline to us. I soon found that the curling forms concealing the outline of the door ended in a spiral of metal bubbles that overlaid a vent through which volumes of fresh air renewed the cell. I was inspecting this piece of impressive craftsmanship as Ned and Milou started to wake up. No doubt, both had been affected at the same time by the gust of reviving air. They rubbed their eyes and were soon on their feet, stretching. “Did Master sleep well?” was Milou’s first thought. 54

“Very well, my brave boy. And you, Mr Drake?” “Soundly, Professor. There seems to be a sea breeze, am I right?” A seaman never gets such things wrong. I told the Canadian all that had past while he was sleeping. “Good,” he said. “That accounts for the roaring we heard when the supposed narwhal sighted the Thomas Jefferson.” “Quite so, Mr Drake. It was catching its breath.” “And now, I have no idea what time it is, Professor Jeanneret. Unless it’s dinner time.” “Dinner time, my good fellow? Rather say ‘breakfast time’ as we have begun another day.” “So, we have slept 24 hours?” asked Milou. “That is my opinion.” “I won’t argue with you,” said Ned Drake. “But, dinner or breakfast will be welcome, whichever that steward brings.” “Mr Drake, we must conform to the rules on board. I suppose our appetites must be in advance of the dinner hour.” “The one and the other,” said Milou. “Well put,” agreed the Canadian. “We deserve 2 meals. I am quite confident I could do justice to both.” “Let’s wait and see, Ned,” I said. “It’s clear from last night that these strangers don’t intend to let us starve.” “Perhaps they’re fattening us up?” “I object,” I said. “We have not fallen into the hands of cannibals.” “Just because they didn’t attack us on sight, doesn’t mean they don’t indulge in it from time to time. Perhaps they have gone without fresh meat for a long time, in which case 3 healthy specimens like ourselves …” “Please stop entertaining such thoughts immediately. And especially don’t let them get you so riled up that we have an incident with our hosts. It will only make our situation worse.” “Well, I’m hungry,” said the harpooner. “Hungry as all Hades and neither breakfast nor dinner has arrived.” “Mr Drake, we have to adapt to the schedule of this new vessel. I’m sure our appetites are merely running ahead of the dinner bell’s schedule,” I responded. “We shall just have to adjust our stomachs,” said Milou, serenely. “There you go, again, Milou, my friend,” said the impatient Canadian. “You never allow yourself the slightest betrayal of nerves. You’d say your grace after meals even if you hadn’t received the food for the blessing before. You’d starve to death before you would complain.” “What good would complaining do?” asked Milou. “It doesn’t do any good, but it’s satisfying. And if these pirates — I use this word to spare the Professor’s feelings as he has a distaste for cannibals — think they can keep me locked up without encountering a foul tongue, they’ve got another think coming. Let’s speak frankly. Professor Jeanneret, how long do you think they’ll keep us in this iron coffin?” “My friend Ned, I know no more than you do.” 55

“But, what do you suppose is going on out there?” “I think that chance has thrown us in the way of an important secret. If the crew of this ship feel that the secret is more important than the lives of 3 men, then we are in grave danger. If this isn’t the case, then the monster that swallowed us will no doubt spit us out again and we’ll be able to return to the world inhabited by people like us.” “Unless we’re recruited to serve as crew members,” Milou said, “and we’re kept here …” “Until the moment when a frigate that’s faster and more nimble than the Thomas Jefferson smokes out this nest of buccaneers and hangs them all from the tip of the mainmast yardarm,” said Ned Drake. “Well thought through Mr Drake,” I replied, drily. “But I don’t see any sign of enlistment offers and, until we do, there’s no sense in arguing over different strategies. I repeat, let’s wait and see what happens. For the moment, there’s nothing we can do.” I would have let the matter rest there, but the harpooner was hell bent on an escape attempt. I pointed out that breaking out of a prison on land is hazardous enough and doing so from an underwater one, with no knowledge of the ship, was completely foolhardy. “Come now, my friend Ned,” broke in Milou. “How can you argue with Master’s logic? I refuse to believe that an American such as yourself has reached the end of his tether.” For a moment, the harpooner was visibly nonplussed. But a Canadian’s wit is half French and he came back with: “So, Professor Jeanneret, you haven’t figured out what people do when they can’t escape from a prison?” “I haven’t yet seen the necessity, my friend.” “Well, I have. They organize the situation so that they stay there.” “Well, naturally,” said Milou. “We’re in the middle of the ocean, so being inside this boat is preferable to being above or below it.” “But we could fix things for ourselves by throwing out our jailors and guards,” said Ned Drake. The man was completely unreasonable. He seemed to think that 2 Frenchmen and a Canadian, by virtue of their nationalities alone, would be capable of overthrowing up to 20 foreign sailors. The wisest course of action seemed to be to humour him and accept his proposition rather than debate it. I said that, if circumstances arose where a violent intervention were possible, we would do our best. Until such a time, we would have to keep ourselves in check and negotiate shrewdly and with patience. I made the Canadian swear to accept our situation without any further tantrums. He gave his word, but not without mentioning his empty stomach once more, for good measure. The conversation was laid to rest and we each withdrew to our private musings. I entertained no such brash illusions as Ned Drake’s. This underwater boat must have a sizeable crew to operate so efficiently and there was no chance of our survival if we came to blows. Besides, I saw no way of escaping from a hermetically sealed 56

cell made of sheet iron. It was up to the strange commander of the ship to weigh up what our lives were worth to him, compared to his great secret. He may resort to violence or he might drop us off on some remote coast. Only a harpoonist could expect to gain freedom through the use of force. I realized then that Ned Drake’s brooding was only stoking his pent up rage. He had begun pacing in circles like a beast in a cage, sometimes striking the walls with his fist. Cuss words were starting to gurgle in his throat. The growling in his stomach had gotten the better of him and, despite his word of honour, I dreaded the outburst that was to come when he came in contact with another crew member. Time was getting on and we were fearfully hungry. This time, the steward did not appear. It was rather too long to leave us, if the crew’s intentions were good. Ned Drake, tormented by the pangs of hunger, got even angrier. For another 2 hours, his temper mounted. He yelled and shouted, but all in vain. The iron walls were deaf. Outside of his ravings, there was no sound to be heard on board at all. It did not even move, as we would have felt the trembling of the hull’s motion if it were. The ship had undoubtedly plunged into the depths of the ocean. I was afraid to guess how long our isolation in the cell would last. The hopes I had entertained of speaking frankly with the ship’s commander were slowly vanishing. His generous, handsome face and noble bearing were also retreating from my memory. I now realized that it was perfectly probable that he was actually cruel and without mercy. There was even the grim possibility that he was going to leave us locked up until we were exposed to those inhuman temptations that people undergoing extreme hunger are exposed to. This horrifying possibility took on a dreadful intensity in my mind. I was terrified. Whatever was going through Milou’s mind, he remained calm. Ned Drake roared. A noise was heard outside and footsteps sounded on the metal. The locks were turned, the doors opened and the steward returned. Before I could rush forward to stop him, Ned Drake had thrown him down and had him by the throat. The steward was choking under the harpooner’s powerful grip. Milou was already on top of him, trying to loosen Ned’s hand from his half-suffocated victim. I was preparing to leap into the fray, when I was frozen to the spot by the following words said in French: “Calm down, Mr Drake. Professor, would you be so good as to listen to me?”

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10. The Man of the Seas It was the commander of the vessel who spoke. At his words, Ned Drake first froze and then rose silently. Following a sign from his master, the steward tottered out of the room, a great deal the worse for wear. Such was the authority of his commander that not a single gesture or flick of the eye betrayed the resentment he must have felt towards the Canadian. We waited in silence for what would happen next. Milou, despite himself, seemed quite interested in the course of events. The Captain, leaning against the corner of the table with his arms folded, scanned us with grave attention. One might have been forgiven for thinking that he sorely regretted having spoken in French. After some moments of silence, which none of us dreamed of breaking, he finally spoke: “Gentlemen,” he began in a calm yet mesmerizing voice, “I speak French, English, German and Latin equally well. I did not answer you at our first interview, as I wished to know you first and then have time to reflect. The story told by each of you agrees on the main points and has also helped me to get better acquainted with your characters. So, I know now that sheer chance has brought before me Pierre Jeanneret, Professor of Natural History at the Museum of Paris and currently entrusted with a scientific mission abroad. He travels with Milou, his servant and Mr Ned Drake of Canadian origin, harpooner on board the Thomas Jefferson, a frigate in the national navy of the United States of America.” I bowed. There had been no question, so no need for an answer. The man expressed himself with perfect ease and without the slightest trace of an accent. His sentences were impeccably tuned, his words clear and well chosen and his overall fluency of speech was remarkable. Yet, I did not recognize him as a fellow countryman. He continued: “You have doubtless thought, sir, that I have waited too long in paying you a second visit. The reason is that, your identity recognized, I wished to ruminate on how you should be treated. I have hesitated a great deal. Extremely annoying circumstances have brought you into the presence of a man who has broken all ties with humanity. Your appearance is greatly troubling to me.” “Unintentionally,” I was quick to point out. “Unintentionally?” his voice remained cool, but the restrained irritation he felt was obvious. Was it unintentionally that the Thomas Jefferson pursued me all over the seas? Was it unintentionally that you took passage in that frigate? Were the cannonballs that bounced off my vessel unintentional? Was it unintentional that Ned Drake struck me with his harpoon?” But there was a perfectly natural answer to give him: “Sir, no doubt you are ignorant of the discussions that have taken 60

place concerning you in America and Europe. You do not know that diverse accidents caused by collisions with your underwater machine, have excited public feeling across the 2 continents. I will omit the theories without number through which it was sought to explain that of which you alone possess the secret. But you must understand that, in pursuing you over the high seas of the Pacific, the Thomas Jefferson believed itself to be chasing a powerful sea monster, of which it was necessary to rid the ocean of at any price.” A half-smile curled on the lips of the commander. “Professor Jeanneret, would you actually have me believe that your frigate would not as soon have pursued and cannonaded an underwater boat as readily as a monster?” This question embarrassed me, for it was quite certain that Captain Doric would have had no such qualms. He would doubtless have thought it his duty to destroy a contrivance of that kind, as much as he would a giant narwhal. “You understand then, sir,” continued the stranger, “that I have the right to treat you as enemies?” I did not answer. “I have hesitated for some time,” continued the Commander, ”and nothing obliges me to show you hospitality. If I chose to separate us, I could place you on the deck of this vessel, sink beneath the waters and forget that you ever existed. Would that not be my right?” “It might be the right of a savage,” I answered, “but not that of a civilised man.” “Professor, I am very far from what you would call a civilised man. For reasons I alone need to know about, I have finished with society entirely. I do not obey its laws and I advise you never to invoke them in front of me again.” This was plainly said. A flash of anger and disdain was visible in his eyes. I believe I had a brief glimpse of a terrible past in that man’s life. Not only had he put himself beyond the pale of human laws, but he had made himself independent of them. There was nobody who could possibly dare to pursue him at the bottom of the sea when, on the surface, he had defied all attempts made against him. There was no vessel that could resist the shock of his submarine and no armour plating in the world could resist the blow of his spur. As no man could demand account for his actions, only God, if he believed in one, and his conscience were the sole judge to whom he was accountable. These thoughts went rapidly through my mind, whilst the strange person was silent and absorbed in thoughts of his own. I regarded him with a mixture of fear and fascination as, doubtless, Oedipus must have regarded the Sphinx. After a fairly long silence, the Commander resumed the conversation: “I had some difficulty deciding, but I have concluded that every human being has a right to pity and my personal interests may be reconciled with this. Since fate has cast you here, you will remain on board my vessel. You will be free and, in exchange for this liberty, 61

I shall only impose one condition on you: Your word of honour to submit to my will shall suffice.” “I suppose this condition is one that a man of honour may accept?” “Yes, sir. It is possible that certain unforeseen events may oblige me to consign you to your cabins for a few hours, or even for some days. As I desire never to use violence, I expect your unquestioning obedience. In doing so, I shield you from any complicity in what takes place on board this vessel and acquit you of any responsibility as you will not be able to see what you aren’t meant to see. Do you accept this condition?” And so I came to be aware that there were things that took place on board that were out of the ordinary, to say the least; things that could only be seen by people who had placed themselves beyond the pale of society’s laws. “We accept,” I answered. “I ask permission to ask a question of you.” “Speak, sir.” “You said we would be free on board.” “Entirely.” “What does this liberty entail?” “The liberty to move around and observe, as you please, except for the rare occasions when you must remain in your quarters. This should be sufficient freedom in which we should all be able to enjoy ourselves.” It was evident that we did not understand one another. “Pardon me, Sir,” I resumed, “but this liberty is only that of a prisoner pacing his prison. It cannot suffice for us.” “Nevertheless, it will have to do.” “We must give up all hope of ever seeing our homelands, friends and relations again?” “Yes, sir. But, to renounce that unendurable worldly yoke that some men believe to be liberty is not as painful as you might think.” “By thunder!” Ned Drake shouted. “I will never give my word of honour to try not to escape.” “I did not ask for such a promise, Mr Drake,” said the Commander, coldly. “Sir,” I said, beginning to get angry, despite myself, “you are abusing your position. This is cruelty.” “Actually, it’s an act of mercy. You are my prisoners of war. I have taken care of you when, with a single word, I could have left you in the depths of the ocean. You attacked me and in doing so stumbled into a secret that no living man may ever penetrate, which is that of my whole existence. Do you think I’ll send you back to a world that must know nothing about me? I’m not keeping you on board for my amusement or because of any tender feelings for you. I’m doing it to protect myself.” These words plainly indicated that the man had formed a resolution which no argument would ever prevail against. “So, the choice is simply between life and death?” I asked. “Simply.” “My friends,” I said, “there is no answer to such a question. 62

However, no word of honour binds us to the master of this vessel.” “None, sir,” agreed the Commander. Then, in a gentler tone, he continued: “Now, permit me to finish what I have to say to you. I know you, Professor Jeanneret. You and your companions might not have as much to complain about as you might think. You will find, amongst the books that are my favourite study, the work that you published, The Depths of the Sea. I have often read it. You have carried out your work as far as terrestrial science permitted you, but you don’t know everything because you haven’t seen very much. I don’t think you’ll regret the time spent on board my vessel. Let me tell you now, you’re going to visit the land of marvels. Your habitual state of mind is most probably going to be one of stunned amazement and it will be a long time before you tire of the sights constantly before your eyes. I am about to embark on one of my underwater tours of the world — possibly my last, who knows? — I plan to review all that I’ve studied in the depths of these seas. I invite you to be my fellow student. You have now entered a new element and will be able to view what other human beings are unable to. Thanks to me, you’re going to learn some of the greatest secrets of our planet.” There was no denying that such words had a powerful effect on me. He had appealed to my greatest weakness and I momentarily forgot that the contemplation of these sublime subjects was not worth the loss of liberty. Besides, I trusted to the future to resolve the graver question. I was content to say only this: “Sir, even though you’ve severed ties with humanity, you’ve clearly retained much human feeling. We’re castaways that you’ve taken under your charitable wing and we’ll never forget the kindness. In my small experience, the interests of science can very often overrule the need for personal freedom and I greatly look forward to the discoveries we shall encounter in exchange for liberty.” I waited for the Commander to offer his hand to seal the agreement, but he made no such movement. I regretted that. As the inexplicable man seemed about to withdraw, I quickly asked another question: “By what name should we address you?” “Sir, to you and your companions I am ‘Captain Nemo’. And you are passengers on board the Nautilus.” Captain Nemo then called out and another steward appeared. He gave his orders in that strange language I could not identify. Then, turning towards the Canadian and Milou, he said: “A repast is waiting for you in your cabin. Please be so good as to follow this man.” “That’s an offer I certainly can’t refuse,” said Ned Drake, jovially. After a confinement of over 30 hours, he and Milou were finally released from the metal room. “And now, Professor Jeanneret, our breakfast is ready. Permit me to lead the way.” “I am at your service, Captain.” I followed Captain Nemo and found myself in a kind of passage, similar to the gangway of the ship in overall structure. It was 63

artfully, even outlandishly embellished. Instead of the usual shipâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s lanterns, the walls were lined with electric lamps. These emanated mottled light through thick, flashed glass coronets that encircled each bulb. Each glass mass was infused with reddish burgundy tones and flecked with sparkling oxide which shimmered amidst the jagged shadows on either side of the walkway. A cave-like atmosphere was accentuated by the way in which the edges of the glass shapes frothed over into frozen eruptions of yellow and white glass at their tips, like petrified lava or frosted veins of snow. The metal holdings that kept them in line reminded me of sea anemones partially withdrawn into their sacs, half clinging, half suspended to the metal walls. I had to tear my eyes away in order to keep my feet from tripping too close to the Captainâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s heels. I then noticed that the floor had a layer of creamy white tiles, with red and orange arabesques embedded along our path. After a dozen yards, a door opened in front of us. I entered the dining room. Light simply flooded the interior, the largest I had been in yet. Here, the prevailing motifs I had perceived on board up till that point were played out in an exuberant totality. The cream tiles from the floor had now crept up to coat the walls and ceilings, framing regular, semi-circular plaster reliefs situated below an arched ceiling. The friezes depicted watery scenes of various species of medusa jellyfish, radiolarians and sea horses. The naturalist in me was impressed by the scientific detail in these. Thin iron tendrils sprouted from the floor and twisted round each domed segment, finally unfurling into a kind of whiplash movement around the upper edges of the room itself. Beneath each panel was an oaken sideboard, inlaid with abstract pearl and ivory patterning and tapering into leafy extensions at the sides. These fitted ingeniously into recesses in the wall. Some of their shelves protruded, offering an array of glittering porcelain and china objects, Asian-looking in origin. In the centre of the room was a table laid out with a pastel-coloured spread of foreign delicacies. The chairs surrounding it lunged upwards with tall, thin backs in an asymmetrical twist. Around the central seating area, the tiled floor gave way to an oval of gleaming ebony wood. On the table, I noted the same warped cutlery that had fooled me earlier into suspecting poor craftsmanship. It now had quite the opposite effect. The plates sparkled from the intense light the luminous ceiling supplied. Above our heads, the metal body of the vessel was wrought into a series of domes that were painted white and sprouted clear glass lamps in the shape of flower-cabbages. I was struck by the overall effect of the interior. Despite dense areas of spiralling detail, it was light and airy, with all ornamentation being well placed to accentuate the lines of the roomâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s structure rather than clutter the space. A pattern of interweaving diagonal and perpendicular lines flowed together with horizontals to create a harmonious whole. Where the poor Thomas Jefferson had provided only the most basic of comforts, this vessel was controlled by a 64

lyrical mind who made his vessel into a luxuriant home. Captain Nemo indicated the place I was to occupy. My seat was as comfortable as it was elegant. Encased in my clothes with embroidered wave patterns, I felt I fitted in with the prevailing underwater theme. The breakfast also conformed to this principle. It appeared to have come primarily from the sea, although I was completely ignorant of the nature and derivation of many of the dishes. The repast was of the highest quality but I was aware of the same peculiar flavour pervading every mouthful, even the sauces on that which I took to be meat. After eating my way through a substantial amount of delicacies, I decided it was not unpleasant and also that it was a taste to which I could easily grow accustomed. Captain Nemo watched me. I did not dare to ask any questions, but he guessed at some of my burning thoughts and proceeded to speak of his own accord: “The greater part of these dishes is unknown to you. However, you may partake of them without fear. They are nourishing and rich in phosphorous. For a long time now, I have renounced the food of the earth. As a result, I am no longer ever ill. My crew, whose diet is the same as mine, are also robustly healthy. “So, all these foods are the product of the sea?” “Yes, professor. The sea supplies all my wants. Sometimes I cast my nets in tow and I draw them in, ready to break. I also hunt in the midst of this element that has long been out of the reach of man. I track the game in its underwater forests. My flocks, like those of King Neptune’s old shepherd Proteus, graze fearlessly in the immense prairies of the ocean. I have a vast property that I wish to cultivate myself and which is always sown by the Maker of All Things.” I stared at the Captain with complete astonishment, then finally said: “I can understand perfectly, Sir, that your nets furnish excellent fish for your table. What I am at a loss at comprehending is how a particle of meat, no matter how small, can possibly figure in your entirely marine-based fare.” “I never touch the flesh of land animals,” Captain Nemo answered. “What is this, then?” I asked, gesturing to a dish still filled with what looked and tasted very much like slices of loin. “This, which you believe to be meat, professor, is nothing more than fillet of turtle. Here are also some dolphin’s livers, which, I think you probably took to be stewed pork. My cook is a clever fellow, who has learnt to excel in dressing various underwater products. Please eat more and taste all these dishes. Here is a preserve of sea cucumber, which a Malaysian would declare to be unrivalled in the world. Here is a cream made from the milk of a cetacea. The sugar is from the seeds of the North Sea’s great fucus plantations. And permit me to offer you some preserve of anemone, which is superior to the tastiest of fruit.” His discipline and enthusiasm in consuming only the products of the ocean echoed the controlled environment of the Nautilus. Every object in our immediate surroundings, down to the 65

patterning on the teaspoons, seemed to follow a strict set of aesthetic requirements, in harmony with the rest of the space. I tasted some of the dishes again, more from curiosity than hunger, now that I knew what they were. The food also lent its form to the elegant coils and plant-like protrusions that wove around us. I began to imagine mouthfuls of the stuff moving down to my inner organs and, under its influence, these too beginning to look like the interior of the submarine. In my fancy, I pictured creamy intestines and rose-tinged appendixes, twisting around a whorl of blood vessels, augmented by sparkling bubbles of saliva. Captain Nemo continued to enchant me as he proceeded with his extraordinary stories. I lost track of the actual words and followed the musical tones of his voice, rising and falling. The Captain’s very person, with his lithe physical form and elegant sentence structure, all accentuated by thin, expressive fingers, ending in nails as delicate as eggshells, seemed to embody the themes of the ship. In turn, the Nautilus felt like it was a part of the rhythm and regeneration of the ocean itself. I had to abandon my reverie, no doubt fuelled by the sudden burst of protein I had just ingested, to pick up on what he was saying: “… But this sea, professor, is also an inexhaustible wet nurse. She not only feeds, but also clothes me. The fabric covering our bodies was woven from the filaments that anchor certain seashells. They have been dyed with purple inks from the murex snail, as the ancients were wont to do. The violet and blue tints are extracted from a marine slug called the Mediterranean sea hare. There are perfumes that you’ll find in your cabin, which come from the oozings of smaller marine plants. Your mattress has been produced by the ocean’s softest eelgrass, as are most of the carpets. The quill pens you shall write with will be whalebone and your ink, the juice secreted by a cuttlefish or squid. We are completely self-sufficient and need nothing from the terrestrial world. Everything is catered for by the sea, just as someday everything will return to it.” “The sea is the vast reservoir of nature. The globe began with the sea and, who knows if it will not end in the same way? Within her depths lies supreme tranquillity. The ocean does not belong to despots. Up on the surface, men can still commit iniquities, tear one another to pieces and other such earthly horrors, but, 30 feet below, their reign ceases. All man’s influence is quenched and his power disappears. To live at the bottom of the ocean is the only independence. There are no masters and I am free.” Captain Nemo abruptly fell silent in the midst of his enthusiasms. He had been quite uncharacteristically carried away with the topic. He rose, paced up and down for a few moments, greatly agitated, then, became calm and regained his composure. He turned towards me, saying: “Now, professor, if you wish for a tour of the Nautilus, I am at your service.”

11. A Floating Library Captain Nemo rose and I followed him. At the far end of the dining room were double doors made up of stained glass in pastel shades, through which more light was pouring. Once opened, these led into another room, slightly larger than the previous one. It was a library. The entire room was encased in a warm, orangebrown wood that glowed from constant attention and polish. Every conceivable part of the walls was lined with generous shelves, following the shape of the room. It was a rectangular space, with rounded edges. Each section of the wall curved at the top to meet the gradual dome of the ceiling, which was panelled in the same wood. There were a great number of books, uniformly bound in green leather with gold embossing, in all manner sizes. Recesses in the lower part of the walls of books made cosy alcoves for aubergine leather divans. Like the shelves, these also extended directly from the walls. The pleasing curves of the couches evoked, not only the impression of the greatest comfort, but also elongated versions of the vegetable whose colour they affected. A rippling wave pattern made with an ivory inlay was set into the edges of the uniform interior in regular, staccato bursts. Light, movable, desks had been made to slide in and out at will, allowing one to rest one’s books while reading. The same rich timber panelled the floor and mushroomed into an immense, round table in the centre. This was covered with pamphlets and papers, amongst which were newspapers. The dates of these were difficult to discern. A brief scan of the illustrations made it clear that they were not from recent times, as there were no Moby Dicks or Leviathans to be seen. The electric light flooded everything. It was shed from 4 unpolished globes, half sunk into wooden volutes in the ceiling. I looked around the room with genuine admiration, touching and prodding where I could. It was so ingeniously fitted-out that I could scarcely believe my eyes. “Captain Nemo,” I said to my host, who was making himself comfortable on one of the divans, “this is a library that would do honour to more than one continental palace. I am absolutely astounded when I consider that it can follow you to the bottom of the seas.” “Where could one find greater solitude or silence, Professor?” replied the captain. “Did your study in the museum library at the Jardin des Plantes afford you such perfect quiet?” “No, Sir. And, I must admit, it is a very poor one, after yours. You must have 8,000 or 9,000 volumes here.” “12,000, Professor Jeanneret. They provide me with one of the few ways in which I still interact with dry land. I finished with the terrestrial world when my Nautilus first plunged beneath the 67

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been sufficient to realise that the worthy Clémence Royer’s efforts had interpreted many of the Mr Darwin’s ideas rather liberally in order to encompass that Frenchwoman’s own views. Reports suggest that Heinrich Bronn’s German edition went even further, adding controversial themes that the more cautious Englishman had taken care to omit. But, best of all, was spotting that 2-volume quarto on the great ocean depths that may well have earned us our charitable welcome on board the Nautilus. I took pride in the fact that they were in a noticeably prominent location Surveying the library, I was unnerved to think that this fine compilation of tomes, covering ever-expanding fields of research and debate, was to be frozen in time on board the ship. The only new additions to the scientific canon were to be those written by the Captain himself. On seeing The Founders of Astronomy by Joseph Bertrand on the shelves, I was even able to give the collection’s cutoff point a definite date, as I knew it had been released in 1865. The Nautilus must have been fitted out before then, 5 years previously at the most. In years to come, uncovering such a collection would seem like finding a sarcophagus packed with knowledge, which had been rendered out of date. But there was yet time to uncover the history buried in all those pages. I wanted to explore the rest of the Nautilus. “Sir,” I said again, ”I thank you for having placed such a library at my disposal. There are scientific treasures here that, no doubt, I will profit immensely by studying.” His completely unexpected reply was, “This is not only a library. It’s also a smoking room.” “A smoking room? Then one may smoke on board?” “Certainly.” “Then, Sir, am I to believe that you have kept up communication with Havannah?” “None whatsoever. But do accept this cigar, Professor Jeanneret. Although it doesn’t come from Havannah, if you’re any kind of connoisseur, you’ll be pleased with it.” I took the cigar that was offered. Its shape recalled the London ones, but it seemed to be made with gold leaf. I lit it at a small brazier, supported on an elegant twisted bronze stem. The first whiffs were an absolute delight to this lover of smoking who had gone without for 2 whole days. “It is unquestionably excellent, but not tobacco,” was my verdict. “Indeed. This ‘tobacco’ comes neither from Havannah nor the Orient. It’s a kind of seaweed that’s rich in nicotine. They have no government seal of approval, but are none the worse for it. Do you still miss your Cubans?” “Captain, from this day forward, I shall scorn them.” “Then smoke these whenever you feel like. But please spare me the lengthy debates weighing up the pros and cons of different kinds of tobaccos of which your countrymen are so fond.” And so saying, he flicked a switch and opened a door opposite the one through which we had just entered. We rose and passed into an immense drawing room. 71

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12. Beneath the Domes The resplendent room was a huge oval, 35 feet long and 20 wide, which stretched across the entire central width of the Nautilus. Looking upwards, I realised the marvellous quality of light was due to the effect of a series of 3 sparkling glass domes. A great bell-shaped glass rotunda with cast iron ribs encompassed the centre of the upper ceiling. It was supported by a ring of metal columns that were attached to curving ornamental lattice girders, which joined to the lantern-topped dome, breaking up its glass skin in a downward direction. The pinnacle of the metal and glass structure was flower-shaped and housed a powerful light source. I judged the central highest point, from floor to ceiling to be the same 20 feet as the diameter of the circle. The central dome was flanked by 2 elongated arches of glass segments that descended all the way to the floor on either end of the impressive hall to create ribbed windows that bulged outwards on opposite sides of the Nautilus. As we couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see out, I assumed its shutters were closed. A row of lamps, inset in clear glass florets, lined the uppermost metal rib of the lateral wings. This illumination from above bounced playfully around the space, creating mini kaleidoscopes on various glass surfaces. The greenhouse-like structure came close to being a smaller version of that marvellous feat of technological innovation seen in London for the 1851 World Fair, the Chrystal Palace, designed by Joseph Paxton. No less regal and equal in simplicity of structure, Captain Nemoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s private palace also housed an exhibition of wonders. Beneath the glowing domes was a collection of display cabinets, pedestals, bell jars and vitrines that contained the Nautilusâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s museum. An intelligent hand had gathered all manner of unusual treasures made by nature and man. My first glance was arrested by an abnormally large and rare globefish, from the family of Tetraodontidae, its body extended into a full 24-inch long, spiked balloon. This highly poisonous creature, containing enough tetrodotoxin to kill 30 men, stared with dead eyes from the thick glass of a mahogany and walnut vitrine, adorned with carved ferns. The object of its gaze was a life-size statue of a bronze head with a prickled helmet, whose entire neck and face, right up to the mouth, was encased in metallic rings. A nearby cabinet, with rounded edges and copper embellishments, contained an engraved Sperm whale tusk, clearly Medieval in origin. Minute biblical figures acted out the story of Job up and down its length. This was displayed on the same velvet-lined platform as a granite idol of a 3-headed Indian goddess with a serene smile and one raised fist. A marble Roman miniature of Daphne morphing into a tree, which looked authentic, completed the group of statuettes, all roughly 16 inches 74

long. The leaf formation of Daphne’s locks seemed echoed in the brass fittings of the frame encasing them. Grotesque objects and grinning figurines followed all kinds of novelties, natural and otherwise. I noted that the woodpanelled walls were adorned with first-rate paintings, altarpieces and tapestries, interspersed with exotic woodcuts and masks. I recognized a large French tapestry from the 5th century depicting a lady and a unicorn on a rich bed of red and black scenery, flecked with plants and small animals. It was of the very same series as that immortalised in the fiction of George Sand, in reality uncovered in our time in Boussac Castle by Prosper Mérimée. I knew its value to be immense. The same went for a magnificent Madonna and child altarpiece by the 13th century Tuscan master Cimabue. This was next to a tempera painting by the Siennese Duccio, who followed in his footsteps. The gilding and ultramarine used on both majestic pieces were shown to their best advantage under the Nautilus’s lights. I knew that, in Europe, such pieces could only have been viewed in the very finest of private museums. As Captain Nemo had predicted, sheer amazement had taken possession of me. “Professor,” said this strange man, “You must excuse the unceremonious way in which I receive you and also for the disorder of this room. I once initiated a labelling process, but the job seemed pointless, as the captions are all in my head.” “Sir, without seeking to know who you are, I recognize in you a true artist.” “An amateur, sir, nothing more. Formerly, I used to love to acquire beautiful works from the Dark Ages of Europe. I sought them greedily and ferreted them out indefatigably, to the great chagrin of rival collectors. I was able to bring together some objects that I am sure you would consider to be of great value. I never cared for your Ingres and Delacroix and their lifeless copies of classical scenes. Or, for that matter, gave any credit to morbid and pale recreations of Roman temples. I felt that truly uplifting, rejuvenating art was to be found in the humble ages before the Renaissance, when the work of craftsmen and engineers were fused. True art lies only in the union of craft and high poetry, which is something that the Japanese master craftsmen always understood.” So saying, he drew me towards a part of the wall taken up by a number of bold, Japanese woodcuts, astonishingly simple and effective in their execution. “Europe has much to learn from the ancient race of Japan,” said the Captain. “They have no horror vacui and allow for empty space within an image, not to mention an asymmetrical composition.” He gestured towards a stark print of a single wave, just at the point of breaking, delineated in harsh lines and filled with flat colour. “This is the work of the singular master, Hokusai, made in 1820. In my opinion, it is his finest. Such a work of art allows us to truly see the power of drawing from the source. Naturalness and simplicity are key. Pieces like this illustrate how the oriental spirit is able to gain a wealth of magnificent, naïve beauty from nature’s organic forms. If man must create, I would prefer it were like these exotics 75

who pursue their intense impulses, rather than the pedantic, decrepit rigidity of forms found in the work of those Europeans who persist in imitating fixed models.” He pointed to another Hokusai, this time depicting a red mountain against a bright blue sky dotted with clouds and then to an imposing, cartoon face made in bold, black and orange swathes. “A portrait of a Japanese actor from late in the last century by Utagawa Kunimasa,” the Captain explained, continuing his lecture with eyes sparkling as he warmed to his topic. He noted, with evident pleasure, the sense of violence and menace lurking beneath the audacious, bright compositions. He then gestured to a piece of silk cloth in a glass case with bronze fittings that stood opposite. The Captain told me how it was from Syria and dated back to 400 years ago. It was a regular pattern of golden teardrop shapes interwoven around leaf and floral formations. He said: ”I was taught to admire the rich motifs of the Islamic world, with its geometric and plant formations, its fork-leafed tendrils and vegetal scrolls, which interlink as ‘arabesques’. These forms are repeated in sensuous, complex decorations. There is a sheer delight in their rhythmic alternation of movement, with patterned surfaces like music.” The collector-captain moved on to point out a sandstone lintel of about 25 inches that he said had been obtained from the door of a temple in that Ancient Indian site of Besnagar. It was from no less than the 2nd century AD. A round-breasted river goddess named Ganga stood in a twisted position atop a half-elephant, half-crocodile creature. Small, adoring figures merged with the rhythmic pattern of curling stone waves surrounding them, which morphed into a wreath of flowers at the top to crown the whole scene. Captain Nemo was not content to be silent while I admired such peculiar novelties. He continued the story of his collection while gesturing at different corners of the great room: “The time came when I cut off all communication with the continent, shunning even Medieval Europe. I had not yet fully quitted the land, but the mode of travel I was developing, the fruits of which we now have completely at our disposal, allowed me to go further afield. Not only to the Orient, but Africa and the Americas provided me with magnificent pieces of art that have a purity infused with ancient wisdom. “You might say that these are things made by savages and, indeed, they are; noble savages, born with an innate sense of the natural order and content to exist within its bounty. As your great fellow countryman, Rousseau, stated last century: Primitive man, like the ape and the orang-utan, has no morality but that of nature. It is human civilization that is artificial, creating inequality, envy, and unnatural desires. I came to believe that’s why these uncivilised brutes are able to create objects of the greatest value. As in the wider natural order, all that these primitives produce has a purpose and a use. The collection of headrests you see there and those masks on the wall have been imbued with the power of ritual practices. 76

The way they’ve been made and the materials used are all carefully chosen to fit into a precise role that must be performed within system of belief and a way of life. This is evident in their raw simplicity of form. “I obtained these primal treasures through various means of trade, although it was sometimes necessary to simply remove what I desired from obstinate natives who valued them too highly. My scouts and I acquired headrests from the chiefs of inaccessible African kingdoms; magic amulets from the huts of witches; the burial garb of Pacific cannibals; scimitars from mighty Arab warlords … my findings are extensive and all unsullied by that poisonous touch that is civilization. You are free to peruse these objects at your leisure, although this is only a fragment of the original collection. The day the Nautilus launched, my amassing of any products of the land came to a halt. I am pleased that my last souvenirs of the terrestrial world were obtained from such ageless, primal roots. But now that all on land are dead to me, I pursue only those treasures provided by the ocean.” “What about these composers?” I asked. We had passed a fullsized piano organ occupying one of the central panels, an iron pillar flanking each end. Looking at the sheet music scattered on its bench, I noted some of my favourite composers. There was also music I did not recognize, with the names: Debussy and Wagner; and titles suggestive of Russian or German folk songs; and even some Oriental music, or so I assumed a piece entitled Javanese Gamelan to be. “These composers are the contemporaries of Orpheus,” Captain Nemo answered me. “Their music is that of the dead. Their great strengths, their innovations will do nothing to save mankind and all chronological time between them will soon fade. I, too, professor, am quite dead. As dead as your European composers whose music is that of the underworld. “ He fell silent then, lost in his own dark thoughts. The conversation had evidently triggered some emotion that affected him deeply. As I watched him, trying to analyze his unfamiliar facial expressions, he leaned on the corner of an Turkish-looking mosaic table and no longer saw me.

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13. Found in the Depths I did not wish to disturb Captain Nemo’s sombre meditations. I left him in his trance-like state and set about exploring the room of curiosities. While this unique museum represented an immense variety of different artefacts from various remote times and locations, they all served to illustrate the philosophy of the Captain in some way. Looking around, I was beginning to realise that every item of museum furniture had been crafted together as a unit. These were clearly fashioned by the same skilled hand; some Charles Cressent for the new age, whose workmanship was appropriate for the vessel of the future that was the Nautilus. Once again, a stylistic unity had been achieved in the whole effect with smoothly flowing silhouettes and exquisite attention to detail. Luxurious woods of similar subdued tones had been wrought together with glass and copper to echo the overall undulating theme, which seemed to be the very essence of the Nautilus, played out in varying forms. A recognizable floral and leaf motif was the most pronounced in the museum furniture. Marble and wood plinths were modelled to take on the appearance of a soft and viscous material. All the forms were so well sculpted that they gave the impression of having been fashioned in soft clay before being transformed into wood. When some item of tribal paraphernalia or a gigantic shell had an awkward shape, it was clear that a rounded, pliant case was made especially to enclose it. Consequently, each specimen occupied its own place and was able to be viewed against a plain backdrop. Compared to the jumbled collections I have been called on to view in my professional and private capacity, where different objects of varying degrees of interest and value are squashed next to each other and vie for attention, Captain Nemo’s considered display cases and cabinets were revolutionary. My eye was caught by the display of a rounded porcelain vase, whose blue and white pattern suggested a Chinese origin. It was held aloft by a bronze claw rising up from the marble slab that served as its pedestal, in an asymmetrical twist. This had the effect of both pulling the object towards the ground and pushing it upwards. The same dynamic could be found in the handles of cabinets and the bronze keyholes of the matching vitrines. Something in the playful use of form and abundance of shell-shapes reminded me of our French Rococo style of the last century. But the room around me was less frivolous than the frothy excesses of King Louis XV’s Baroque court. More than a little intrigued by the Captain’s talk concerning his primitive curiosa, I started looking for the labels he had spoken of. I began to locate plain white cards in amongst the exhibits. 80

They were authored by a clear, sloping script I assumed to be his. While neat, it was a bit ‘Old English’ in style, its characters reminding me of German calligraphy. The comparatively small amount of labels that I eagerly inspected, despite being haphazard in the amount of information each provided, testified to the vast range of remote territories to which Captain Nemo’s acquisitiveness had stretched. From the Americas, I noted: A pair of scarlet moccasins, embroidered with fern-like shapes that were said to be from the Mi’kmaq tribe in the Appalachian Mountains of Quebec; a piece of thin tree bark that had a symmetrical pattern which looked very much like it had been made by human bite marks was called a “Mazinibaganjigan” and made by the Ojibwa from the Canadian Shield; a cabinet of extremely elaborate, small ivory miniatures of animals and hunting scenes were by Aivillik Inuits from Nunavut, also in the Canadian region; a set of bow and arrows with a beaded finish was obtained from the Carib Amerindians, Martinique; the Taina tribe of St Dominique were responsible for an idiosyncratic low wooden stool with a carved, grimacing tortoise head poking out beneath the seat. Then, moving East of Europe, were: A thunder-drum, a rainmaking instrument of about 15 inches in diameter, so named for the impressive quality of sound, the beating of which was thought to bring on the Monsoon thunder whose provenance was the Dong-son people from Ngoc Lu, Tonkin, Vietnam; a ceremonial headrest of toucan feathers from the Naga people of the hills of Assam; a “Bodhisattva”, which is a kind of Buddha from Lokesvara, Cambodia; a Mons Wheel of the Law, named a “Dharmacakra” of the Dvaravati tribe; and ancient jewellery made from pure gold, originating from the Suttukeni in Puducherry, India. There was a selection of Buddhas and pagan gods around the room, in various sizes, materials and, judging from the scope seen in the labels, different centuries. I could not tell which were Chinese, Indian or otherwise. I did, however, find a couple of labels denoting very valuable pieces from the Chinese Tang and Ming dynasties. Another label told me that a simple terracotta jug was from that archaic city of Byblos, in what is today known as “Lebanon”, dating all the way back to the Late Bronze Age, 1,500 years BC. The Egyptian Pharaohs even had a place here, with an ornate, scalloped copper battleaxe, whose label told me it was probably used for ceremonial purposes in the 18th Dynasty, alongside more recent finds from Egypt, like a steel axe with detailed gold inlay of tiny abstract forms and Islamic lettering, dated as being from the 15th century. African tribes seemed particularly well represented on board the Nautilus, including: Terracotta heads with distorted, bulging foreheads found at Wamba, Plateau Province, Northern Nigeria; strikingly attractive life-size bronze faces covered in vertical striations, with curious holes around the mouth, were said to be by the Oni tribe of Ife; ceremonial drinking cups with detailed imagery and the figure of animals attached to them, which could 81

only have been made with a surprisingly sophisticated casting process, had been obtained from Igbo Ukwu; a sacred cloth of kings, called a “kente”, made from a type of silk and cotton fabric native to the Akan people in the Ivory Coast and Ghana. Then there was: a grey soapstone figure, 14 inches high and covered in blisters, noted to be a funerary figure used by the Kissi tribe of Guinea; a collection of illustriously bearded masks made with real human hair and sporting long-cat-like noses from the Kono tribe, also from Guinea; marvellous wooden dolls with flat, moon-shaped heads attached by a corkscrew neck to tiny, elongated bodies that were carried on the backs of Asante women if they wished to give birth; a curious wooden harp whose head was that of a smiling girl with spiked hair and a chalk white face that originated in the Azande tribe of the Kongo; a bizarre fetish figure, from the tribe of Nkondi in Mayombe, had nails driven into the entirety of its body, with only a shouting face left visible; an 11-inch filial staff fashioned out of bronze by the Mwala tribe of the Kongo last century was topped by a female figure, sitting in front of a border with foliated flourishes. From Cameroon, there was a frightening 18-inch high wooden mask which had no mouth and faceless dogs peering out from above the head in place of a hat; and a beaded elephant mask, with pinwheel ears, whose use was restricted to male potentates and warriors, which I thought was wise, seeing as only the brave could pull off so bold a fashion statement. A small leather bag that trailed long fringes on either side was labelled as having been obtained from Senegal. I found that, as I had followed a trail of labelled acquisitions, I had wandered to the middle of the room. Directly under the apex of the central dome was a basin made from a single clamshell. A jet of water spouted from it and fell back in on itself in a graceful arc. The shell’s delicately festooned rim measured about 20 feet in circumference. This made it even larger than those giant clams of the class Acephala that were given to François I by the Republic of Venice and which the Church of Saint-Sullpice in Paris has made into 2 gigantic holy water fonts. My instinct as a naturalist finally took over and I felt it was time to look at the natural wonders on board more closely. I did not need a label to tell me that what I was about to see would be amongst the most precious productions of the ocean. The prime exhibits of natural marine rarities were interspersed amongst the man-made objects from different parts of the globe, sometimes in separate cabinets but also alongside each other. It would later become quite clear that the collection of ocean treasures was, bit by bit, overtaking the products of human creativity, like barnacles that over the years encase the wrecked hull of a ship. Every kind of delicate, fragile seashell that science has baptized with its most delightful names was present. To estimate the value of this collection was simply impossible. Captain Nemo must have expended millions in acquiring these various specimens. I was wondering what nature of financial 82

resource he must have tapped into to have been able to gratify his fancy for collecting to such an extent, when, looking up, I was surprised to see him standing nearby, watching my movements. He must have regained his composure some time ago but I had been too engrossed in his collection to notice. On seeing he had my attention, the Captain started speaking again: “You are examining my shells now, professor? Unquestionably, they must be of interest to a naturalist. For me, they have a far greater charm, for I have collected them all with my own hand. There is not a sea on the face of the globe that has escaped my investigations.” It was an astounding thing to say, but given the nature of his ship, quite plausible. “I can understand, Captain, the delight of wandering about in the midst of such riches, especially if you have obtained them in person. No museum in Europe has such an array of the ocean’s bounty in their possession. But, I fear, that if I exhaust all my admiration on these exhibits, I shall have none left for the vessel that carries it. I do not wish to pry into your secrets, but I must confess that this Nautilus and the motor power it demonstrates have all aroused my curiosity to the highest pitch. And now, I can see instruments of whose use I am ignorant suspended on the walls of this room. May I learn …” “Professor Jeanneret,” Captain Nemo interrupted me, “I said that you could move freely aboard this vessel, so no part of the Nautilus is off-limits to you. You are at leisure to inspect it in detail and I’m happy to act as your guide today.” “I don’t know how to thank you enough, Sir. With regard to those instruments …” “You will also find the same instruments in my stateroom, professor, where I shall have the pleasure of explaining their use to you. But, first, you should inspect the cabin that has been prepared for you. You must see how you will be lodged on board the Nautilus.”

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14. All by Electricity I followed Captain Nemo. We passed through one of the doors cut into a panel of the drawing room and regained the ship’s waist. He conducted me under the pulsating light of that passage’s strange lamps to the bow where I found, not a cabin, but an elegant stateroom. A bed, dressing table, chair and washstand stood against the iron walls, which were hung with tapestries and curved at the top to join the ceiling. While the lines here all remained fluid, its features seemed slightly more rustic than the exuberant flourishes of the saloon’s cabinets. The focal point of the room was an ashwood desk that seemed to capture a thrusting, elastic movement within its whole. The structure consisted of 2 inner consoles with open shelves at each end. A sweeping oval top was surmounted by tapering shelf-boards. These different elements were all held in place by a sculptured, heavily flowing outer band that enforced the overall unity by modelling the shape of the whole, as well as providing a brace to hold the shelves. The dressing table matched the desk in its sweeping line, but was taller and thinner, to accommodate drawers for clothes. A tiered mirror framed the oval tabletop. My iron bedstead had a latticework of fluted, pointed arches on either end, suggesting a medieval influence. So too did the Byzantine-looking rune shapes that formed the intertwining abstract patterns of the hand-woven wall tapestries. The bedclothes and also a rug on the floor were made from the same eelgrass fabric I had encountered earlier and was decorated only with the ship’s insignia. All in all, it was a space of uncluttered repose that remained dynamic in its overall composition. I thought of my home in Paris. Like everybody else I knew of the same class and station, my rooms contained a liberal spread of objects, picturesquely placed. From the piano to the sofa and chairs, each item came from a different source, spurred on by the prevailing Revivalist tendencies. This meant that every piece of furniture was a copy of another age, classical, Baroque or otherwise. Spaces were also heavily draped with an excess of curtaining, which, along with the upholstered furniture, created quite a dark atmosphere. In comparison, the rooms on board the Nautilus were bright and function-orientated. Every object in the room existed by virtue of the part they played within the whole. Thinking back to my home and also our proud museum, it now occurred to me that all the contours were bristling, restless and angular as opposed to the smooth and fluid lines of Captain Nemo’s extraordinary ship. My fashionable Parisian circuit back at home was beginning to feel bombastic and rooted in an overblown past. I looked forward to the experience of living in such a novel 86

environment, immersed in a completely new way of life, and could only thank my host. He bowed, saying: “Your stateroom adjoins mine. And mine leads into the hall we’ve just left.” He opened the door and we entered the Captain’s stateroom. Immediately, I was aware of a more austere aura. The sole furnishings consisted of a bedstead, worktable and chair, all constructed in ebony wood to complement each other with simple, self-contained forms. There was no unnecessary decoration, barring silver fittings in a minimal design of repeated parallel lines. An oval skylight, covered with thin lead strips, gracefully accentuating its shape, removed the need for any light fittings. Despite the deceptive, monkish simplicity, each rod, pole and leg had a curve to it that served to create an interrelation between every line in the room, including the walls. In such an interior, the very space surrounding each object became a shape, as did the room as a whole. He had no comforts, except for the most basic articles necessary for his toilet around his washstand. The lower part of the metal walls, which were painted white, were obscured by a plain wood panelling with an undulating upper rim, from which a slim, budshaped wardrobe extended. These were bare except for where the instruments we had come to be hung. However, I noted curved lines cut into the wooden surfaces. They could have been simply decoration, but I thought that they may well have betrayed the edges of doors to closed compartments. If the Captain had some treasure stored close to his person while he slept, it was kept private. He pointed me to a seat. “Sir,” he said, motioning me ot sit down, here are the contrivances required for the navigation of the Nautilus. I always try to have them close in sight, whether here or in the drawing room. They indicate my position and exact direction in the ocean. Some are already known to you, like this thermometer, which provides the internal temperature of the vessel; and the barometer that indicates the weight of the air and foretells the changes of the weather; also, the humidistat, which marks the degree of dryness of the atmosphere; and the storm-glass, the contents of which, by decomposing, announces the approach of tempests. Of course, there is the compass that guides our course; and the sextant, without which we could not ascertain our latitude, according to the altitude of the sun. Similarly, to calculate longitude, a chronometer is necessary. And we have spyglasses, for night and day with which to examine the horizon when we rise to the surface of the waves.” “These are the usual nautical instruments,” I replied. “But what of these others that, no doubt, answer to the particular requirements of the Nautilus? This dial with a needle moving across it, isn’t it a kind of manometer?” “It is a manometer, or what I call a pressure gauge. It is placed in contact with the water and can then indicate the outside pressure on our hull, which, in turn, provides me with our depth.” “And are these some new breed of sounding line?” “They’re thermometric sounding lines that report water 87

temperatures in the different strata.” “And these other instruments?” “ Professor, at this point, I need to give you some background information, if you would be so kind as to listen to me.” He was paused for a few moments before continuing: “There is a powerful force that is obedient, swift and easy to use, which can be put to every use and reigns supreme on board my vessel. Everything is done by means of it. It lights, warms, and is the soul of all the mechanical apparatus. This agent is electricity.” “Electricity?” I said, with some surprise. “Yes, sir.” “But, Captain, you possess an extreme speed of movement that doesn’t seem to fit the strength of electricity, as I understand it. Until now, its dynamic potential has remained quite limited and mankind has only been able to produce small amounts of power from it.” “Professor, my electricity is not the run of the mill variety. May I leave it at that?” “I can’t insist on more information, Sir. I’ll be content with simply being flabbergasted at your results. I would like to ask one question, though you needn’t answer if it’s indiscreet. The electric cells necessary to generate this force deplete very quickly. For instance, the zinc component, how do you manage to replace it while eschewing all contact with the shore?” “That question merits an answer,” was his reply. “Firstly, the bottom of the sea has veins of zinc, iron, silver and gold that is possible to mine. But I didn’t like the idea of using land-based resources. While my ship might have been built with materials from the land, that is now a thing of the past. Now only the sea itself is the source of the Nautilus’s power.” “The sea itself ?” “Indeed, professor. And there is no shortage of such reserves. I could potentially obtain electricity by creating a circuit between 2 wires immersed at different depths. The difference in temperature between them would precipitate the desired effect. But I prefer to use a more practical procedure. “You’re familiar with the composition of sea water. It’s the sodium in it that I extract from the salt water and from which I compose my electric cells.” “Sodium, Sir?” “Yes. When combined with mercury, it forms an amalgam that can replace zinc in Bunsen cells. The mercury is therefore never depleted. Only sodium is consumed and that comes from the sea. I’ll also mention that sodium batteries have been located to generate the greater energy. Their electro-motor strength is double that of zinc ones.” “Captain, I can fully comprehend the excellence of sodium under the conditions in which you’re placed. It comes from the sea. That’s all well and good, but it would still need to be extracted somehow. What method do you use to accomplish this? Obviously, your batteries could do some of the extracting but, if I’m not mistaken, 88

the process of extraction would then use up more than was made.” “And that is why I don’t use batteries in the extraction process, professor. I simply use the heat from coals.” “But, coals come from the earth,” I pointed out. “In this instance, I prefer to call it the seafloor,” was his reply. “And you can mine veins of underwater coal?” “You’ll see it being done in soon enough, professor. And you have ample time to be patient here. All you need to know essentially is that I owe everything to the ocean. She generates the electricity, provides heat, light, motion and, basically, life itself.” “Except the air you breathe.” “Oh, I could produce that if I wanted to, but it’s a pointless activity when I can rise to the surface of the water whenever I choose. But let me tell you, even though electricity can’t supply me with breathable air, it does operate powerful pumps that store it under pressure in custom made tanks which, if needs be, allow me to extend my time in the lower strata considerably.” “Captain, I’m going to just rest content with marvelling. You’ve obviously tapped into the dynamic power of electricity, something that the rest of mankind will have to catch up with one day.” “I’m not so certain they’ll manage it,” Captain Nemo said, in all seriousness. He went on to expound further virtues of the valuable force, pointing out that its uniformity of light was something even sunlight isn’t able to provide. Then, he showed me another fine specimen of craftsmanship in the form of a clock. The typical ship’s brass had been replaced by real silver to enclose the face in a pattern of concentric circles, the innermost one being made of black enamel. This instrument, too, was electric and therefore able to rival the finest of chronometers. Seeing as Captain Nemo relied on artificial light it was divided into 24 hours, like Italian clocks. It was precisely 10:03 in the morning. The Captain moved on to show me a dial hanging on the wall, similar in appearance to the electric clock. It indicated the Nautilus’s speed. He demonstrated how an electric wire puts it in communication with the patent log. This needle then indicates the actual speed. At that moment, we were going at a moderate rate of 15 miles per hour.” “It’s wonderful, Captain. I see you were right to employ a force that can replace wind, water and steam.” “But we haven’t finished, Professor Jeanneret. If you’ll allow me, we can now examine the Nautilus’s stern.” I had already, more or less, worked out the forward part of this underwater boat. These are the exact divisions, going from amidships to spur: The dining room, 5,5 yards long and separated from the library by a watertight bulkhead, so that it cannot be penetrated by the sea; the library is also 5,5 yards long; the grand drawing room, 10 yards long, separated from the Captain’s stateroom by a another watertight bulkhead; the said room, that we were then occupying, 4,5 yards in length; my adjoining room was 2,5 yards and, lastly, a reservoir of air, 8 yards long, that extended to 89

the stempost. The total length was 38,5 yards, or 116 feet. The partitions had doors that were shut hermetically by means of India rubber seals. They ensured the safety of the ship in case of a leak in one section. I followed Captain Nemo through the swirling tiled floors of the gangways and arrived amidships. Here, there was a kind of shaft that opened upwards between the twin bulkheads. A pretty iron ladder that tapered into metal curlicues was clamped to the wall. I asked the captain where it led. “It goes to the skiff.” “You have a longboat?” “Of course. It is an excellent longboat, light and unsinkable. We use it for outings and fishing trips.” “So, when you need to embark, you have to return to the surface of the water?” “Not at all. The skiff is attached to the topside of the Nautilus’s hull and is set in a cavity specially made for it. It is fully decked out and absolutely watertight, held solidly together by bolts. This ladder leads to a man hole cut into the hull that corresponds to a similar opening in the side of the longboat. It is through this double aperture that one may enter the small vessel. My crew then shuts the Nautilus’s opening and I shut the other by screwing it into place. Then, I undo the bolts holding the skiff to the ship and the little boat goes up to the surface of the sea with phenomenal speed. I can then open the bridge panelling, which was carefully sealed until that time, up the mast and hoist the sail, or take up my oars and I’m off.” This being said, we continued the tour, passed the well of the companionway that led up to the platform. As with the metal framework holding up the glass domes in the drawing room, the structural support also served as organically inspired decoration. We followed the floor arabesques to a cabin, which I judged to be about 3 yards long. Inside, were Milou and Ned Drake. Through a C-shaped porthole, I could see that they were still completely engrossed with the business of breakfast which, no doubt, would be devoured down to the last crumb. Then a door opened into the galley. This was about 4,5 yards long and sandwiched in between enormous storerooms. Here, electricity, more obedient than gas, did all the cooking. It was conducted through wires that went under the stoves and straight to platinum griddles, where the heat could be consistently maintained and distributed. The wires also supplied heat to bulbous copper distilling apparatus, which, through a process of evaporation, provided excellent, drinking water. The kitchen was a combination of the holding room we had first been in and also a continuation of the gangway and central staircase, with its creamy tiles coating the floor and walls. Fiery, tiled ribbons could be seen flickering along the borders. The metal of the ship’s walls bulged out to hug the asymmetrical doorframes and oven alcove into the bended stalkand-stem-like curvature that prevailed throughout. 90

Near the kitchen was a comfortably fitted bathroom. It contained a gracefully elongated brass bathtub and sink, with taps for hot and cold water. The ship’s tiling here transformed into larger squares, depicting abstracted, seaweed and anemone-like forms at various intervals. From the ceiling hung a circle of individual glass bulbs suspended from thin, brass rods, giving the effect of the ribs of a tent. The proportions of this lighting fixture echoed those of the room as a whole. After the galley came the crew’s quarters. But the double-doors were firmly shut and I could not gain any information from it. I would have liked to know the number of men it took to run the Nautilus. At the bottom was a 4th watertight bulkhead, separating these crew’s quarters from the engine-room. Another door opened and I found myself in the brightly lit compartment where Captain Nemo, who was without question an engineer of the highest order, had arranged his locomotive machinery. Unlike the rooms we had been in previously, which were partitioned with walls and floors, the engine room occupied the entire space inside the Nautilus’s outer shell. The ship’s metal gangplank extended from the passage into this room to create a platform for us to walk on while we surveyed the machinery above and below. This consisted of an intricate system of turbines, combined with massive toothed wheels, larger than most men, which fitted into conglomerations of different sized cogs. Various levers, gears and crankshafts connected the different mechanisms attached to a network of wiring formed a criss-crossed net above. I fancied I was inside a giant clock. It was difficult to ignore an odour permeating throughout the space that could only be described as sui generis. Captain Nemo noted my reaction to it and explained that this was a gaseous discharge, the result of using sodium. He considered it a mild inconvenience, which was cleaned out daily when the ship’s air was renewed. You can only imagine the fascination with which I surveyed the Nautilus’s engine. I noted that the copper pipes and iron levers were often embellished with elongated shell-shaped decoration, as if the wisps of smoke from coal engines had been captured and set into the metal. The Nautilus’s insignia also made an appearance on various surfaces, leading me to speculate as to what factories were used to manufacture all the equipment. There seemed to be 2 clear sections in the space, which I guessed to be made up of the system of mechanisms for generating electricity and the machinery that transmitted movement to the propeller. But, as to understanding the workings of what I was looking at, I was utterly at a loss. “You observe,” said the Captain, who stood beside me, “that I use Bunsen’s contrivances, not Ruhmkorff ’s. The latter would not have been sufficiently powerful. Bunsen’s are fewer in number, but are strong and large, which experience has taught to be the better option. The electricity generated here makes its way to the stern, where electromagnets of great size activate a special system of levers and gears that relay movement to the propeller’s shaft. This 91

has a diameter of 19 feet, a pitch of 25 feet and can do up to 120 revolutions in a minute.” “Which results in?” “A speed of 50 miles per hour.” There was a mystery there, but I was not in a position to insist on having it revealed. I was unable to understand how electricity produced the kind of power evident on the Nautilus. I also wanted to find out where this nearly unlimited energy originated. It might have been from extraordinary voltage obtained from some new kind of induction coil. Or, perhaps, transmission was immeasurably increased by a system of levers unknown to me. The point was beyond my capabilities to grasp and not immediately evident in the visible components of the engines. “Captain Nemo,” I said, “I’ve seen what the Nautilus can do with my own eyes. From your manoeuvres in front of the Thomas Jefferson I gained a good idea of its feats of speed. I can vouch for the results and won’t press you to explain them. But, may I ask, how do you see where you’re going in order to direct the vessel? How do you get to the great depths, where there is increasing resistance that’s assessed in hundreds of atmospheres? And how do you return to the surface of the ocean as well as keep the ship at whatever level suits you? Am I asking too much?” “Not at all, professor,” replied the captain, after a slight hesitation. “Since you’ll never leave the Nautilus, there’s no need for secrets. Let’s go to the drawing room, where I prefer to work, and you can learn the full story.

15. Some Figures A few minutes later, we were seated on a divan in the saloon, smoking. I watched the wreaths curl in the air, echoing the fluid lines of the vessel enclosing us. The captain showed me a sketch that gave the ground plan, cross section and side view of the vessel. Then he began his description. “Here, Professor Jeanneret, are the dimensions of the ship you are in. It is an elongated cylinder with conical ends, very like a cigar in shape. This formation was already adapted in London in several constructions of a similar sort. The length of this cylinder, from stern to stern, is exactly 77 yards and its maximum breadth is 11 yards. So, it isn’t built on the 10-to-1 ratio of your highspeed steamers, but its lines are sufficiently long and their tapering gradual enough to allow displaced water to slip past easily and poses no obstacle to the vessel’s passage. These 2 dimensions allow, by a simple calculation, a person to obtain the overall surface and cubic content of the Nautilus. Its area measures 1,106.14 square yards and its contents about 1,648.29 cubic yards, which is the same as saying that, when it’s completely submerged, it displaces 1,648 cubic yards of water, or weighs 1,477 tons. “When I drew up plans for this underwater ship, I wanted 90% to be below the waves when it floated. Consequently, it should only displace 90% of its bulk, so 1483.46 cubic yards. It had to weigh the same number of tons; accordingly, I was obliged not to exceed this weight while constructing it to the aforementioned dimensions. “The Nautilus is composed of 2 hulls, one inside the other. Between them are iron T-bars that hold them, together and give the ship its rigidity. Owing to this cellular arrangement, it has the resistance of a stone block, as if it were completely solid. Its plating cannot give way as it’s self-adhering and not dependent on the tautness of its rivets. Due to the perfect union of its materials, the solidarity of its construction allows it to defy the most violent seas. Are you following all of this?” he asked. “Yes.” “Then, when the Nautilus is afloat under these circumstances, 10% is out of the water. Now, if I have ballast tanks equal in capacity to this 10%, therefore capable of holding 148.34 tons, and if I fill them with water, the boat then displaces 1,483.4 tons — or, it weighs that much — and it would be completely submerged. That’s how it happens, professor. These ballast tanks are in the lower reaches of the Nautilus, within easy access. I open the stopcocks, they fill and the boat sinks, exactly flush with the water surface.” “Fine, Captain, but now we come to a genuine difficulty. I can understand that you’re able to lie flush with the surface of the ocean. But, while diving below, doesn’t your submersible encounter a pressure and, consequently, undergo an upward thrust that must 93

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be assessed at one atmosphere for every 30 feet of water, just about 15 pounds per square inch?” “Just so, sir.” “Then, unless you fill the Nautilus, I do not see how you can force it into the heart of those depths.” “Professor,” Captain Nemo replied, “you must not confuse static objects with dynamic ones, or you’ll make grave errors. It takes very little effort to reach the ocean’s lower regions because all bodies have a tendency to sink. Follow my logic, here.” “I’m all ears, Captain.” “When I wanted to find out the necessary increase of weight required to submerge my ship, I had only to calculate the proportionate reduction in volume that seawater experiences according to the depth.” “That is obvious,” I said “Now, if water isn’t absolutely incompressible, it is at least capable of very slight compression. In fact, according to my most recent calculations, this reduction is only 0.0000436 per atmosphere, or per every 30 feet of depth. For instance, if we go 1,000 yards down, we must take into account the reduction in volume that occurs under a pressure equivalent to that from a 3,280 foot column of water, in other words, under a pressure of 100 atmospheres. In this instance, the reduction would be 0.00436. As a result, I’d have to increase my weight from 1483.39 tons to 1489.86. So the additional weight would be 6.47 tons.” “Is that all?” “That’s all, professor. And the calculation takes seconds to check. Now then, I have supplementary ballast tanks capable of shipping 100 tons of water. So I can descend to considerable depths. When I wish to rise again, all that needs to be done is to expel that water. If I want the Nautilus to emerge only 10%, then I empty all the ballast tanks completely.” I had no objections to any of these reasons. Besides, it would be foolish to dispute them, since daily experience confirmed them to be true. But I was still puzzled about some figures and asked: “Captain, when you’re about 1,000 yards deep, the walls of the Nautilus bear a pressure of 100 atmospheres. If you were then to empty the supplementary reservoirs to lighten the vessel in order to go up to the surface, the pumps must overcome the pressure of 100 atmospheres, which is 1,500 pounds per square inch. This requires a strength … ” “That electricity alone can give,” he interrupted. “I repeat, sir, that the dynamic power of my engines is almost infinite. The Nautilus’s pumps have an enormous strength, as you must have observed when their water jets burst like a torrent over the Thomas Jefferson. Besides, I use my supplementary reservoirs only to obtain a mean depth of 820 to 1,095 fathoms, with a view of conserving my machinery. When I have a mind to visit the ocean depths 2 or 3 vertical leagues below the surface, I make use of a slower, but no less reliable means.” It was fascinating to learn how the ship worked. Captain Nemo 96

explained how, in order to steer the Nautilus to starboard or port, he used an ordinary wide-bladed rudder. This was fixed on the back of the sternpost with a wheel and some tackle. To make the Nautilus rise and sink in a vertical movement, he employed 2 slanting fins, which were attached to its sides at its centre of flotation. Operated from the inside by powerful levers, these flexible fins could move in every direction. If the fins were kept parallel with the boat, it moved horizontally. If they slanted, the Nautilus followed the direction of the angle and, pushed forward by her propeller, either sank or rose on a diagonal. The Captain added that, if he wanted to rise more quickly to the surface, he threw the propeller in gear and the water pressure caused the vessel to rise vertically, which he likened to the way a balloon filled with hydrogen lifts into the sky.” I applauded Captain Nemo for theses feats and encouraged him to continue. The incredible man went on to describe how it was possible to steer. His helmsman was stationed behind the windows of a pilothouse, which protruded from the topside of the Nautilus’s hull. I realised I must have seen the tip of the pilothouse’s glass dome when on the outside of the ship, but mistaken it for being part of the ship’s unfamiliar ornamentation. This structure was fitted with biconvex lenses, capable of resisting extreme pressure. I was a bit dubious about the strength of fragile glass, but the Captain assured me of its ability to offer considerable resistance. He told me about some experiments of fishing by electric light that he had witnessed in 1864, in the North Sea. He had seen glass, less than 0.3 inches thick, resist a pressure of 16 atmospheres while still allowing strong, heat-generating rays through. On the basis of these experiments, the glass used in the Nautilus was no less than 30 times thicker, at 8.27 inches. My next question concerned how it was possible to see in the midst of the murky seawater. Captain Nemo told me that, behind the pilothouse was an extremely powerful electric reflector. The rays of this lantern could light up the sea for half a mile. It could also be extended or retracted into the ship’s hull, according to the degree of dexterity of movement that a given situation required. My response to this information was jubilant: “Ah, bravo again, Captain! Now I can finally account for the phosphorescence emanating from the supposed narwhal that puzzled us for so long. Which reminds me, I wanted to ask you if the Nautilus’s running afoul of the Walterscotia, which caused such a colossal uproar on land, was entirely accidental.” “It was entirely accidental, sir. I was sailing only a fathom below the surface of the water when the collision occurred. But I don’t think it had such a disastrous result.” “It didn’t, Sir, but what about your meeting with the Thomas Jefferson?” “Professor, I was troubled by that because it’s one of the best vessels of the gallant American navy. But they attacked me and I had to defend myself. I was content to simply put the frigate in a state that rendered her unable to harm me. She won’t have any difficulty getting repaired at the next port.” 97

“Ah, Captain your Nautilus is truly the most marvellous of boats.” “Yes, Professor Jeanneret,” he said with genuine emotion in his voice, “and I love her as if she were an extension of my own flesh and blood. On board a normal ship, danger lurks on all sides and there is the constant threat of what the Dutchman Cornelius Jansen called, ‘the underlying chasm’. But on board the Nautilus, men’s hearts never fail them. Every aspect of her appearance is designed to remind the crew members of this. There are no defects to be afraid of because the double hull is as firm as iron. There is no rigging to attend to, no sails for the wind to carry off, no boilers to burst and no fire to fear, for this vessel is made of iron, not wood. Tempests don’t need to be braved when there is perfect tranquillity a few yards below the waves. She is the ideal ship. And also the ideal home, as she has no heavy attachments to the oppressive weight of the earth through the depths of her foundations. She is mobile and free. If it’s true that the engineer has more confidence in the structure than the builder, and the builder more than the captain, you will understand the trust I hold in the Nautilus, since I am its captain, builder, architect and engineer.” Captain Nemo spoke with an admirable passion. The fire in his eyes made him no less remote to me, but certainly a noble character. I could not help asking: “You’re a qualified engineer, then?” “Yes. I studied in London, Paris and New York. Back in the days when I was still a resident of the earth’s continents.” “But, how on earth did you manage to construct this marvel in secret?” “Each separate portion was brought from different parts of the globe and was sent to different covering addresses. Her keel was forged by Majorelle & Gallé in Nancy, her propeller shaft by Horta in Brussels, her sheet-iron plates for the hull by Mackintosh’s in Glasgow, the propeller by Eckmann’s in Munich. Her tanks were manufactured by Guimard in Paris, her engine by Eisenstein in Riga, the spur by the Lauro workshops in Turin and the precision instruments by the Sullivan Brothers in Chicago. Each of these suppliers received my exact specifications under a different name.” “But, Captain,” I put in, “once these elements were manufactured, they had to have been put together and adjusted. And what about the craftsmen who made the furniture to fit specific spaces? Surely, many of the ornamental flourishes in the iron and woodwork had to have been done by specialists at hand.” “I set up my workshop on a desert island in the middle of the ocean,” the captain explained. “My workers are all brave men, some of whom are expert craftsmen I found and indentured, others I educated myself. They are now all members of the crew. Together with their skilled efforts, I put together the Nautilus. We took our inspiration from nature and fused this imagery with elements from traditional styles, applying my scientific knowledge to make the perfect, dynamic, object: A sublime melding of art, craft and industry. “As I had repudiated the land, I was repulsed at the thought of 98

continuing its prevalent mode of decoration. The tyranny of styles from the past that prevails is, to me, like the tyranny of mankind itself. Besides, to fill the Nautilus with copies of what was in vogue in previous centuries would simply be an anachronism. Mine is a modern ship and her appearance mirrors the hope for a new kind of life that she represents. I created a new style that is entirely my own. As even the tiniest of mathematical details have to be accurate in order for the Nautilus to function and sustain us, so too does the appearance of everything on board have to be in line. Everywhere the eye rests must link to another point in the space in order to embody the theme of movement, with even the smallest elements following the same logic. The appearance of each object and surface was made to reflect the dynamic power of the whole ship. And don’t think for a moment, professor, that my exacting requirements did not allow for free artistic expression. Sometimes, instead of giving my craftsmen specific instructions, I simply played a piece of music to them, or read a poem and allowed them to freely interpret these into the required item of furniture or structural embellishment.” He paused again as his eyes roved around his great pride, like a father doting on a beloved child. When it came to rest on the doorway to his bedroom, he grew serious again. His voice was more abrupt as he said: “When the work was finished, we destroyed all traces of our proceedings by fire. If I could, I would have blown it up. Even with the extreme precautions I took, I fear that the outsourced work was so distinctively advanced in design that it may well have piqued the interest of those who are able of recognizing its superior quality.” “I think, Captain, you’ve more than proved that the Nautilus is capable of avoiding curious eyes. Forgive me, but from what you’ve been telling me, the cost of this vessel must be exceedingly great.” “Professor, an iron vessel costs 1,125 Francs per ton. As the Nautilus weighs 1,477 tons, it cost 1,69 million Francs. That’s 2,5 million Francs in total if you include the cost of the accommodations. And 5 million Francs, or 6 million Francs, if you include the works of art and the collections it contains.” I was now quite unhinged on hearing all this and could only manage one last question: “You must be immensely rich then, Captain Nemo.” “Infinitely, sir. I could easily pay off the 10 billion Franc French national debt without even noticing the money was missing.” I gaped at this singular person, unsure whether he was joking with me or not. Only the future would tell.

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16. The Black Current “Sir,” said Captain Nemo, “if you have no objections, I will now take our bearings and fix the starting point of our voyage. It is 11:45. I’m going to take the ship up to the surface.” The Captain pressed an electric bell 3 times. The pumps began to expel water from the tanks. The manometer’s needle marked the decreasing pressures that indicated our ascent. Then the needle was still. “We’ve arrived,” said the Captain. We went to the central companionway that opened on to the platform. I followed Captain Nemo up the iron steps. Now that we were no longer in a rush, I had time to notice the intricate interlacing pattern work within the staircase structure. A ribbon of iron darted around the handrail, rather like a creeper whose job was also to hold the structure up. Each stair was made up of wrought iron rectangles of interlacing patterns, similar to some of the ornate Moorish cloths in Captain Nemo’s collection. Treading on the last flourish that marked the top of the stairs, I found myself on the upper part of the Nautilus. The platform was only 3 feet out of the water. Once there, I could now clearly make out that the Nautilus was of a spindle shape. Given the form and habitual movements of the ship, I could understand why, from afar, it had always been mistaken for a marine animal. While, from this angle, no particular creature sprang to mind, it occurred to me that, because nature had inspired every aspect of the ship’s design, with all of her proportions and ornamentation consistently referring to organic form, it followed that the Nautilus became associated with a living entity. Another aspect I had not fully taken cognisance of before was that the entire cast iron exterior was of a dark green colour. Green metal tendrils rose up out of the ship’s shell and clung to her structure. When they reached the exposed deck, they reared up to encircle the rectangular iron platform, forming the writhing, sinewy bed on which it rested. The platform was surrounded by a hand-railing of flowing ironwork branches, holding up shell-shaped medallions. These intertwined in regular clusters of fronds and spirals, looped together to form a wilfully elegant and sophisticated pattern. A series of hinges that lined the bottom told me that the handrail could be quickly folded downwards and slot into the surface of the platform should the Nautilus need to be streamlined, which must have been the case when she was battling the Thomas Jefferson. Toward the middle of the platform was the slight outgrowth made by the longboat, half-buried in the hull. A cupola of low height protruded in the fore. Its side was slanting and partially inset with heavy biconvex lenses through which the helmsman could ascertain our path. Aft of the platform was the enormous lantern, whose 102

light was brilliant enough to illuminate our underwater road. The powerful globe was carefully crafted, although I found it quite outlandish in appearance, a little like a giant frog’s eye that came all the way up to my shoulders. The bulb was an orange colour, in the shape of a large teardrop. This extended from an ornate metal cap, held in place by a series of thin metal stamens, making the whole a fuchsia-like shape, all painted in the same dark green. Each extension from the hull was contained in the fluid embrace of the metallic flourishes that licked the outlines of the platform and swelled up around the skiff, lantern and wheelhouse. I surmised their purpose was to maintain a dynamic tension across the surface of the hull. There was barely a single straight line to be seen on the whole of the Nautilus’s dark green exterior. Presumably due to practical concerns, the metalwork on the outside was heavier and more contained, with no independent thrusts into empty space. Moreover, shapes were thicker, as if the material from which they were wrought had a viscous quality. The overall effect was not unlike a body that had been sculpted by wind and water and then frozen in place. If the interior surface detail gave the impression of growth, that of the exterior could be mistaken for slowly sinking back into the surface of the ship which it held in its grip. The sea was magnificent, the sky clear. Captain Nemo’s aquatic vehicle could scarcely feel the broad undulations of the ocean. A light breeze from the east rippled the waters. While the mist-free horizon made sightings easy, there was nothing to be seen. Not one reef or island interrupted the deserted immenseness. Captain Nemo raised his sextant and took the altitude of the sun, which also gave the latitude. He waited for some moments before the orb touched the horizon. I noticed that, while he took the measurements, not a muscle moved on his body. The instrument was completely motionless in that marble hand. “12:00, Sir,” He said. “Whenever you’re ready …” I cast one last look at the ocean, which I was sure had a yellowish tinge near where Japanese landing places must be. Then I descended to the drawing room. The Captain was fixing his position, using a chronometer to calculate his longitude, which he double-checked against his previous observations of hour angles. He said: “We are in longitude 137° 15’ west …” “West of which meridian?” I asked quickly, hoping his response would give me a clue as to his nationality. “Sir,” he answered, “I have chronometers set to the meridians of Paris, Greenwich and Washington DC. In your honour, I’ll use the Parisian today.” This reply told me nothing. I bowed and he continued: “We’re in longitude 137° 15’ west of the Parisian meridian and latitude 30° 7’ north. In other words, about 300 miles from the shores of Japan. At noon on this day of 8th November, I declare that we hereby begin our voyage of exploration.” “May God be with us,” I replied. “And now, professor, I’ll leave you to your intellectual pursuits,” 103

said Captain Nemo. “Our course is east-northeast at a depth of 26 fathoms. Here are large-scale maps by which you may follow it. The saloon and library are at your disposal and, with your permission, I’m going to retire.” Captain Nemo bowed and I was left alone. There was much to ponder, not least of which being the nature of the pursuits of the Nautilus’s commander. I wondered if I would ever learn the eccentric man’s true origins and the reason for his hatred of humanity. Perhaps he was one of those unappreciated geniuses who had become embittered by the world, like a latter day Galileo? Or maybe he was like America’s Captain Maury, a man of science whose career was ruined by political revolution. It was impossible to say. He had been hospitable, but never took the hand I extended and never offered his own. For a whole hour, I was deep in these reflections. Then, my eyes were drawn to the cast planisphere spread upon the table. I placed my finger on the very spot where the latitude and longitude crossed. The sea has its large rivers, like the continents do. They are special currents known by their temperature and colour. The most remarkable of these is known by the name of the Gulf Stream. Science has defined the direction of 5 principle currents: One in the North Atlantic, a second in the South Atlantic, a third in the north Pacific, a 4th in the south Pacific and a 5th in the Southern Indian Ocean. It is even probable that a 6th current once existed in the Northern Indian Ocean, when the Caspian and Aral Seas joined with large Asian lakes to form a vast, single expanse of water. At the point indicated on the world map, one of these currents was rolling by: The Japanese “Kuroshio”, meaning “the Black Current”. Heated by perpendicular rays from the tropical sun, this current leaves the Bay of Benghal, crosses the Straits of Malacca, goes up the coast of Asia, and curves into the North Pacific, as far as the Aleutian Islands, carrying with it trunks of camphor trees and other indigenous items, the pure indigo of its warm water contrasting sharply with the ocean waves. It was this current that the Nautilus was to cross. I followed it on the map and noted that it lost itself in the vastness of the Pacific. I was imagining being swept along with it, when Ned Drake and Milou appeared at the door. My 2 brave companions, so quick to risk their lives for their fellows, stood petrified at the sight of all the riches and curiosities before them. “Where are we? In the Quebec Museum?” said the Canadian, tentatively rapping his hand on one of the metal pillars holding up the great glass dome. “Begging Master’s pardon,” said Milou, peering at one of the Medieval tapestries close to the door, “but this is more like the Hôtel de Cluny.” “My friends,” I answered, gesturing for them to enter. “You’re not in Canada or France, but on board the Nautilus, 50 yards under the sea.” “If Master says so,” said Milou. “But, in all honesty, this drawing room is enough to astonish even a Flemish person.” 104

“You can indulge your astonishment here, my friend. And take a good look at the marine exhibits as much as the rest, because there’s plenty of work there for a classifier of your talents.” Milou needed no encouraging and was soon bending over the glass cases muttering things like, “Gastropoda, family Buccinoidea, genus cowry …” Ned Drake, however, was less dedicated to conchology. A cursory look at the collection served only to prove to him that the Nautilus was, indeed, occupied by savages . This conviction was, no doubt, formed because of the presence of Captain Nemo’s primitive objects. Ned asked me about my time with the Captain, asking hundreds of questions concerning what I had managed to discover about our host’s origins and plans. I told him the little I knew and asked what he had managed to glean on his part. “I haven’t seen or heard a thing,” he said. “I haven’t even laid eyes on any of the crew. By any chance, could they be electric too?” “Electric savages?” “Ye, gods, Professor, I’m half tempted to believe it. But, back to you, how many men are on board? 20, 50 or 100?” “I can’t tell you what I don’t know, Mr Drake. But trust me on this: For a time, you need to abandon the idea of seizing the Nautilus or escaping from her. This craft is a masterpiece of modern industry and I’m not sorry to have seen it. Many people would welcome the situation that chance has forced upon us. So keep calm and let’s see how things unfold.” “See?” the harpooner exclaimed. “There’s nothing to be seen from a sheet-iron prison.” He had scarcely pronounced these words, when we were suddenly plunged into utter darkness. The ceiling lights had been extinguished so quickly that my eyes ached. I remained still, not knowing what surprise was next. A sliding noise was heard. It sounded very much like the panels on either side of the ship were being shifted. “It’s the beginning of the end,” was Ned Drake’s verdict. “… order Hydromedusa … ” Milou muttered. Suddenly, daylight broke out at each end of the grand room. Through the bended glass was the liquid mass of the sea, lit up by the ship’s electricity. My first thought was to worry about the fragile panes breaking, but I could see that their sinuous copper bindings were strong (I later learned that these domes separating us from the sea were enforced with crystal plates that provided an almost infinite power of resistance). The sea was distinctly visible for a mile all around the Nautilus. It was quite a spectacle and almost impossible to put into words. Even our greatest painters would be unable to capture the effect of light pouring through transparent sheets of water, or convey the softness of its progressive shadings from the lower to the upper strata of the ocean. We have long known the extent of the transparency of the sea. Its clarity is far beyond that of spring water. The mineral and organic substances that it holds serve to heighten its translucency. In certain parts of the Caribbean Sea, a bed of sand 105

can be seen with startling clarity through 79 fathoms of water. The penetrating power of solar rays seems to cease at a depth of 164 fathoms. But in the fluid medium we were travelling through, the Nautilus produced an electric glow in the bosom of the waves. It was no longer luminous water, but liquid light. If one accepts the hypothesis of the microbiologist Ehrenberg, who believes that these underwater depths are lit up by phosphorescent organisms, nature has ungenerously kept her most exceptional sights aside for residents of the sea exclusively. Luckily for us, the Nautilus had large windows on both sides of her that opened over this unexplored abyss. The room’s darkness made it easier to take in the scene outside the clear glass. It was like being in an immense aquarium. The Nautilus seemed to be standing still, but this was due to the lack of landmarks outside. If one looked closely, streaks of water, parted by the ship’s spur, sometimes threaded before our eyes at great speed. We stared out the show windows in stunned silence, until Milou said: “You wished to see, Ned, my friend? Well, now you have something to see.” “How curious,” said the Canadian, forgetting his ill temper in the face of this irresistible allure. “A man would travel an even greater distance than we have to stare at such a sight.” “Ah,” I said, “Our Captain has fashioned a world apart for himself, with all his treasures, including the greatest wonders of the sea.” “But where are the fish?” asked the Canadian. “Why would you care,” Milou said. “When you have no knowledge of them?” “How can you say that to a fisherman?” Ned exclaimed. During the dispute that followed, it emerged that they were both knowledgeable about fish, but from totally different standpoints. Everyone knows that fish make up the 4th and last class of the vertebrate branch. They are cold-blooded vertebrates with a double circulatory system, breath through their gills, and are designed to live in water. They consist of 2 distinct series: the bony fish, whose spines have vertebrae made of bone, and cartilaginous fish, whose spines are made of cartilage. The Canadian was possibly familiar with this distinction, but Milou was far more informed on the topic. And since he and Ned were now friends, he wanted to explain them: “Ned, my friend, you’re a highly skilled slayer of fish. You’ve caught a great number of these animals, but you don’t know how they’re classified.” “Of course I do,” replied the harpooner, in all seriousness. “There are the fish we eat and those we don’t.” “Spoken like a true glutton,” Milou remarked. “But are you familiar with the differences between bony and cartilaginous fish?” “I think so, Milou.” “What about the subdivisions of these 2 large classes?” “I haven’t the foggiest notion.” “All, right. Listen and learn, my friend. Bony fish are subdivided 106

into 6 orders. Primo, the acanthopterygians, whose upper jaw is fully formed and free moving and whose gills take the shape of a comb. This order consists of 15 families, in other words, 75% of all known fish. Example: the common perch.” “Pretty good eating,” was Ned Drake’s response. “Secundo,” Milou went on, “the abdominals, whose pelvic fins hang under the abdomen to the rear of the pectorals but aren’t attached to the shoulder bone, an order that’s divided into 5 families and makes up the great majority of freshwater fish. Examples: carp, pike.” “Yuck,” the Canadian put in, “you can keep the freshwater fish.” “Tertio,” Milou said, “the subbrachians, whose pelvic fins are attached under the pectorals and hang directly from the shoulder bone. This order contains 4 families. Examples: flatfish such as sole, turbot, dab, plaice, brill, etc.” “Excellent, really excellent!” the harpooner exclaimed. Where his interests lay were evident. “Quarto,” Milou went on, unabashed, “the apods, with long bodies that lack pelvic fins and are covered by a heavy, often glutinous skin, an order consisting of only one family. Examples: common eels and electric eels.” “So-so, not more” Ned Drake replied. “Quinto,” Milou said, “the lophobranchians, which have fully formed, free-moving jaws but whose gills consist of little tufts arranged in pairs along their gill arches. This order includes only one family. Examples: seahorses and dragonfish.” “Inedible,” the harpooner replied. “Sexto and last,” Milou said, “the plectognaths, whose maxillary bone is firmly attached to the side of the intermaxillary that forms the jaw, and whose palate arch is locked to the skull by sutures that render the jaw immovable, an order lacking true pelvic fins and which consists of 2 families. Examples: puffers and moonfish.” “They’re an insult to a frying pan!” the Canadian exclaimed. “Are you grasping all this, Ned my friend?” asked the scholarly Milou. “Not a lick of it, Milou,” the harpooner replied. “But keep going, because you’re very entertaining.” “As for cartilaginous fish, then,” Milou progressed, “they consist of only 3 orders: Primo, the cyclostomes, whose jaws are fused into a flexible ring and whose gill openings are simply a large number of holes, an order consisting of only one family. Example: the lamprey.” “An acquired taste,” Ned Drake replied. “Secundo, the selacians, with gills resembling those of the cyclostomes but whose lower jaw is free-moving. This order, which is the most important in the class, consists of 2 families. Examples: the ray and the shark.” “Rays and man-eaters in the same order? Well, Milou my friend, on behalf of the rays, I wouldn’t advise you to put them in the same fish tank!” “Tertio,” was Milou’s reply, “The sturionians, whose gill opening is 107

the usual single slit adorned with a gill cover, an order consisting of 4 genera. Example: the sturgeon.” “Ah, Milou my friend, you saved the best for last, in my opinion. And that’s all?” “Yes, Ned,” said Milou. “And note well, even when one has grasped all this, one still knows next to nothing, because these families are subdivided into genera, subgenera, species, varieties … ” “All right, Milou, my friend,” the harpooner said, leaning toward the glass panel, “here come a couple of your varieties now!” “Yes, there are some fish,” Milou said. “It’s like being in front of an aquarium!” “No,” I put in, “because an aquarium is a cage and these fish are as free as birds in the air.” “Well, come along, Milou. Identify them, start naming.” Ned Drake exclaimed. “Me?” Milou replied. “I can’t. That’s my employer’s bailiwick” As I have stated before, the fine lad was a classifying maniac but he was no naturalist. He was the exact opposite of the Canadian who could put a name to most fish, but was unable to classify them. “It’s a triggerfish,” I said. “A Chinese triggerfish, I would say,” said Ned Drake. “Genus Balistes, family Scleroderma, order Plectognatha,” Milou volunteered. The 2 of them put together made one outstanding naturalist. A whole school of triggerfish now cavorted around the Nautilus. They had flat bodies, grainy skins, armed with stings on their dorsal fins, and with 4 prickly rows of quills quivering on both sides of their tails. The skin covering them was a wonderful sight, white underneath, grey above, with spots of gold sparkling in the dark eddies above the waves. Around them, rays were undulating like sheets flapping in the wind. Among these, I spotted a Chinese ray, yellowish on its topside, dainty pink on its belly and armed with 3 stings behind its eyes. It was a rare species, whose very existence was doubted in Lacépède’s day, since that pioneering classifier of fish had seen only one portfolio of Japanese drawings. For 2 whole hours, an aquatic army escorted the Nautilus. During their leaping, they rivalled each other in beauty, radiance and speed. I managed to distinguish the green wrasse; the bewhiskered mullet, marked with pairs of black lines; white gobies from the genus Eleotris with curved caudal fins and violet spots on the back; wonderful Japanese mackerel from the genus Scomber with blue bodies and silver heads; glittering azure goldfish whose name by itself gives their full description; several varieties of porgy or gilthead (some banded gilthead with fins variously blue and yellow, some with horizontal heraldic bars and enhanced by a black strip around their caudal area, some with colour zones and elegantly corseted in their 6 waistbands); trumpetfish with flutelike beaks that looked like genuine seafaring woodcocks and were sometimes 3 feet long; Japanese salamanders; and serpentine moray eels from the genus Echidna that were 6 feet long with sharp little eyes and a huge mouth, bristling with teeth. 108

Our excitement was maintained at fever pitch. Exclamations of sheer awe followed quickly on each other. Ned named the fish and Milou classed them. I was simply in ecstasies on seeing such beauty and form. I had never had the opportunity to surprise these animals alive and at large in their natural element. We viewed a complete collection of the Japanese and Chinese seas, but I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t name every one here. They were more numerous than the birds of the air. They raced up to us because they were attracted to the brilliant glow of our lantern. Suddenly, there was daylight in the saloon. The iron panels closed and the enchanting vision disappeared. But I dreamt on for a long time, till my eyes fell on the instruments hanging on the wall. The compass still showed our course to be east-northeast; the manometer indicated a pressure of 5 atmospheres, equivalent to a depth of 27 fathoms. The electric log gave a speed of 15 miles per hour. The clock marked 17:15. I had expected to see Captain Nemo, but he did not appear. Ned Drake and Milou returned to their cabin and I repaired to my chamber where I found my dinner ready for me. It was composed of turtle soup, made from the most delicate hawksbills and a red mullet with white, slightly flaky flesh, whose liver, when separately prepared, makes delicious eating. This was served with loin of imperial angelfish, whose flavour seemed superior even to salmon. I passed the evening mostly thinking, with a little reading and writing to accompany it. Then sleep overtook me. I stretched out on my eelgrass mattress and fell into a deep slumber. The Nautilus continued to glide through the swiftly flowing Black Current.

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17. A Note of Invitation The next day, 9th November, I awoke after a long 12-hour sleep. Milou came to inquire how my night had been and to offer his services. He had left his Canadian friend sound asleep, with no apparent evidence of waking anytime soon. I let the worthy creature of habit chatter on as he pleased, without giving him much in the way of reply. I was preoccupied by the absence of the Captain during our session of the day before and hoped to see him today. I dressed in my outfit of woven seashell tissue, whose composition provoked questions from Milou. I explained to him how the smooth, silken filaments with which the fan mussel, a populous Mediterranean seashell, attaches itself to rocks. In olden times, fine fabrics, stockings and gloves were made from such filaments because they were very soft and warm. With such resources to hand, there was no need for cotton plants or sheep. The lesson being over, I headed to the drawing room. It was deserted. I proceeded to immerse myself in the study of the conchological treasures amassed in the glass cases. I also investigated Captain Nemo’s plant albums, which were filled with the rarest of marine herbs. Although they were dried and pressed, they retained some colouring, the muted pinks, oranges and ochres being particularly pleasing. Among these valuable water plants, were various seaweeds: some Cladostephus verticillatus, peacock’s tails, fig-leafed caulerpa, grain-bearing beauty bushes, delicate rosetangle tinted scarlet, sea colander arranged into fan shapes, mermaid’s cups that looked like the tops of squat mushrooms, which had been classified as zoophytes for years. In short, a complete series of algae. It seemed obvious to me that their curvilinear forms had served as a good deal of the inspiration in the ship around us. The entire day passed without my being honoured by a visit from Captain Nemo. The panels of the saloon remained closed. Our course kept to an east-northeasterly direction, at a speed of 12 knots and a depth below the surface of between 27 and 33 fathoms. The next day, 10th November, brought only the same neglect and solitude. I did not see a soul from the ship’s crew. Ned Drake and Milou spent the greater part of the day with me. They were equally surprised at the unexplained absence of the Captain. We wondered if he was ill, or worse, had changed his mind about our situation. Milou was of the opinion that we couldn’t really complain. We were free to move around luxurious and fascinating rooms and were generously fed with a sophisticated menu. Our host kept to his terms of the contract. And the singularity of our fate was not without its compensations. It was on that day that I commenced the journal of our adventures that you now have before you. I have attempted to maintain a scrupulous accuracy and attention to detail. On this note, I should 112

like to add that everything you now read was first inscribed on paper made from eelgrass. Early in the morning of 11th November, the fresh air pouring through the Nautilus told me that we had come to the surface of the ocean to renew our supply of oxygen. I headed to the platform. It was 06:05. The weather was overcast, the sea grey, but calm. There was scarcely a breath of wind. Not a soul was visible except for the back of the helmsman’s head and shoulders in his glass cage. I sat down on the contorted metal ledge formed around the skiff ’s hull and inhaled the salt air with delight. By degrees, the fog disappeared under the sun’s rays. The radiant orb was rising from the eastern horizon. Under its gaze, the sea flamed like a train of gunpowder. The scattered clouds were coloured in bright, wonderfully shaded tints and numerous “mare’s tails” or ‘“ladyfingers” warned of daylong winds. But wind was not something that bothered the Nautilus. I was admiring all this, when I heard steps approaching the platform. Expecting to see Captain Nemo, I was disappointed when his second, the one I suspected of having French origins, came up the stairs. He came forward without seeming to notice me and, with a powerful spyglass, began to scan the horizon. The man seemed to take the utmost care in doing so. Once the examination was over, he approached the hatch and pronounced a phrase whose exact wording follows below. I remember it clearly because it was repeated under exactly the same conditions every morning. He said something that sounded like: “Nautron respoc lorni virch.” What it meant, I cannot say. After pronouncing these words, the second descended, without so much as a glance in my direction. I reckoned that the Nautilus was probably about to return to its underwater navigation, so returned to my chamber. Five days sped by in the same way. I mounted the platform every morning to hear the same phrase pronounced by the same individual. There was no sign of Captain Nemo. By 16th November, I had made up my mind that I would never see him again. It was on that day that, when I entered my room, with Ned Drake and Milou in tow, I found a note addressed to me on my desk. I opened it impatiently. It read: To Professor Jeanneret Aboard the Nautilus 16th November 1867 Captain Nemo invites Professor Jeanneret to a huntingparty, which will take place tomorrow morning in his Crespo Island forests. He hopes that nothing will prevent the professor from being present and he looks forward with pleasure that to see him joined by his companions. Captain Nemo, Commander of the Nautilus 113

“A hunt!” exclaimed Ned Drake. “In the Crespo Island forests,” added Milou, helpfully. “Does that mean the old boy goes ashore?” said Ned Drake. “That seems to be the gist of it,” I said, reading the letter once more. “Well, we must accept,” said the Canadian. “When we’re on dry ground again, we’ll know what to do. And I would not be sorry to eat a piece of fresh venison.” I did not try to reconcile the contradiction between the invitation to hunt in a forest and Captain Nemo’s avowed repugnance to all land. I was content to first look at this island on the world map. I found it in latitude 32° 40’ north and longitude 167° 50’ west. It had been discovered by Captain Crespo in 1801 and marked in Ancient Spanish maps as “Rocca de la Plata”, meaning, “silver rock”. We were then about 1,800 miles from our starting point. A slight change of course was bringing the Nautilus back towards the southeast. I showed this little rock, lost in the middle of the North Pacific, to my companions, saying: “If Captain Nemo does sometimes go on dry land, he at least chooses desert islands.” Ned Drake shook his head without replying. He and Milou soon left the room. After supper, served by the mute and impassive steward, I went to bed. My sleep was not without some anxiety. When I woke the next morning, 17th November, I found that the Nautilus was completely still. I dressed quickly and went into the saloon. Captain Nemo was waiting for me. He rose, bowed, and asked me if it was convenient for me to accompany him. As he made no allusion to his absence in the last 8 days, I did not mention it. I simply answered that my companions and I were ready to join the hunt. I had only one question to ask: “Captain, how is it that you’ve severed all ties with the shore, but you own forests on Crespo Island?” “Professor, my forests are underwater. They’re not inhabited by lions, tigers, or any other quadrupeds and they don’t bask in sunlight. They’re known only to me and grow only for me.” “You’re offering to take me to an underwater forest?” “Yes, professor.” “On foot?” “But without getting your feet wet.” “With hunting rifles in hand?” “With hunting with rifles in hand.” I stared at Nautilus’s commander in a manner that I fear was not very polite. I was convinced that he had contracted some mental illness, which would explain his recent absence. These thoughts must have been fairly obvious to interpret in my face, but the Captain only invited me to follow him. I did so like a man resigned to the worst. We entered the dining room where breakfast was served. “Professor Jeanneret,” said the Captain, “pray, share my breakfast without ceremony. We can chat while we eat. While I promised 114

you a walk in the forest, we are not going to find any hotels there. You need to breakfast like a man who will only be seeing food again at a very late dinner.” I did full justice to the meal. It was composed of several kinds of fish, slices of sea cucumber, that prize-worthy zoophyte, garnished with seaweeds like Porphyra laciniata and the Laurencia primafetida. Our drink consisted of pure water, to which the captain added some drops of fermented liquor, extracted by the Kamschatka method from a seaweed known as Rhodemenia palmata. At first we ate in silence, then he told me: “Sir, when I proposed that we go hunting in my Crespo Island forests, you thought me a hypocrite. When I said that the forests were underwater, you thought I was mad. I am now going to prove that you shouldn’t be so quick to jump to conclusions about your fellow man.” “But, Captain, believe me …” “Be kind enough to listen and you can then see if you have any cause to judge.” “I’m all attention.” “You know as well as I do that man can live underwater, provided he carries with him sufficient supplies of breathable air. For underwater works, the workman wears a waterproof suit with his head in a metal capsule while he receives air from above by means of pumps and flow regulators.” “That’s standard diving apparatus,” I said. “Just so. But under these conditions, the man is not at liberty. He is attached to the pump that sends him air through an India rubber hose. If we were bound to the Nautilus in this way, we would not be able to get very far.” “And your means of getting free?” “Is to use the Rouquayrol-Denayrouze device, invented by 2 of your fellow countrymen, which I have refined for my own purposes. As a result, I have enabled us to risk these new physiological conditions without suffering any bodily disorders. It consists of a tank built from heavy sheet iron in which the air is stored under a pressure of 50 atmospheres. The tank is fixed on the back by means of straps, like a soldier’s knapsack. Its upper part forms a box in which the air is regulated by a bellows mechanism and therefore can only be released at its proper tension. In the Rouquayrol device that have generally been used, 2 India rubber hoses leave the box and join a sort of tent that holds the wearer’s nose and mouth. One hose pipes in fresh air for inhaling, while the other removes that which is exhaled. The wearer can close his tongue over whichever one is necessary. On encountering great pressures at the bottom of the sea, I was obliged to shut my head up in a ball of copper, like a diver. So the 2 hoses lead to this sphere.” “I understand perfectly, Captain. But the air that you carry with you must be quickly depleted. Once it contains only 15% of oxygen, it is no longer fit to breathe.” “Absolutely right, Professor Jeanneret, but I told you that the pumps of the Nautilus allow me to store air under considerable 115

pressure. Under these circumstances, the tank for my diving apparatus can supply breathable air for up to 10 hours.” “And how do you light your way at the bottom of the sea?” “With the Ruhmkorff device, Professor Jeanneret. One light is carried on the back and the other is fastened to the belt. It consists of a Bunsen battery that I activate with sodium rather than potassium dichromate. An induction coil gathers the electricity generated and directs it towards a specially made lantern. In this lantern is a glass spiral that contains a residue of carbon dioxide gas. When the apparatus is at work, the gas becomes luminous, giving out a continuous white light. With all of this gear combined, the wearer can breathe and see underwater.” “Captain Nemo, you have such logical answers to all my queries, that I’m afraid to entertain a single doubt. But, if we are to don the Rouquayrol and Ruhmkorff equipment, I must be allowed some reservations as to the gun I am to carry.” “It is not a gun that uses powder,” said the Captain. “Then, it’s an air gun?” “Naturally. How would we be able to manufacture gun powder on board without saltpetre, sulphur or charcoal?” “Apart from the gunpowder, to fire underwater in a medium 855 times denser than air, you must overcome a very considerable resistance,” I said. “That’s not really a difficulty. There exist guns, according to Fulton, perfected in England by Philip Coles and Burley, in France by Furcy, and in Italy by Landi, which are equipped with a particular system of airtight fastenings that can fire in underwater conditions. But, I repeat, I won’t use powder. Instead, I use air at high pressure, which the Nautilus’s pumps supply me with in abundance.” “But, surely this air must be used quickly?” “Well, at a pinch, my Roquayrol tank can supply me with more. All I need to do is draw from an ad hoc spigot. Nevertheless, during our underwater hunt we never need to use more than a little air and a few balls.” “I’m sorry, but to my mind, gunshots could go very far or prove fatal amidst such dense liquid in the semidarkness.” “On the contrary, with this gun every blow is fatal. And, however lightly the animal is touched, it falls as if struck by a thunderbolt.” “Why?” “Because these rifles don’t shoot ordinary bullets. They are small capsules invented by the Austrian chemist Leniebroek. I have a considerable supply of them. These capsules are covered with a strip of steel and weighted with a lead base. They are genuine little Leyden jars charged with high voltage electricity. They go off at the slightest impact. However strong the animal might be it falls dead. These cases are no bigger than a no. 4 shot and each rifle chamber can hold ten of them.” “I’ll question you no longer,” I replied, rising from the table. “I’ll shoulder my rifle and follow wherever you wish to go.” Captain Nemo then led me to the Nautilus’s stern. In passing Ned Drake and Milou’s cabin, I called them and they followed promptly. 116

We then came to a cell near the engine room where we were to prepare for our hunt. The cell was the arsenal and wardrobe of the Nautilus. Like the engine room, the green metal of the ship’s body was exposed here. It was not without some flourishes to accentuate its structure and remind us we were in a special aquatic vehicle. These twisted up towards the light fittings and around the thin partitions that jutted from the walls to create changing cubicles and, above them, storage shelves. The wall opposite the cubicles was hung with rifles and piled with different brass and leather cases, presumably filled with the necessary supplies. A dozen diving outfits hung from the partitions, awaiting our use. Ned Drake evidently found the thought of donning one distasteful. I explained that the Crespo Island forests were underwater, but it had no effect on the stubborn harpooner. He simply refused to don one of the suits unless forced. “No one is going to force you, Mr Drake,” came the low voice of Captain Nemo. “And is Milou risking it?” asked Ned. “Where Master goes, I go,” was Milou’s view on the matter. At the captain’s call, 2 of the ship’s crew members came to help us dress. The heavy waterproof clothes were made from seamless India rubber, which meant they could resist considerable pressure. It seemed to me like a kind of suit of armour, being both resistant and yielding. There were trousers and a jacket. The trousers ended in bulky boots with heavy, lead soles. The jacket fabric was reinforced with bands of copper mail across the chest, protecting it from the great pressure of the water and allowing the lungs to act freely. The sleeves ended in supple gloves that in no way impeded hand movements. I noted the small insignia of the Nautilus embroidered into the right shoulder of the jackets. I could only reflect that this sophisticated gear was a far cry from the misshapen cork breastplates, leather jumpers, seagoing tunics and barrel helmets invented and acclaimed in the 18th century. Milou and I were soon dressed, as were Captain Nemo and one of his crew members. This was a man of Herculean proportions who I assumed to be impressively strong. All that remained was to contain our heads inside the metal spheres. Before proceeding, I asked the Captain if I could examine the guns. One of the men gave me a streamlined rifle, whose butt was made of boilerplate steel. The latter was hollow inside and of fairly large dimensions. It served as a tank for compressed air, which a triggeroperated valve could release into the metal chamber. In a groove where the butt was heaviest was a cartridge clip of some 20 electric bullets, which were forced into the barrel of the gun by means of a spring. As soon as one shot was fired, another was ready to go off. “Captain Nemo, this weapon is ideal for use and easily handled. I only ask to put it to test. But how shall we gain the bottom of the sea?” “At this point, Professor, the Nautilus is aground in 6 fathoms of water, so we can start immediately.” 117

“But how do we get out?” “You shall see.” Captain Nemo thrust his head into the spherical headgear and Milou and I followed suit, not without catching an ironic, “Happy hunting!” from the Canadian. The upper part of our diving gear terminated in a collar of threaded copper onto which the metal helmet was screwed. Three holes, protected by thick glass, allowed us to see in all directions by simply turning our head from within the sphere. As soon as it was in position, the Rouquayrol apparatus on our backs began to act and, I found I could breathe with ease. With the Ruhmkorff lamp hanging from my belt and rifle in hand, I was ready to set out. But, in all honesty, when imprisoned in such heavy garments and nailed to the deck in lead shoes, I could not take a step. But, of course, this was provided for. I felt myself being pushed into a little room next door. My companions followed, assisted in the same way. I heard a door with watertight seals close upon us and we were trapped in profound darkness. After some minutes, a sharp hissing was heard. I felt a distinct sensation of the cold rising from my feet to my chest. There was evidently a stopcock inside the boat that allowed the water in from the outside. The room was soon filled. Then a second door, cut in the side of the Nautilus, opened. In the next instant our feet were treading on the bottom of the sea. It is difficult to retrace the experience of first walking underwater. Words become impotent in explaining such things. When even the painter’s brush can’t adequately depict the effects of liquid, how can the pen? Captain Nemo walked in front and his companion followed some steps behind. Milou and I remained near each other, as if polite chitchat were still possible. I no longer felt the bulkiness of my clothing, shoes and air tank and the weight of the heavy sphere — in the midst of which my head was rattling like an almond in its shell— was no longer noticeable. All these objects lost a part of their weight equal to the weight of the liquid they displaced and, thanks to the laws of physics discovered by Archimedes, I was able to walk quite happily. The sunlight that illuminated the soil, 30 feet below the surface of the ocean, was astonishing. Solar rays shone through the watery mass easily and dissipated its murky colours. I could clearly distinguish objects at a distance of over 100 yards away. Beyond that, the bottom was tinted with fine shades of ultramarine that turned blue and faded in the distance, into a hazy darkness. Truly, the water that surrounded me felt like another kind of air, denser than the terrestrial atmosphere but almost as transparent. Above was the calm surface of the sea. We were walking on even-grained sand, not wrinkled as on the shore that retains the impressions of the wind and waves. This dazzling carpet was also a mirror as it threw the sun’s rays back with marvellous intensity, producing an immense vista of reflections that penetrated every liquid molecule. I am not sure if anyone will believe me but, at the bottom of the sea, we could see well as if it 118

were broad daylight. Looking back at the Nautilus, I was able to consider her in totality for the first time, in her ‘natural habitat’ as it were. From this angle, it was evident that the ribbed glass panes of the windows protruded slightly out of her middle in proportions that were not unnatural. She was like no one thing in nature, but every part her elongated form suggested some budding organism, bursting with energy. Bold lines swelled up from her metal shell and curled along the length of her body, gathering momentum as they eddied around the window areas and then poured over her topside, embracing the platform and lantern area in a throbbing, asymmetrical whiplash movement. Thus, her streamlined form was accentuated by the exuberant swirls of her curvature. This enveloping ornamentation was, to me, the very embodiment of the dynamic technological power Captain Nemo had managed to harness. I could only wonder what the underwater inhabitants of the sea made of it. But the magnificent Nautilus was not the only sight to be seen. We walked along the blazing sand sown with the shadowy dust of shells for about a quarter of an hour. The hull of the Nautilus, which loomed like a long reef, gradually disappeared. I could see that, when darkness overtook us in the water, its lantern’s distinctive light would help find our way back again. The light effects might be difficult to understand for those who have never seen anything like it. On land, dust saturates the air and makes beams of light look like a kind of fog. But above and below the water, shafts of electric light have an incomparable clarity. The vast plains of sand seemed endless. My hands parted liquid curtains that closed again behind me. Under the water’s pressure, my footprints quickly faded. Soon enough, the outlines of forms were discernable in the distance. I recognized the lower slopes of some magnificent rocks, carpeted with zoophytes of the most decorative kind. It was then 10:00. The sun’s rays struck the surface of the waves at a fairly oblique angle, decomposing by refraction, as though passing through a prism. When these rays came in contact with flowers, rocks, buds, seashells and polyps, the edges became tinted by all 7 colours of the solar spectrum. This riot of rainbows was a true feast for the eye; a perfect kaleidoscope of green, yellow, orange, violet, indigo and blue. It was the full palette of an enthusiastic artist. I was frustrated that I was not to be able to share all the thoughts mounting in my brain with Milou. We would have rivalled each other in expressions of wonderment. I wish I knew how to exchange thoughts through a system of pre-arranged signals like Captain Nemo and his companions did with his crew. For want of any other company, I was forced to talk to myself. I prattled on inside the copper sphere, wasting more precious air with my vain words than, perhaps, was wise. Milou, like me, had stopped before this splendid sight. In the presence of various zoophyte and mollusc specimens, he was evidently classifying his head off. I saw many wonders in the space of a quarter of a mile, barely pausing. 119

We followed Captain Nemo as he beckoned us on. Soon, the nature of the seafloor changed. The sandy plain gave way to a bed of viscous slime, which the Americans call “ooze”, composed of seashells rich in limestone or silica. We then crossed a plain of seaweed, open-sea plants that the waters hadn’t yet torn loose, whose vegetation grew wild and abundant. While this greenery spread at our feet, so too was it above our heads. We had quitted our vessel about 90 minutes before. It was now near noon. I knew this because of the perpendicularity of the sun’s rays, which were no longer refracted. I watched as, by degrees, the magical colours disappeared and the shades of emerald and sapphire vanished. We walked with steady steps that rang on the seafloor with astonishing intensity. The slightest noise was transmitted with a speed to which the ear is not accustomed on shore. Water is a better conductor of sound than air, at the ratio of 4-to-1. The earth started to slope downwards sharply and the light took a uniform hue. We were at a depth of about 100 yards, at which point the pressure would have been one of 6 atmospheres. But I had nothing to fear because of my diving suit. I felt only a kind of tightness around the joints of my fingers and even this discomfort soon disappeared. Even though a 2-hour walk would normally have tired me out, the water aided my movements and I felt no fatigue. Arriving at a 300 foot depth, I could still detect the rays of the sun, although they were feeble. Their intense brilliance had been succeeded by a reddish twilight, but I could still see well enough. It was not necessary to resort to the Ruhmkorff apparatus yet. At this moment, Captain Nemo stopped. He waited till I joined him and then pointed to an obscure mass, looming in the shadows a short distance away. It’s the forest of the Crespo Island, I thought. I was not mistaken.

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18. A Submarine Forest We had at last arrived on the borders of the forest. It was, doubtless, one of the finest of Captain Nemo’s immense domain. He looked upon it as his own and had laid the same claim on it as the first men had to their forests at the beginning of the world. And who was going to dispute his possession of this submarine property? What pioneer was going to show up, axe in hand, to clear away the underbrush? This forest was composed of large, tree-like plants. The moment we entered under their huge arches, I was struck by the fact that every branch, filament and ribbon stretched up to the surface, including the shrubs and weeds carpeting the seafloor. Fucus plants and creepers grew ramrod straight, due to the density of the element that produced them. After I parted them with my hands, they would shoot back to their former positions. It was the realm of perpendicular verticality. I soon grew accustomed to the unreal state of things, as well as to the comparative darkness that surrounded us. At around one 13:00, Captain Nemo gave the signal to halt. I, for my part, was not sorry. We stretched ourselves out under an arbour of winged kelp, whose long, thin tendrils stood up like arrows. The short break was a delight, but lacked the charm of conversation. As it was impossible to speak, I nudged my copper headpiece against Milou’s. I saw a happy gleam in his eyes. In order to communicate his enjoyment, he jiggled around in his shell in the silliest way. After 4 hours of walking, I was surprised to find that I wasn’t dreadfully hungry. I could not account for my stomach, but, in place of hunger, I had the pressing desire to sleep that besets all divers. My eyes soon closed behind the thick glass and I fell into a heavy slumber. Captain Nemo and his companion were already stretched out and setting us a fine example. I cannot judge how long I remained sunken in lethargy, but when I woke, the sun seemed to be settling towards the horizon. Captain Nemo had already risen. I was beginning to stretch my limbs, when an unexpected apparition brought me briskly to my feet. Only a few steps away, a monstrous, 4-foot high sea spider was watching me with beady eyes, ready to spring. Though my diver’s dress was thick enough to defend me from the animal’s bite, I could not hold a shudder of horror back. Milou and the Nautilus sailor awoke at that point. Captain Nemo pointed out the hideous crustacean and then gave it a blow from the butt end of his rifle, which quickly knocked it over. I watched the monster’s claws writhe in hideous convulsions. The incident reminded me that there were other, more fearsome, animals haunting these dark reaches, against whose attacks my 121

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diving suit might not be able to protect me. I had not thought of it before, but resolved to be on my guard. I had assumed that this rest period had marked the end of our walk, but I was mistaken. Instead of returning to the Nautilus, Captain Nemo continued his daring excursion. The seafloor kept sinking. The significantly steeper slope led us on to greater depths. It must have been about 15:00 when we reached a narrow valley, gouged between high vertical walls about 82 fathoms deep. Thanks to our equipment, we were 50 fathoms below the limit that nature has imposed on man with regard to his submarine excursions. I am guessing we were 82 fathoms deep, but I had no instrument by which to judge. However, I knew that, even in the clearest water, the solar rays could not penetrate further. Accordingly, the darkness around us deepened. Not one object was visible past 10 paces. I was groping my way when, suddenly, I saw a brilliant white light. Captain Nemo had put his electric apparatus into use and his companion did the same. Milou and I followed suit. By turning a switch, I established contact between the coil and the glass spiral and the sea became illuminated by the light of 4 lanterns, making a radius of about 27 yards. Captain Nemo continued to draw us further into the dark depths of this forest, whose shrubbery grew ever more sparse. I observed that the vegetable life started to disappear more quickly than the animal. There were no more open-sea plants on the increasingly arid seafloor, but a prodigious number of animals were still swarming: Zoophytes, articulates, molluscs, and fish. As we walked, I thought the light of our Ruhmkorff apparatus could not fail to draw some inhabitants of the dark strata out. But if they did approach us, it was from a respectful distance. I saw Captain Nemo stop several times to aim his rifle, but after sighting down the barrel for some moments, he always dropped it and walked on. At last, at approximately 16:20, the marvellous excursion came to an end. A wall of majestic stone blocks stood before us in an imposing mass. It was a gigantic granite cliff pitted with dark grottos, with no navigable slope. This was the colossal shelf on which Crespo Island rested. It was therefore land. Captain Nemo stopped abruptly and, with a gesture, brought us all to a halt. However much I might have wanted to scale the wall, I was obliged to desist. Here ended the captainâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s domains and he would not go beyond them. Our return journey began. Captain Nemo resumed the lead of our little band, always striding forward with complete self-assurance. We did not follow the same return route. The new path was very steep and consequently extremely arduous, but it took us to the surface quickly. Thankfully, our return to the upper strata was not so sudden that decompression took place too quickly, which could have led to serious organic disorders and given us those internal injuries fatal to divers. Very soon, the light reappeared and grew stronger. As the sun was low on the horizon, its refraction edged all the different forms around us with the entire colour spectrum. At 11 yards deep, we 124

walked amidst a shoal of little fishes from every species, more numerous than the birds of the air and also more agile. Just as I was thinking that no aquatic game had yet shown itself, I saw Captain Nemo’s weapon spring to his shoulder and track a moving object in the bushes. He fired. I heard a slight hissing sound and a creature fell, stunned, at some distance from us. It had literally been struck by lightning. It was a magnificent sea otter, from the genus Enhydra, the only exclusively marine quadruped. This otter was 49 feet long and would have been very valuable on land. Its luxurious coat, chestnut brown on top and silvery underneath, could have made up one of those fur pieces so sought after in the Russian and Chinese markets. The fineness and lustre of its coat would certainly have fetched at least 2,000 Francs. I was in deep admiration of the unusual mammal, with its circular head ornamented with short ears, round eyes and white cat’s whiskers. It had webbed feet with claws and a bushy tail. Fishermen have mercilessly hunted these valuable carnivores to the point where they have become very rare. Otters have been forced to take refuge in the northern parts of the Pacific, where its species will soon be facing extinction. Captain Nemo’s companion took the beast and threw it over his shoulder and we continued with our journey. For about an hour, plains of sand unrolled beneath our feet. The seafloor often rose to within 2 yards of the water surface. At these times, I could see the inverse of our images clearly mirrored on the underside of the waves. Above our heads, an identical, upside down group duplicated our movements and gestures with their feet in the air. Another unusual effect I noticed was the passage of thick clouds that formed and vanished rapidly above our heads. After thinking it over, I realised that these were not clouds, but a phenomenon caused by the changing densities of the long ground swells at the bottom of the ocean floor. I even spotted the foaming white caps that their breaking crests multiplied on the water surface. There were also the shadows of large birds swiftly skimming the waves. It was on that day that I witnessed one of the finest shots ever to thrill the nerves of a hunter. A large bird with a wide wingspan became clearly visible, hovering over us. When it was a few yards above the waves, Captain Nemo’s companion took aim and fired. The creature dropped, electrocuted, and the force of its fall brought it within reach of the dexterous hunter’s grasp. It was a fine specimen of that open-sea fowl, the albatross. Our march had not been interrupted by this incident. We continued for 2 hours, sometimes following the sandy plains and sometimes crossing prairies of algae, which were arduous to wade through. I was dead tired by that point and greatly relieved when I saw a glowing light cutting the darkness about half a mile in the distance. It was the Nautilus’s lantern. We would be on board within 20 minutes and I would be able to breathe with ease. By that time, my reservoir of air was running low in oxygen. I was lagging some steps behind, when I noticed the Captain coming hurriedly towards me. With his strong hands, he sent me 125

buckling to the ground, while his companion did the same to Milou. At first, I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know what to make of the sudden attack. But I was soon reassured when the captain got down beside me and lay motionless. We were stretched on the seafloor under the shelter of a bush of algae. On raising my head, I saw 2 enormous masses going by, throwing off phosphorescent glimmers as they went. My blood froze when I realized 2 formidable sharks were passing. They were blue sharks, fearsome man-eaters with enormous tails and dull, glassy stares. The phosphorescent matter oozed from holes around their snouts, like monstrous fireflies capable of crushing a whole man in their iron jaws. While I am sure Milou was classifying them, my concerns were less than scientific. It was their terrible mouths, bristling with teeth, which my eyes were riveted to. Happily, the voracious creatures do not see very well. They went on their way without noticing us, despite one brushing me with its brownish fin. We had escaped by a hairâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s breath. Ours would have been a fate worse than meeting a tiger deep in the jungle. Half an hour later, we had reached the Nautilus. The outside door had been left open and Captain Nemo closed it as soon as we had all entered. He then pressed a button and I heard the pumps working from within of the vessel. The water level around us started sinking and, in a few moments, the cell was empty of liquid. The inside door then opened and crew members were at hand to assist us in entering the armoury. Our diving dress was removed, not without some trouble. Now utterly worn out from want of food and rest, I staggered to my room. I remained in awe of this excursion on the bottom of the ocean for many days afterwards.

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19. Four Thousand Leagues Under the Pacific On the morning of 18th November, I had completely recovered from the fatigue of the day before. I climbed up onto the platform just as the second lieutenant was uttering his daily phrase. It then occurred to me that the words must either refer to the state of the sea or a version of an ‘all clear’. And the ocean truly was deserted that morning. There wasn’t a sail on the horizon. The tips of Crespo Island had disappeared during the night. The ocean seemed to have absorbed every colour of the prism barring blue, which it reflected in each direction, sporting a marvellous indigo tint. As far as the eye could see, the undulating waves took on the appearance of watered silk with wide stripes. I was admiring the ocean when Captain Nemo appeared. He did not seem to be aware of my presence and proceeded with a series of astronomical observations. When he had finished, he went to lean against the lantern casing, its green paint glistening from the sea spray, while he gazed across the ocean. In the meantime, about 20 of the Nautilus’s sailors had come up to the platform. I took in how strong and healthy they all were. They were all clearly from different nations, although European physical traits were evident in all of them. I recognized some unmistakable Irishmen, Frenchmen, some Slavs and a native of Greece or Crete. Beyond that, I could not tell, except that some of them posessed the same dark skin and aquiline nose of the captain. Despite their evident different backgrounds, every one of them spoke the bizarre dialect whose origin I couldn’t begin to guess. Throughout my time on that vessel, I only once heard a sailor deviate from it. They had come to draw up the nets that had been dragged in our wake during the night. As the nets were hauled in, I noted that they were in a kind of trawl very much like those used along the Normandy coast. These huge pouches are held half open by a floating pole and a chain laced through the lower meshes. As the nets were trailed, they scoured the water and gathered every marine exhibit in their path. I reckoned that the haul had brought in more than 1,000 pounds of fish. It was a fine catch, but hardly surprising given that the nets had been out for several hours, incarcerating an entire aquatic world in prisons made of thread. We had no lack of excellent food and it was clear that, due to the Nautilus’s speed and the allure of her electric light, we could always gain a fresh supply with ease. The various exhibits were lowered down the hatch. Some would be eaten fresh and the rest pickled. With the fishing ended and our stock of air renewed, I assumed it was time to return to my room. I was surprised when, out of the blue, the Captain said: “Look at this ocean, professor! Is she not truly alive? She has her tempers and moods. Yesterday, she slept as we did and now she’s 127

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woken up.” Clearly, there were no formal good-mornings to be had from our eccentric captain today. He continued: “Look how she responds to the sun’s caresses, renewing her daily existence. What a fascinating study it is to observe her pulse, arteries and spasms. I agree with the learned Maury, who discovered in the sea a circulation as real as that of the blood in animals.” It seemed that Captain Nemo did not expect any kind of response from me, so I did not volunteer one. “Ah, the ocean does indeed have circulation. And to get it started, the Creator has only to increase its heat, salt and microscopic animal life. Heat creates the different densities that cause currents and counter-currents. Evaporation, which doesn’t exist in the High Arctic regions and active equatorial zones, brings about a constant interchange of tropical and polar waters. Those falling and rising currents are the ocean breathing. I’ve seen a molecule of salt water heat up at the surface, sink into the depths, reach maximum density at -2° centigrade, then cool, grow lighter and rise once again. At the poles, you’ll see the results of this phenomenon. Through the law of far-seeing nature, you’ll understand why water can only freeze on the surface.” The brazen Commander was actually claiming he would take us to the pole. But he continued his monologue despite the incredulous expression on my face: “Salts,” he said, “fill the sea in considerable quantities, professor, and if you removed all its dissolved saline content, you’d create a mass of 4,500,000 cubic leagues. If that were to be spread over the globe, it would form a layer more than 10 yards high. And don’t think that the presence of these salts is due to some whim of nature. Their purpose is to make the ocean water less susceptible to evaporation and prevent winds from carrying off excessive amounts of steam that, when condensing, would submerge the temperate zones. Salts play a leading role, that of a stabilizer for the general ecology of the globe.” Captain Nemo straightened up, took a few steps along the platform, and returned to me. “As for those billions of tiny animals, infusoria that live by the millions in one droplet of water, 800,000 of which are needed to weigh 2.2 pounds, their role is no less important. They absorb the marine salts and assimilate the solid elements in the water. Since they create coral and madrepores, they’re the true builders of limestone continents. Once these tiniest of creatures have completely emptied our water drop of its mineral nutrients, the droplet gets lighter, rises to the surface, absorbs more salts left behind through evaporation, gets heavier, sinks again and brings those tiny animals new elements to absorb. The outcome: A double current, rising and falling, constant movement, constant life. Such life blooms in every part of this ocean, more intensely than on land and more abundant. She’s an element fatal to man, they say, but vital to myriads of animals. And to me.” When Captain Nemo spoke like this he was transfigured and 130

never failed to instil extraordinary excitement in me. “Out there lies true existence. I can imagine the foundation of nautical towns, clusters of submarine houses that, like the Nautilus, would ascend to breathe at the surface of the water each morning. Free towns, independent states, yet even then, some despot …” Captain Nemo finished his sentence with a violent gesture. With one last look at the ocean and a nod in my direction, he descended indoors. I followed him back to the drawing room, but he went straight to his stateroom, without turning around. I was aware of the propeller being set in motion. The log gave our speed as 20 miles per hour. During the days and weeks that passed, Captain Nemo was very sparing with his visits. I only saw him at rare intervals. His lieutenant pricked the ship’s course regularly on the chart in such a way that I could always plot the Nautilus’s course. I spent a lot of my time with Ned Drake and Milou. The lad had been telling his friend about the wonders of our undersea outing and, surprisingly, the harpooner admitted he was sorry he had not joined us. The drawing room panels were opened nearly every day and for lengthily periods of time. We never tired of watching the mysteries of the submarine world unfold through the ship’s generous glass eyes. The general direction of the Nautilus was southeast and it usually kept within between 100 and 150 yards depth. At 03:10 on the morning of 26th November, the Nautilus crossed the Tropic of Cancer at 172° long. The next day, she sighted the Sandwich Islands, where the famous Captain Cook met his death on 14th February 1779. By that time, we had gone 4,860 leagues from our starting point. When I got to the platform in the morning, I saw the Island of Hawaii, the largest of the 7 islands that form the group, 2 miles to leeward. I could clearly see the tilled soil on its outskirts, the various mountain chains that run parallel with its side as well as its volcanoes, crowned by Mauna Kea, which rises 5,000 yards above sea level. Amongst the different specimens the nets brought in were some peacock-tailed flabellarian coral, polyps flattened into stylish shapes unique to this part of the ocean. The direction of the Nautilus was still to the southeast. She crossed the equator on 1st December at longitude 142°. On the 4th of the same month, we were in sight of the Marquesas Islands. From 3 miles off, I could see Martin Point in Nuku Hiva, chief member of this island group owned by France. But I only saw its woody mountains against the horizon, as Captain Nemo hated to hug the shore. The ocean was a continuous source of lavish sights, with infinite variety. It changed before our eyes, allowing us to contemplate the works of our Creator while probing the ocean’s daunting mysteries. During the day of 11th December, I was busy reading in the drawing room. Ned and Milou were watching the luminous waters together through half opened panels. The Nautilus was still. When its tanks were full, it kept at a depth of 1,000 yards, a region rarely achieved in the oceans and in which large fish were scarcely seen. At that time, I was reading a charming book by Jean Macé, The 131

Servants of the Stomach. As I was savouring its lessons, Milou interrupted me: “Will Master kindly come here for a moment?” His voice had a strange edge to it. “What’s the matter, Milou?” “It’s something I think Master should see.” I rose and went to the beautifully edged, elegantly swollen panes and looked. It did not take long to spot. In the full electric light, an enormous black mass was suspended in the waters. I watched it attentively, seeking to discover the nature of this gigantic cetacean. But then, a sudden thought crossed my mind. “Could it be a vessel?” I said, half aloud. “Yes,” replied the Canadian, “a disabled ship that’s sinking straight down.” Ned Drake was not mistaken. We were close to a vessel, whose tattered shrouds still hung from their clasps. Her hull still seemed to be in good condition and it had gone under only a few hours before. Three stumps of masts, broken off about 2 feet above the bridge, showed that the vessel had been forced to sacrifice these. But it had heeled sideways anyway, filling completely and listing to port. This recent carcass was a sorry spectacle, but worse still was the sight of the bridge where some human corpses were still lying, bound with ropes to prevent them from being washed overboard. I counted 4 men, one of whom was standing at the helm. There was also a woman halfway out of a skylight, holding an infant in her arms. She was young. I could make out her features, which had not yet decomposed. She had tried to raise her infant above her head in one despairing final effort. The poor little thing’s arms still encircled its mother’s neck. The 4 sailors’ postures were ghastly, distorted by the convulsive movements they had made while trying to free themselves from the cords that bound them to the vessel. The helmsman alone was calm. With a grave, calm face and grizzled hair plastered to his brow, his hand still clutched the wheel. He seemed to still be guiding his 3-master through the depths of the ocean. We were struck dumb at such a scene. Standing before this shipwreck, taken from life in its last moments as if it were photographed, made our hearts beat fast. I could already see enormous sharks coming towards it with hungry eyes. The Nautilus, in turning, made a circle around the sinking ship. For an instant, I read on board of its stern: Le Boullée, Marseilles.

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20. Vanikoro The terrible spectacle of Le Boullée was the beginning of a series of maritime catastrophes that the Nautilus was destined to meet along its route. Whenever she went through more frequented waters, we were exposed to the grim sight of shipwrecked vessels rotting in midwater. Farther down would be the ship’s cannons, shells, anchors, chains, and a thousand other iron materials being consumed by rust. But, swept along by the Nautilus, there was never sufficient time to fully pay our respects to these submerged graveyards. We raised the Tuamotu Islands on 11th December. Named the “old, dangerous ones” by the French global navigator Bougainville, these extend from Ducie Island to Lazareff Island, covering a space of over 500 leagues. Bougainville went on to the island he named “New Cythera”, which he called an earthly paradise and claimed it for France. When he and his crew left, many of the islanders had venereal diseases they had not known before. The islands are coral formations rising slowly and continuously due to the daily endeavours of polyps. Someday, all these islands will be fused with each other and, at some distant point in the future, a 5th continent made of coral will stretch from New Zealand and New Caledonia as far as the Marquesas. When I pointed this out to the Captain during one of his chats with me, he grew cold, saying: “The earth doesn’t need new continents. It needs new men.” The Nautilus went straight to Reao Island, discovered in 1822 by Captain Haussmann of the Operagarnier. There, I was able to study the madreporic process that brings these islands into existence. Our sounding lines indicated that the strange walls dropped perpendicularly for more than 300 yards. The Nautilus’s electric beams made the bright limestone positively sparkle. Milou asked me about the exact growth rate of these colossal barriers and I was able to thoroughly amaze him by saying that scientists put it at an 8th of an inch per biennium. We then worked out that it took 192 thousand years to build those walls, a number that extends the biblical days of creation significantly. The formation of coal, which entails the petrification of forests drowned by floods, as well as the cooling of basaltic rocks, also take a much longer period of time. I should probably add that those “days” in the bible most likely represent whole epochs and should not be taken literally as the time between sunrises. What’s more, according to the bible, the sun itself is not said to date from the first day of creation. When the Nautilus returned to the surface of the ocean, I was able to admire Reao Island’s flat, wooded expanse. Its madreporic rocks had evidently been made fertile by tornadoes and thunderstorms. One day, the wind carried some seeds from neighbouring shores that fell onto these limestone beds and mixed with the decomposed 133

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particles of fish and marine plants to form vegetable humus. One day, the waves brought a coconut and its germ took root. The resulting tree grew tall from the steam off the seawater. A brook was born. Gradually, vegetation spread. Tiny worms and insects rode ashore on tree trunks snatched from islands to windward. Turtles came to lay their eggs. Birds nested in the young trees. Animal life developed and, drawn by the greenery and fertile soil, man soon appeared. Near evening, Reao Island melted into the distance. I noticed that the Nautilus changed course then. After touching the Tropic of Capricorn at longitude 135°, it headed west-northwest, going back up the whole inter-tropical zone. Although the summer sun was extreme, we never suffered from the heat, because the temperature doesn’t go over 12° centigrade past a depth of 40 yards underwater. On 15th December, we left the bewitching Society Islands in the west, along with the graceful Tahiti, queen of the Pacific. In the morning, some miles to windward, I saw the island’s lofty summits. These waters furnished our table with excellent fish: Mackerel, bonitos, albacore and even some varieties of sea serpent named the moray eel. The Nautilus had cleared 8,100 miles. We logged 9,720 miles when we passed between the Tonga Islands, called the friendly islands by Captain Cook because he was shown hospitality by the natives. Some say they had planned to kill him but were too disorganized to do so. The Nautilus also came close to the island group of Samoa, the scene of the slaying of Captain de Langle, friend of that longlost French navigator, the Count de La Pérouse. Next, we sighted the Fiji Islands, where savages butchered sailors from the Union, as well as Captain Bureau, commander of the Darling Josephine out of Nantes, France. This group, which extending over an expanse of 100 leagues, north to south, consists of a number of islands, islets, and reefs, among which we noted the islands of Viti Levu, Vanua Levu, and Kadavu. This group was discovered by the Dutch navigator Tasman in 1643, the same year that the Italian physicist Torricelli invented the barometer and King Louis XIV ascended to the French throne. I will leave it to the reader to decide which event was more beneficial to humanity. Much later came Captain Cook, in 1774; then Rear Admiral d’Entrecasteaux in 1793; and, finally, Captain Sumont D’Urville, in 1827, untangling the messy geography of the whole island group. The Nautilus came close to Wailea Bay. This had been a place of tragedy for the British Captain Dillon, who was the first to uncover some answers concerning the longstanding mystery around the disappearance of Count La Pérouse’s ships. The Nautilus’s nets brought in a huge supply of excellent oysters from this bay. Following the Roman playwright Seneca’s recommendations, we opened them at the table and ate them greedily. If Ned Drake did not have cause to repent his extreme gluttony at our oyster fest, it’s because this is the only known dish that never causes indigestion. These molluscs belonged to the species Ostrea lamellose and are also known to be plentiful around 136

Corsica. However, the Wailea oyster bank was more than extensive. If they hadn’t been controlled by numerous natural checks, these clusters of shellfish would have ended up jam-packing the bay, since as many as 2 million eggs have been counted in a single individual. When the drawing room panels were closed, I contented myself in going through the captain’s collection of primitive memorabilia again. I was interested to try find some exhibits from tribes in our vicinity at that time. There were some shards of low-fired earthenware pottery, marked with a pattern of white dots, said to originate from the ancient inhabitants of New Caledonia, the Lapita. A large display case also housed quite a comprehensive array of small, carved figures of a men in wood and stone. Some were made of green stone and clearly also served as amulets to be worn round the neck. Each figurine shared the features of a flat nose, round eyes and a wide mouth, with a too-tall head in proportion to its body. Most of the figurines held their stomachs with both hands. It was obvious to me that I was looking at some form of religious figure worshipped across the different islands, as I saw the names of Hawaii, the Marquesas, the Leeward and Windward Islands, Bora Bora, Tupai, Papuri, Mangareva, Tenararo and Tuamotu on their respective labels. On 25th December, the Nautilus sailed into the midst of the New Hebrides, discovered by the Portuguese seafarer Queirós in 1606. Bougainville further explored it in 1768 and Cook gave it its present name in 1773. This group is mainly composed of 9 large islands that form a band of 120 leagues from north-northwest to south-southeast. We passed fairly near to the Island of Aurou at noon. It had the appearance of a mass of green woods, surmounted by a peak of great height. As it was yuletide, it occurred to me that Ned Drake would be sorely missing the family ‘Christmas’ celebrations, about which Protestants are so zealous. For the rest of us, it was a perfectly normal day aboard the Nautilus. I had not seen Captain Nemo for over a week when, on the morning of 27th December, he came into the drawing room. I was busy tracing the route of the Nautilus on the planisphere at the time. The Captain came up to me, put his finger on a spot on the map and said a single word: “Vanikoro.” The effect was magical. It was the name of the island on which Count La Pérouse, that famed and merciful defender of French honour, had been lost. “The Nautilus has brought us to Vanikoro?” “Yes, professor.” “I can I see the celebrated islands where the Boussole and the Astrolabe came to grief ?” “If you like, sir.” “When shall we be there?” “We are there now.” I followed Captain Nemo up to the platform and scanned the 137

horizon greedily. To the northeast were 2 volcanic islands of unequal size, surrounded by a coral reef that looked about 40 miles in circumference. We were facing the island of Vanikoro, which Dumont D’Urville had initially named, “Ile de Recherche”. We lay in front of the little harbour of Vana, situated in latitude 16° 4’ south and longitude 164° 32’ east. Its shores were covered with greenery from the beach to the summits of its interior, crowned by Mount Kapogo, 476 fathoms high. The Nautilus, having passed the outer belt of rocks via a narrow strait, found itself inside the breakers, where the sea was a depth of 30 to 40 fathoms. Under the shade of some tropical evergreens, I saw some savages who seemed greatly surprised at our approach. I wondered if they thought the long, black body advancing with the water was a giant cetacean. Captain Nemo asked me what I knew about the shipwreck of the Count de La Pérouse. “Only what everybody knows, Captain.” “And could you tell me exactly what that is?” he asked, with a gleam in his eye. I related to him all that I knew of the final deeds of Count de La Pérouse and the attempts to investigate his disappearance. In 1785, King Louis XVI sent La Pérouse and his second, Captain de Langle, on a voyage of global circumnavigation. Its aim was to complete the Pacific discoveries of Captain James Cook, who was greatly admired by La Pérouse, correct and complete maps of the area, establish trade contacts, open new maritime routes, enrich the French scientific and ethnographic collections and, overall, explore the possibilities of expanding the French colonial bases. They embarked in the 2 war sloops Boussole and the Astrolabe, neither of which were ever seen again. In 1791, the French government was justly concerned about the fate of the sloops and fitted out 2 large merchant ships, the Recherge and the Esperance, which left Brest on 28th September under the command of Bruni d’Entrecasteaux. The French captain directed his course towards the Admiralty Islands first, as these had been named in a report by a Captain Hunter as the site of the Count La Pérouse’s shipwreck. They sought in vain. The Recherge and the Esperance had passed Vanikoro without stopping there. The voyage proved to be disastrous for d’Entrecasteaux and cost him his life and those of 2 of his lieutenants, as well as several crew members. It was a shrewd old Pacific sailor, the English adventurer Captain Dillon, who was the first to pick up the trail left by castaways of the wrecked vessels. On 15th May 1824 his vessel, the St Patrick, passed Tikopia, one of the Hebrides. A native boatman pulled alongside him in a dugout canoe and sold Dillon a silver sword hilt. It bore the imprint of characters engraved with a cutting tool known as a burin. The native claimed that he had obtained these during a stay at Vanikoro 6 years previously, where he had seen Europeans belonging to 2 ships that had run aground on the island’s reefs many years ago. Dillon guessed that these must have been the ships of Count de La Pérouse, whose disappearance had 138

shaken the entire world. The Englishman tried to land on Vanikoro where, according to the native, a good deal of the shipwreck’s rubble still remained. But the winds and tides prevented him. He returned on 7th July 1827, and was then able to collect numerous relics of the wreck, including iron utensils, anchors, pulley eyelets, swivel guns, an 18 pound shell, the remains of astronomical instruments, a piece of stern rail and a bronze bell bearing the inscription: “Made by Bazin”, the mark of the foundry at the Brest Arsenal. There could be no further doubt. Dillon took these findings to France on 7th April 1828, where he was warmly received by King Charles X. Without being aware of Dillon’s movements, Dumont D’Urville also set out to search for the scene of the wreck in a new ship also called the Astrolabe. He had heard from a whaler that medals and a St Louis cross had been found in the hands of some savages in Louisiade Islands and New Caledonia. Just 2 months after Dillon had left Vanikoro, Dumont D’Urville put into Hobart Town. There, he learnt the results of Dillon’s inquiries and decided to follow his trail. The new Astrolabe dropped anchor inside the harbour of Vana on 20th February 1828. As the fresh search proceeded, it was noted that the natives adopted a system of denials and evasions, refusing to take the sailors to the unlucky site of the wrecks. This suspicious conduct led the crew to believe that the natives had ill-treated the castaways in some way. Indeed, the savages seemed to fear that Dumont d’Urville had come to avenge the Count de La Pérouse. But, eventually appeased by gifts and assured of no reprisals, they led the chief officer to the scene of the wreck. In the location, between the Paeu and Vana reefs, lay a variety of ship’s paraphernalia embedded in the limestone concretions. The Astrolabe’s skiff and whaleboat went to great lengths to dredge up an anchor weighing 1,800 pounds, a cast iron 8-pounder cannon, a lead ingot and 2 copper swivel guns. As a result of further questioning, the natives told Captain d’Urville that, after losing both vessels on the reefs, La Pérouse had constructed a smaller craft. The count went off in this and was never seen again. Before returning to France, the commander of the new Astrolabe had a monument erected in memory of the famous navigator and his companions. It was a simple quadrangular pyramid, set on a coral base, with no ironwork to tempt the natives. The French government feared that Captain d’Urville was unaware of Dillon’s activities and had sent a war sloop, the Bayonnaise to Vanikoro. The ship, commandeered by Legoarant de Tromelin, arrived in Vanikoro some months after Dumont d’Urville had left and found no new information. They did note, however, that the natives had not disturbed the memorial to La Pérouse. This was the substance of the account I gave to Captain Nemo. He thanked me and said: “So, nobody knows where the third vessel, which was constructed by La Pérouse and his castaways perished?” “No one knows.” Nemo said nothing, but signalled me to follow him to one of the 139

glass windows. The Nautilus then sank a few yards and the panels opened. The first thing I laid eyes on was a great encrustation of different kinds of coral. I noted fungus coral, siphonula coral and alcyon coral; as well as sea anemone from the genus Caryophylia, in addition to myriads of charming fish, including greenfish, damselfish, sweepers, snappers and squirrelfish. Underneath this dense covering, I began to discern certain ship’s debris: Iron stirrups, anchors, cannons, shells, capstan tackle and a stempost. These left little doubt that this was the wreck of a vessel now carpeted with living flowers. While I was looking on at this desolate scene, which was not without a tragic beauty, it occurred to me that the manner in which the sunken objects were embedded in the mass of coral was not dissimilar to many of the Nautilus’s built-in features. The way its light fixtures emerged from the walls and ceilings sprang to mind. It was a dreadful association, causing me to shiver involuntarily. Captain Nemo broke into my thoughts in a solemn voice with this recital: “Commander La Pérouse set out on 17th December 1785, with his vessels La Boussole and the Astrolabe. He first cast anchor at Botany Bay, visited the Friendly Islands and New Caledonia, then directed his course towards Santa Cruz and put in at Namuka, one of the islands in the Ha’apai group. Then his vessel came to the unknown reefs of Vanikoro. The Boussole, which went first, ran aground on the southerly coast. The Astrolabe went to its aid only to meet the same fate. The first vessel was destroyed almost immediately. The second, which was stranded to leeward, resisted for some days. At first, the natives made the castaways welcome in every possible respect. The marines took up residence on the island, still hoping to be rescued and made every effort to encourage the opportunity. They set a watch for ships and kept a bonfire lit in order to signal their distress. “While Commander La Pérouse remained on good terms with the natives, regularly paying his respects to the tribal elders and even managing to enlist their help in the pursuit of his scientific investigations, his crew were not so amenable. The Europeans reacted bitterly to the natives’ avaricious concern for their possessions. What was completely customary on Vanikoro, the sailors saw as theft, resulting in violent eruptions between host and guest. A great deal of tension also developed around the island women. According to their primitive social norms, they offered their charms freely to the sailors, who readily accepted. This led to all manner of brawls amongst the crew members. They squabbled over the women, shaming themselves and also managing to alienate the native men of the tribe, who soon turned against their troublesome visitors. “After several years, the situation had become untenable. Tensions were raised to a fever pitch on both sides, with La Pérouse trying to negotiate each incident as fairly as possible. Then, on the fateful evening of 4th April 1792, one of the sailors accused a native of stealing his opera glasses — why he had brought such a thing along 140

is anyone’s guess. He proceeded to beat the suspected islander with such viciousness that he died. The eventuality the count had greatly feared had finally come about. In all probability, it would have happened sooner, but for the lack of ready alcohol on that island, which has wreaked utter havoc in similar situations. “According to their laws, the tribe was duty bound to retaliate to such ingratitude for their hospitality with blood. The next day, they surrounded the castaways. The former sailors and travellers put up a brave front, but were no match for an army of strong warriors on their home ground, especially given that, by that point, tropical illnesses had ravaged many of the European men. At the end of the day, only La Pérouse and 6 of his loyal followers remained. The commander had been spared as he had gained the islanders’ respect for being a generous leader. The rest had been massacred. La Pérouse and his band were told to bury their dead and leave the island. They set about constructing a new, smaller boat out of their wrecked vessels, which took about 5 months of arduous labour. Relations with the tribal people remained strained throughout that time and only the barest contact took place. “The French sailors set out again on 29th August, severely weakened. La Pérouse directed their course towards the Solomon Islands, but they perished with everything. The spot is here, on the westerly coast of the chief island of the group, between Cape Deception and Cape Satisfaction. The count was never able to send word to his king or his beloved creole wife from Ile de France.” “How, in God’s name, do you know all of this?” I demanded. “Because of this, which I found on the spot of the last wreck before you.” Captain Nemo showed me a tin plate box stamped with the French coat of arms, corroded by salt water. Inside was a yellowed journal bound in tattered leather whose opening page declared it to be the journal of Jean François de Galaup, the Count de La Pérouse. Beneath this was a bundle of loose papers. They were fragile, but still readable. It was possible to discern that they were the military orders given by the French Minister of the Navy to Commander La Pérouse. There were notes in the margin written in the handwriting of none other than King Louis XVI. I opened my mouth to speak here, but the Captain raised his hand and continued, with more emotion: “The loss of this brave and accomplished seaman could have been avoided, but for the actions of an evil man. It has come to my attention that, on 13th August 1791, the English Captain Edwards aboard the Pandora saw smoke signals coming from Vanikoro. That ruthless individual was in search of a group of mutineers from the Bounty, who were at large. Those mutineers he had managed to capture in Tahiti were kept caged on board his ship under the most inhuman of conditions. Captain Edwards was so consumed with the murderous fury of his pursuit that he chose to ignore the distress signals coming from the island, reasoning that the mutineers would not advertise their location. The incompetent Englishman never found the men he sought and missed his chance 141

to become one of the heroes of maritime history by rescuing La Pérouse and solving one of the greatest mysteries of the sea.” Complete silence reigned. At last, Captain Nemo’s anger ceased and he said: “The count died well. It’s a fine death for a sailor. A coral tomb makes a quiet grave and may Heaven grant that my companions and I will find no other.”

142

21. The Torres Straits During the night of 27th December, the Nautilus left the waterways of Vanikoro with extraordinary speed. Her course was southwesterly and in 3 days she had cleared the 750 leagues that separated the wreck of La Pérouse’s ship and the southeast point of Papua. Early on 1st January 1868, Milou joined me on the platform. “Will Master permit me to wish him a Happy New Year?” “Good heavens, Milou! It’s just like old times in my office at the Jardin des Plantes in Paris. Well, I accept your good wishes and thank you for them. Only, what do you mean by a ‘happy new year’, given our current circumstances? Is it that you hope the year will bring us the end of our imprisonment, or that it sees us continuing this strange voyage?” “Really, I don’t know what to tell Master. We’re certainly seeing some fascinating things and, for the last 2 months, we’ve had no time to be bored. The last marvel is always the most astonishing and, if this continues, I can’t imagine how things will climax. It’s clear to me that we’ll never have such an opportunity again.” “Never, Milou.” “Besides, Captain Nemo truly lives up to his Latin name. It’s almost as if he doesn’t exist.” “True enough, Milou.” “With all due respect to Master, I think a ‘happy new year’ would be a year in which we see everything … ” “Everything, Milou? That would be a tremendously long year. But what are Ned Drake’s thoughts about all this?” “They are the exact opposite of mine,” explained Milou. He’s tired of staring at fish all day and then having to eat them. His AngloSaxon soul is accustomed to wine and meat, with regular doses of beefsteak and gin and he’s suffering keenly from the lack thereof.” “For my part, Milou, that doesn’t bother me in the slightest. I’ve adjusted nicely to the diet on board” “So have I,” Milou replied. “As a result, I probably think about staying as much as Ned Drake does about escaping. Well, if it is a happy new year for one of us, it won’t be for the other. My wish is that what transpires is exactly what Master’s heart desires.” “Thank you, Milou. I’ve no new year’s gift for you, so please accept a handshake in their place.” “Master is very generous,” said the gallant lad. And, with that, he went on his way. On 2nd January, we had made 5,250 leagues since our starting point in the Japanese seas. Before us, the ship’s spur stretched the dangerous waters of the Coral Sea, off the northeast coast of Australia. Our boat cruised along only a few miles from that 143

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daunting shoal where Captain Cook’s vessels were almost lost on 10th June 1770. Cook’s ship struck on some coral rock and the only reason it did not sink was because a piece of coral had broken off during the collision and plugged the very hole it had helped to make. I wished it were possible to visit this 360 league reef, against which the ever-surging sea broke with the fearsome intensity of thunderclaps. But the Nautilus’s fins took us down to a great depth and I could see nothing of those high coral walls. Two days after crossing the Coral Sea, on 4th January, we sighted the Papuan coast. On this occasion, Captain Nemo told me he was planning to get to the Indian Ocean via the Torres Strait. His communication went no further. Ned Drake noted with great pleasure that this course would bring us closer to European seas. The Torres Strait is considered as dangerous for its bristling reefs as for the savage inhabitants of its coastline. It separates Queensland from the huge island of Papua, also known as New Guinea. When the chief officer was taking the sun’s altitude at noon, I spotted the summits of the Arfak Mountains, rising in terraces and ending in sharp peaks. The Portuguese Francisco Serrano discovered these shores in 1511. After that, they were successively visited by: Don Jorge de Meneses in 1526, Juan de Grijalva in 1527, the Spanish general Alvaro de Saavedra in 1528, Inigo Ortiz in 1545, the Dutchman Schouten in 1616, Nicolas Sruick in 1753, Tasman, Dampier, Fumel, Carteret, Edwards, Bougainville, Cook, McClure and Thomas Forrest. Then came the Rear Admiral d’Entrecasteaux in 1792, Louis-Isidore Duperrey in 1823 and Captain Dumont d’Urville in 1827. Mr. de Rienzi has said of it that: “It’s the heartland of the blacks who occupy all Malaysia.” The Nautilus was at the entrance to the world’s most dangerous strait, a passageway that even the boldest adventurers had hesitated to attempt. Luis Vaez de Torres faced it on returning from the South Seas in Melanesia. Captain Duont D’Urville’s sloops ran aground here in 1840 and nearly lost all her hands. The Torres Strait is about 34 leagues wide and obstructed by an innumerable quantity of islands, islets, rocks and breakers that make it nearly impossible to navigate. Captain Nemo therefore needed to make every possible precaution while crossing it. The Nautilus floated flush with the water at a moderate pace. Her propeller beat the waves slowly, like nothing so much as a cetacean’s tail. My companions and I profited by the situation, as we were able to stay on the ever-deserted platform. In the pilothouse before us was Captain Nemo himself, steering his vessel through the difficult terrain. I had purloined some excellent charts of the Torres Straits and consulted them attentively. I was sure that these were the maps surveyed and drawn up by the hydrographic engineer Vincendon Dumoulin and Sub-lieutenant (now Admiral) Coupvent-Desbois, who were part of Dumont d’Urville’s general staff during his final voyage to circumnavigate the globe. These, along with the efforts of Captain King, are the best charts for untangling the snarl of this narrow passageway and I consulted them with scrupulous care. 146

The sea boiled with fury around the Nautilus. A stream of waves, bearing from southeast to northwest at a speed of 2.5 miles per hour, broke on the coral heads that dared to rear themselves here and there. “This is a bad sea,” said Ned Drake. “Abominable, indeed,” I agreed. “And one that does not suit a boat like the Nautilus.” “Your damned Captain must be very sure of his route,” the Canadian went on, “because if these lumps of coral I see so much as brush the ship’s hull, it’ll be ripped into a thousand pieces.” Indeed, the situation was dangerous, but the Nautilus seemed to glide between the reefs like magic. She did not follow the exact route of the new Astrolabe and the Zelée, for they had proved fatal for Captain Dumont d’Urville. Captain Nemo’s vessel bore more northwards, hugged the Murray Islands, and returned to the southwest near Cumberland Passage. I thought she was going to charge wholeheartedly into this opening, when she steered northwest instead, going through a large number of little known islands and islets, towards Tound Island and the Bad Channel. I wondered if Captain Nemo, foolishly overconfident, would steer his vessel into the narrows where d’Urville’s sloops had gone aground. But he changed direction again, cutting straight west towards Guerboroa Island. It was then 17:00. The tide, being quite full, began to recede. The Nautilus approached the island and I could see its border of screw pines. Suddenly, a shock overthrew me. The Nautilus had struck a rock and was now listing slightly to port. Captain Nemo and his lieutenant soon came to the platform. They were assessing our situation in their incomprehensible tongue. Our circumstances were as follows: Gueboroa Island lay 2 miles to starboard, stretching from north to west like an immense arm. Towards the south and east, heads of coral uncovered by the ebbing waters could be seen. We had run aground at full tide, in one of those seas whose tides are moderate, an extremely inconvenient situation for floating the Nautilus. However, the vessel had not suffered, for her hull was a solid construction. But if she could not glide off or sink, she ran the risk of being stranded on these rocks permanently. I was brooding over this when Captain Nemo, cool and calm as ever, came over to me. “An accident?” I asked. “No, merely an incident.” “But an incident that could possibly force you to become an inhabitant of the land from which you flee.” Captain Nemo shot me an odd look and gestured in the negative. He said: “No, Professor Jeanneret. The Nautilus is far from lost. She will still carry us to see the marvels of the ocean. Our voyage together has just begun and I’ve no desire to deprive myself of the pleasure of your company.” Choosing to ignore his ironic turn of phrase, I said, quite sincerely: 147

“But Captain Nemo, you have run aground at full tide. In the Pacific, the tides aren’t strong enough to pull your ship, so if you can’t lighten the Nautilus, I don’t see how it can float away.” “You’re never very far-sighted, professor. You’re right about the tides in the Pacific, though. They aren’t strong. But in the Torres Straits one still finds the difference of 1.5 yards between the levels of high and low seas. Today is 4th January and in 5 days’ time the moon will be full. I shall be extremely surprised if that satellite doesn’t sufficiently raise these masses of water and render me a service that I shall be forever indebted to her for.” Having said this, Captain Nemo left me for the interior of the Nautilus, followed by his lieutenant. “Well, Sir?” said Ned Drake, who only approached me after the Captain had departed. “Well, friend Ned, we’ll have to wait patiently for the tide on the 9th. For it appears that the moon is going to have the goodness to push the ship off.” “Really?” “Really.” “And this man isn’t going to drop his anchors, put his engines on the chains, or do anything at all to haul us off ?” the Canadian asked. “Why would he if the tide is sufficient?” said Milou. The Canadian stared at the lad. The seaman in him was talking now. “Sir,” he said, “you should trust me that this piece of iron will never navigate on or under the sea again. It is only fit to be sold according to its weight. I think, therefore, the time has come to part ways with Captain Nemo.” “Friend Ned, I do not despair of the Nautilus as quickly as you do And in 4 days’ time we’ll know what the Pacific tides can do for us. Certainly, this flight that you suggest would be possible if we were in sight of the English or Provençal coast, but on the Papuan shores, it is another thing altogether. There will be time enough to get to that extremity if the Nautilus doesn’t recover itself, which I personally will see as no less than a calamity.” “But couldn’t we at least get the lay of the land? There’s an island. On that island are trees and under those trees are land animals, loaded with tasty cutlets and roast beef into which I’d like to sink my teeth.” “In this, I agree with Friend Ned,” said Milou. “Could Master not obtain permission from his friend Captain Nemo to put us on land, if only not to lose the habit of treading on the solid parts of this planet?” “I can ask him, but he‘ll refuse,” I replied. “Let Master take the risk,” Milou said. “Then we know where we stand on his affability.” To my surprise, the captain gave his permission. He did so with grace and made no attempt to extract any kind of promise from me regarding the possibility of attempting to escape. But he knew that flight across New Guinea would have been a perilous endeavour and, for myself, I would not advise anybody to attempt it. Better 148

to be a prisoner on board the Nautilus than to fall into the hands of the Papuan natives. The next morning, the skiff was at our disposal. After its deck panelling was opened, the small boat was wrenched from its socket and launched to sea from the top of the platform. It took only 2 men to perform this operation. The oars were already in place, so we had only to take our seats. We left the Nautilus at 08:10, armed with guns and hatchets. The sea was pretty calm, with a slight breeze blowing onto the land. We sped along quickly with Milou and I rowing and Ned steering through the safe passage that the breakers left between them. The boat handled easily and sped swiftly along. Ned Drake could not restrain his joy. He acted like a condemned man who had escaped from prison. “Meat! We are going to eat some meat!” he kept repeating. “Actual game, too. I’m not saying that fish isn’t good for you, but we mustn’t overdo things. A fresh piece of venison, grilled and on live coals … that will be a nice change from our usual fare!” “You glutton,” said Milou. “You’re actually making my mouth water.” “It remains to be seen if these forests hold any game and if it’s the kind of that hunts the hunters themselves,” I said. “Well said, Professor Jeanneret,” replied the Canadian, whose teeth were glinting and seemed as sharp as the edge of a hatchet. “But, at this point, I’ll willingly eat a tiger. If there no other quadrupeds show themselves, loin of tiger it shall be.” “Our friend grows disturbing,” said Milou. “Whatever it may be, “ said Ned Drake, “any animal with 4 paws without feathers, or with 2 paws without feathers, will be greeted by my 1-gun salute.” “ Mr Drake’s recklessness not withstanding,” I replied, “we’d better keep a sharp lookout. This island seems uninhabited from this point of view, but we may yet find that it harbours individuals who aren’t at all fussy about the sort of game they eat.” “Hee, hee!” Ned chuckled, with a meaningful grinding of his jaws. “Ned, that’s horrible,” Milou remonstrated. “I’m starting to appreciate the charms of cannibalism,” the Canadian said, smiling. “Ned, don’t say that, even in jest,” Milou answered. “If you become a cannibal, I’ll no longer be safe next to you. And I share your cabin. Does this mean I’ll wake up half devoured one fine day?” “I’m awfully fond of you, Milou, my friend, but not enough to eat you. Not when there’s better food around, that is.” “Then, the hunt is on. We absolutely must bag some game to placate this man-eater, or one of these mornings Master won’t find enough pieces of his manservant to serve him.” At 08:30, the Nautilus’s boat ran softly aground on heavy sand. It had successfully avoided the coral reef that surrounds the Island of Gueboroa. Touching land again was exhilarating, even though it had only been 2 months since we had become, what Captain Nemo referred 149

to as “passengers aboard the Nautilus”. The island soil was almost entirely madreporic, but there were certain dry streambeds strewn with granite rubble, proving that it was of primordial origin. The entire horizon was hidden behind a curtain of forests. Enormous trees, sometimes as high as 200 feet, were linked to each other by garlands of tropical creepers, natural hammocks that swayed in a mild breeze. True to form, the Canadian was less than interested in these specimens of Papuan flora, passing up the decorative in favour of the functional. He quickly spotted a coconut palm and beat down some of its fruit. We all drank the milk and ate the white flesh, declaring them to be delicious. As Ned Drake attacked a second tree, with the intention of filling our longboat with the fruit, I cautioned him to leave space for other foodstuffs we might find, particularly vegetables. We set forth into the lush tropical forests in search of further supplies lacking on board and were soon rewarded for our efforts. Breadfruit trees were abundant on Guerboroa Island. I chiefly noted the seedless variety that in Malaysia is called “rima”. This tree is easy to spot because of its straight trunk, about 40 feet high. To the naturalist’s eye, its gracefully rounded crown, formed of big multi-lobed leaves, was enough to denote the artocarpus that has been so successfully transplanted to the Mascarene Islands east of Madagascar. From its mass of greenery, huge globular fruit stood out, a 3.9 inches wide and furnished on the outside with creases that assumed a hexangular pattern. Without needing to be cultivated, it bears fruit 8 months out of the year. Ned Drake was on familiar terms with this fruit, having eaten it on his many voyages. As the very sight of it aroused his appetite, he couldn’t control himself. He made a fire with the surrounding deadwood and a magnifying glass he had brought along for that purpose and proceeded to cook the fruit on the spot. This was done by taking the riper ones, which were yellow and gelatinous, and cutting them into strips that were laid out over the live coals. They took several minutes to roast. The fruit took on the appearance of white pastry, or a large breadcrumb and tasted similar to an artichoke. I must confess that I ate a good deal of it. While I was content to head back to the Nautilus with the breadfruit, Ned Drake insisted on pushing forwards. After a couple of hours, we came across an ample supply of bananas. This delicious produce from the Torrid Zones ripens all year round and Malaysians, who give them the name “pisang”, eat them raw. In addition to bananas, we gathered some enormous jackfruit with a very tangy flavour, some tasty mangoes and pineapples of unbelievable size. All this foraging took up a good deal of our time and, at about 14:30, I decided we should head back. On our return journey, we were able to add to our stocks with a raid on some yams and palm cabbage palms. I had recognized these little beans at the top of the trees as the abrou of the Malays. It was about 17:30 when we got back to our boat. The poor vessel was loaded fit to burst with our supplies, but Ned Drake insisted 150

they were sorely lacking. Just as we were boarding, he spotted several trees around 30 feet high, also belonging to the palm species. Ned Drake took an axe and soon had 2 trees stretched out on the ground. I watched him more as a naturalist than a man in hunger. He began by removing from each trunk an inch-thick strip of bark that covered a network of long, hopelessly tangled fibres that were puttied with a sort of gummy flour. This flour was the starch-like sago, an edible substance chiefly consumed by the Melanesian peoples. The harpooner was content to chop these trunks into pieces, as if he were making firewood at that point. He would later extract the flour by sifting it through cloth to separate it from its fibrous ligaments, let it dry out in the sun, and leave it to harden inside moulds. He finally allowed us to set off and, within 30 minutes, we were hailing the Nautilus. No one was there to greet us. The enormous, iron-plated cylinder seemed deserted. Once the provisions were loaded, I retired to my chamber, where my dinner was waiting for me. I ate and then slept soundly.

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22. Birds of Paradise On the next day, 6th January, nothing had changed on board. There were no signs of life and the boat rested in the same place where we had left it. We resolved to return to the island. Ned Drake was hoping to try a different part of the forest and see if we had better luck in our hunting. We set off at dawn. The boat was carried on an inbound current and reached the island in a few minutes. Once we had landed, the easiest course of action seemed to be to simply give in to the Canadian’s wishes. We followed him westward, all the way up the coast. After fording some streambeds, he led us to open plains, bordered by forests. There were kingfishers in the water but they did not allow us to come near. Their behaviour made me suspect that, if this island wasn’t actually inhabited by humans, they certainly visited it frequently. We crossed a grassy prairie and arrived at a small wood that vibrated with birdsong. Under the dense foliage were hosts of parrots that I knew only needed the right upbringing to speak like humans. At present, they were cackling in chorus with parakeets of every colour. Milou despaired that the birds were inedible. Both Ned Drake and I assured him to the contrary, pointing out that, in a pinch and properly prepared, even a parrot could make a fair meal. Nevertheless, we did not try to bag any. There was only one bird I truly wished to take away with me but there were none in sight. I sought the bird of paradise, unique to the Aru and Papuan Islands. It was only after crossing through a moderately dense thicket, and coming across more plains that I saw them soaring aloft. Their undulating flight, aided by the arrangement of their long feathers, the grace of their aerial curves, and the play of their colours delighted my eye. I had no trouble identifying them. “Birds of paradise!” I exclaimed. “Order Passeriforma, division Clystomora,” Milou replied. “Partridge family?” Ned asked. “I doubt it, Mr. Drake. But I’m counting on your dexterity to catch me one of these delightful tropical creatures.” He did his best, but the Canadian was clearly handier with a harpoon than a rifle. To be fair, he was firing on the wing, which meant the odds were against him. We used up a good part of our ammunition in vain. Malaysians, who do a booming business in these birds, have various methods for catching them that we were unable to employ. These involve setting snares on the tops of the tall trees that the birds inhabit, using paralyzing glue and even poisoning the springs where these precious fowl drink. It was about 11:00 when we got to the first range of mountains 154

that form the island’s centre. As we had hoped to catch ourselves breakfast, hunger spurred us on. Milou, to his own great surprise, secured us some food in the form of a white pigeon and a dove, with a lucky right-and-left shot. These were plucked and roasted on the spit on another fire. The nutmeg, with which they are in the habit of gorging themselves on, flavoured their flesh and rendered delicious eating, alongside more breadfruit. Ned Drake was anxious to continue our search for game and I was reluctant to head back to the boat without making another attempt at obtaining a bird of paradise. We headed back towards the shore by keeping to the forests. After an hour’s walk, we passed through a sago palm forest. Snakes fled underfoot and birds stole off at our approach. Milou stooped suddenly and, with a triumphant shout, came back to me with a magnificent bird of paradise. I heaped praises on the lad for capturing a live bird with his bare hands, until he was forced to point out that it was no great feat to capture the bird. “And why not, Milou?” “Because this bird is as drunk as a lord.” “Drunk?” “Yes, drunk from the nutmeg it was devouring under that tree where I caught it. See, Ned, my friend. Behold the monstrous results of intemperance.” “Considering the amount of gin I’ve had these past 2 months, you’ve got nothing to complain about,” the Canadian replied. I examined the unusual bird. Tipsy from the potent drink, it was utterly helpless and unable to fly. I wished for nothing more than to make a gift of this superb live specimen to the zoo back at the Jardin des Plantes. “So it must be a rarity or something?” the Canadian asked, in the tone of one who, from the viewpoint of a hunter, gives the game a decidedly low rating. “A great rarity, my gallant comrade. Above all, it’s very hard to capture alive. There’s still a huge market for their carcasses. So the natives have figured out how to create fake ones.” This piqued the interest of my companions in the extreme. I explained to them: “During the easterly monsoon season, birds of paradise lose the large feathers around their tails. The fowl counterfeiters gather these and secure them to a suitably mutilated parakeet. The poor bird is then stitched up, painted and varnished. I’ve seen the fruits of these unique labours across museums and collections in Europe.” “Fair enough,” said Ned Drake. “If it isn’t the right bird, the feathers are correct. So long as the merchandise isn’t meant to be eaten, I see no great harm.” The Canadian saw all these birds as mere side dishes and would not be content until he had killed game with cutlets. Happily, by about 14:30, he had brought down a fine wild pig, which the natives call a “bari-outang”. The quadruped meat was warmly welcomed. The Canadian skinned and cleaned it properly, after having taken a dozen or so cutlets, destined to be grilled for our evening’s 155

meat course. The hunt was resumed. Ned Drake and Milou succeeded in flushing a herd of kangaroos from the bushes. Our electric bullets brought down some of them as they bound away. Hunting fever soon went to Ned’s brain and he raved on, saying things like: “What excellent stew! What a supply! 2,3,5 down and all for us to devour … those numbskulls on board won’t get a shred!” There is no doubt in my mind that, in his uncontrollable bloodlust, the Canadian would happily have slaughtered the entire horde. Luckily, his constant chatter hindered him from doing so. In the end, he was content with half a dozen bodies. All in all, we were satisfied with the results of the hunt. A gleeful Ned Drake was already preparing his return to the island the next day, as he wished to further depopulate it of its quadrupeds. At 17:50, we were back at the skiff. The Nautilus, emerged from the waves 2 miles offshore, like a long reef. Ned Drake hastily set about the important business of a beach dinner. The succulent aroma of grilled bari-outang soon scented the air. It was an excellent repast, rounded off with 2 ringdoves, artocarpus bread, mangoes, half a dozen pineapples and the fermented liquor from certain coconuts. I suspect the last item addled my companions’ minds somewhat. “Suppose we don’t return to the Nautilus this evening?” said Milou. “Suppose we never return?” ventured Ned Drake. It was at that exact point that a stone fell at our feet. We all directed our eyes to the edge of the forest. My hand was frozen in the act of putting food in my mouth. Ned Drake audibly gulped down his food. “Stones do not fall from the sky,” remarked Milou, “or they would be called aerolites.” A second stone, carefully aimed, made a savoury pigeon’s leg fall from his hand. We all rose and shouldered our guns. “Are they apes, maybe?” asked Ned Drake. “Close enough. They’re savages,” said Milou. “To the boat!” I said, hurrying to the water. The skiff was aground 10 fathoms away. It was necessary to retreat. About 20 natives, armed with bows and slings, had appeared barely a hundred paces off, on the outskirts of the copse that masked the horizon on our right. The savages approached. They did not run, but favoured us with a show of the greatest hostility. It began to rain stones and arrows. Ned Drake was unwilling to abandon his provisions. Despite the immanent danger, he clutched his pig in one hand and the leftover kangaroos in the other while he ran. He managed to go quite fast, given the circumstances. In 2 minutes, we were loading the provisions and weapons into the skiff. Pushing it out was the work of an instant. We had not gone 2 cable lengths, when the horde of savages, howling and gesticulating, entered the waters up to their waists. I looked to see if this apparition would attract the interest of anybody on the 156

Nautilus, but the platform was remained deserted. We were on board 20 minutes later. The hatches were open. We moored the longboat and went inside. I descended to the drawing room, from which the sound of chords was wafting. Captain Nemo was there, bent over his organ, in a deep musical trance. “Captain!” He did not hear me. “Captain?” This time I touched his hand. He shuddered and, turning round, said, “Ah, it’s you, professor. Well, have you had a good hunt? Botanized successfully?” “Yes, Captain. But, unfortunately, we’ve brought back a group of bipeds whose proximity troubles me.” “What nature of bipeds?” “Savages, Captain.” “Savages,” he echoed, with mock drama. “So, professor, you set foot on a strange land and are astonished to find it inhabited? Savages? Where are there not any savages? Are these people really any worse than those you have found on so-called civilized land?” “But, Captain, be that as it may…” “Speaking for myself, I’ve encountered savages everywhere I’ve been on land.” “Well, then, surely you don’t want them coming aboard?” “There’s no cause for alarm, professor.” “But there are a hundred of them, at least.” “Professor Jeanneret,” said Captain Nemo, placing his hands back on the organ keys, “even if every islander in Papua assembles on that shore, the Nautilus has nothing to fear from their attacks.” The Captain’s fingers returned to running over the keys of the instrument. I noticed that he only played the black keys, giving the music a Scotch character. He had soon forgotten my presence and was plunged into reverie. I returned to the platform. Night had already fallen as, in this low altitude, the sun sets rapidly, without twilight. The island was indistinct, but numerous fires were lit on the beach, suggesting that the natives had no intention of leaving it. I was left alone to think about these people, but my dread of them was gone. Captain Nemo’s imperturbable confidence was catching. Sometimes I forgot the natives completely to admire the splendours of the night in the tropics. My memories took wing to France, over which those zodiacal stars were due to twinkle, in a few hours. The moon was at its zenith. It then occurred to me that this good-natured satellite would return to the same place the day after tomorrow, to raise the tide and tear the Nautilus from her coral bed. Near midnight, seeing that all was quiet over the darkened waves as well as under the waterside trees, I repaired to my cabin and fell into a peaceful sleep. The night slipped away without any misadventures. No doubt, the islanders were frightened by the sight of a monster in the bay. Our hatches remained open and would have offered easy access to the interior 157

of the Nautilus had anybody attempted it. At 05:45 in the morning on 8th January, I was back on the platform. The dawn was just breaking. Soon enough, the island showed itself through dissipating fogs, first the shore, then the summits. The natives were still there and far more numerous than the day before, around 500 or 600. Some had taken advantage of the low tide by approaching over the heads of coral. They were within 2 cable’s lengths of the Nautilus. All were armed with bows, arrows and shields and many carried a sort of net over their shoulders that held the round polished stones, which kept being skilfully thrown at us. One of the chieftains had come very near to the Nautilus and was examining it intently. He must have been a “mado” of high rank, as he paraded around in a mat of banana leaves that was notched round the edges and accented with brilliant colours. He was an easy mark, being such a short distance away, but I thought it was better to wait for the real hostilities to start. Between Europeans and savages, it is proper for the Europeans to retaliate rather than to attack first. During the low tide, the natives lurked close to the Nautilus, but were not troublesome. They frequently repeated the word “assai” and, from their gestures, I understood that they were inviting me to go on land. But I declined. And so, to the great displeasure of Mr Drake, the boat did not push off that day. The adept Canadian was forced to spend his time in the kitchen, preparing the meat and flour he had brought from the island. The savages returned to the shore at about 11:00, as soon as the coral tops began to disappear under the rising tide. It was then that I saw their number had swelled even more. They had probably come from the neighbouring islands, or from the Papuan mainland. But I had not yet seen a single native dugout canoe. Having nothing better to do, I decided to dredge the beautiful limpid waters, under which I could see a profusion of shells, zoophytes and open-sea plants. Besides, it was the last day the Nautilus would be in these parts, if Captain Nemo’s promise was fulfilled. I called Milou, who brought me a light dragnet, very like those used for oysters. “Should we keep an eye on these savages?” Milou asked me. “With all due respect to Master, they don’t strike me as being very wicked!” “They’re cannibals even so, my boy.” “A person can be both a cannibal and a decent man,” Milou replied, “just as a person can be both gluttonous and honourable. The one doesn’t exclude the other.” “Fine, Milou. I certainly agree that there are honourable cannibals who devour their prisoners with decency. I’m merely opposed to being eaten, even if very decently. So let’s keep on our guard, especially since the Nautilus’s commander seems to be taking no precautions.” We fished energetically for 2 hours, but without obtaining any rarities. The dragnet was filled with Midas abalone, harp shells, 158

obelisk snails and the finest hammer shells I have ever seen. There were also some sea cucumbers, pearl oysters, and a dozen little turtles that we reserved for the pantry. Just when I was least expecting it, I laid hands on a true wonder. It was a natural deformity that is rarely encountered. I spotted it in a net of very ordinary shells and plunged my arm in to draw it out, uttering a cry. “What is the matter with Master?” Milou asked in surprise. “Has he been bitten?” “No, my boy, but I would willingly have given a finger for this discovery.” I showed him the object of my triumph. “But that is simply an olive shell of the ‘tent olive’ species, genus Olivia, order Pectinibranchia, class Gasropoda, branch Mollusca …” “Yes, yes, Milou! But, instead of coiling from right to left, this olive shell rolls in the opposite direction.” “Is that possible?” “Yes, my boy. While all shells are right-handed, there are some very rare exceptions. When, by chance, their spiral is to the left, there are men willing to lay down their weight in gold for them.” “A left-handed shell,” Milou repeated, his heart pounding. “Master can trust me on this,” Milou said, taking the valuable shell in trembling hands, “I have never in my life felt such excitement.” He had good reason. As many naturalists have ventured to observe, “dextrality” is a well-known law of nature. Even stars and satellites go from left to right in their orbital movements. Man uses his right hand more often than his left and his various instruments and equipment, from locks and watch springs to staircases, are designed to function from right to left. Milou and I were deeply absorbed in contemplating this rarest of treasures and I was solemnly promising myself to somehow get it back to Paris and my museum, when a fateful stone whizzed across the water. It struck and shattered the precious object. This time my cry was one of despair. Milou grabbed his gun and aimed it at the savage who had his sling poised 10 yards away from us. I tried to stop him, but Milou’s shot went off. It shattered the bracelets of amulets adorning the native’s arm. “Milou!” “But, didn’t Master see that this man-eater attacked?” “A shell is not worth the life of a man,” I said. Milou did not seem to share my views, but laid down his rifle, saying only: “Ah, the scoundrel. I’d rather he’d broken my shoulder.” Our situation had now changed. During our fishing, we had failed to notice that a score of canoes had surrounded the Nautilus. Hollowed from tree trunks, they were well designed for speed, with long and narrow bodies balanced by 2 bamboo poles that floated on the water surface. Skilful, half-naked paddlers manned these boats. I watched their advance with great uneasiness. It was probable that these Papuans had already encountered Europeans and recognised their ships. But this long, iron cylinder, without 159

masts or funnels, what did they make of it? Clearly, not very much. After keeping at a safe distance to begin with, the fact that it remained motionless gave them confidence. They were now approaching to investigate, which was precisely what I wanted to avoid. I reasoned that our weapons would have little affect on them because they were silent and these islanders would only be respectful of blustering things. Without thunderclaps, lightening bolts would be less effective, even though it is the flash that is dangerous, not the noise. The canoes drew nearer and the Nautilus was covered in a cloud of arrows, which could well have been poisoned. I went down to the saloon to seek Captain Nemo. It was deserted. I ventured to knock on the door of the Captain’s room. When he bade me enter, I found him deep in algebraic calculations of “x” and other quantities. For courtesy’s sake, I said, “I’m disturbing you.” “Correct, Professor Jeanneret. But I imagine you have some pressing reason for wishing to see me?” “Very grave ones. The natives have surrounded us in their dugouts. In a few minutes we shall certainly be attacked by hundreds of savages.” “Ah, they’ve come with their dugouts?” Captain Nemo said, serenely. “Yes, Sir.” “Well, then, we must close the hatches.” “That’s precisely what I came to tell you.” He pressed an electric button, transmitting an order to the ship’s crew. He seemed to think that settled the matter and went back to his sums. When I remained in place, he looked up again, saying: “The skiff is securely fixed and the hatches are closed. Surely you’re not worried that these gentlemen will master the same walls that your frigate couldn’t breach?” “No, Captain. But a danger still exists.” “And what might that be?” “We’ll need to reopen the hatches tomorrow, Sir, to renew our air supply. If, at that moment, the Papuans should occupy the platform, I don’t see how you’re going to prevent them from entering.” “Then, sir, you suppose that they will board us?” “I am certain of it.” “Well, I say let them come. I see no reason to prevent the poor wretches. I won’t have your visit to Gueraboroa Island costing a single Papuan life.” During such interactions with Captain Nemo, it seemed that my earnest theories were a source of great amusement to him, never to be taken very seriously. But on that occasion, he acted kindly. Instead of dismissing me once more, he invited me to draw up a chair and to ask questions about our hunting excursion. He seemed incapable of understanding the Canadian’s craving for meat. Our conversation then meandered into various other subjects. Without being more communicative or less paternal, the captain was certainly making an effort to be amiable. One of the topics that came up was that we had run aground in 160

exactly the same spot where Dumont D’Urville was nearly lost. Concerning this matter, the Captain was enthusiastic, saying: “This D’Urville was one of your best sailors and also among the shrewdest navigators. He is the Captain Cook of Frenchmen. Although, where Cook was killed by savages in Hawaii during a skirmish, the wise but unfortunate D’Urville braved the icebergs of the South Pole, the coral reefs of Oceania and the cannibals of the Pacific only to perish miserably in a train wreck. If he had the opportunity to reflect in the last moments of his life, I wonder what those final thoughts were.” He spoke with feeling that did him credit. Then, chart in hand, we reviewed the travels of the French Navigator: His voyages of global circumnavigation and his double attempt at the South Pole, which led to the discovery of Adélie Coast and the Louis-Phillippe Peninsula, claiming that land for France, and not forgetting his hydrographic surveys of the principal islands in Oceania. “That which your D’Urville has done on the surface of the seas,” Captain Nemo told me, “I have done too, but, more quickly and thoroughly. The Astrolabe and the Zéléé, incessantly tossed about by hurricanes, could not compete with the Nautilus, being the quiet workroom at rest in the waters that she is.” “And yet, you have run aground like they did,” I pointed out. He became icy again, saying, “The Nautilus is not run aground. She does not require the arduous labour necessary to float ordinary ships. Tomorrow, on the day and hour stated, the tide will peacefully lift her off and we will resume our journey.” “But …” He rose and bowed curtly to me. I was now dismissed. I returned to my room where I found Milou waiting for me. He wished to know the results of my interview with the captain. I related the Captain’s sarcastic remarks concerning the Papuans in comparison to ourselves and told him to be confident of a positive outcome in the morning. Before sending him on his way, I enquired as to the whereabouts of Ned Drake. “Begging Master’s indulgence,” Milou replied, “but our friend Ned is concocting a kangaroo pie that he claims will be the 8th wonder of the world.” I was left to myself. On going to bed, I slept poorly due to the noise of savages stamping on the platform and making loud whooping noises. But the night passed with no intervention by the Nautilus’s crew. The presence of the cannibals affected them no more than the soldiers of an armoured fortress are troubled by ants crawling on its plating. I rose at 05:45 in the morning. The hatches had not been opened, so I assumed the emergency air tanks had been resorted to. They discharged several feet of oxygen into the exhausted atmosphere of the ship. Nevertheless, the air was quite thin. I stayed in my cabin, working till noon. From the silence that reigned, I deduced that no preparations for departure seemed immanent. I waited until 10 minutes before the appointed time and then went into the saloon. The equipment confirmed it would soon be high 161

tide. I still harboured grave doubts concerning the Nautilus’s not having to spend many months on its coral bed. But I did become aware of preliminary vibrations. I could hear the ship’s hull grind against the calcareous roughness. At 14:35, the Captain appeared in the saloon and informed me that we were about to depart. Furthermore, he had given orders to open the hatches. When I questioned him about the Papuans, he merely shrugged. “But won’t they come inside the Nautilus by leaping through the hatches?” I persisted. “Professor Jeanneret, they will never be able to enter my ship that way.” I could only look at him, dumbly. He smiled, saying: “Come and you will see.” He led me to the central staircase. Ned Drake and Milou were there, looking very puzzled. They were watching some of the ship’s crew undoing the hatches. As the port lids were pulled down, a frightful clamouring and shouting resounded from outside. Twenty horrible faces appeared. Then, the first native who placed his hand on that singular, curling stair rail was flung backwards. He seemed struck by some invisible force. He fled, howling in terror. At least 10 of his companions followed and met with the same fate. Milou was content to enjoy this spectacle, but Ned Drake was overcome by his violent tendencies. He leapt up onto the staircase, but the moment he made a grab for the rail he, too, was thrown backwards. “I am struck by a thunderbolt!” he exclaimed, amidst a sea of oaths. And then I understood. Those metal tendrils that looked so much like frozen creepers, were not a stair rail at all, but a solid iron cable charged with electricity. Once activated, whoever touched it received a powerful shock, which could have been fatal if Captain Nemo chose to discharge the full force of the current. He had stretched a network of electricity between his assailants and himself through which none could pass with impunity. Crazed with terror, the Papuans beat a retreat. Half laughing, it was our task to console poor Ned Drake, who was now swearing like one possessed. And then the Nautilus, rocked by the last of the tide’s undulations, left her coral bed at exactly the 40th minute the Captain had predicted. Her propeller swept the waters slowly and majestically, gradually speeding up. Sailing on the surface of the ocean, she quitted the Straits of Torres.

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23. Aegri Somnia The following day was 10th January. The Nautilus continued her course at great speed, no less than 35 miles an hour. The propeller went so fast, I was unable to count its revolutions. After having witnessed the most recent evidence of the effect of electricity, I was beginning to feel like the Nautilus was a kind of sacred ark, which no profane hand could touch without being blasted. My admiration for the powerful craft was unbounded, not least of which went to that engineer who had called it into existence. We were travelling due west on 11th January, when we doubled Cape Wessel, which forms the western point of the Gulf of Carpentaria. There were still numerous reefs, but more widely scattered and marked on the charts with precision. Our vessel easily avoided the Money breakers to port and the Victoria reefs to starboard, placed at longitude 130° and on the 10th parallel, which we were following. On 13th January, we arrived in the Timor Sea and recognised the island of that name in longitude 122°. The Dutch and Portuguese have been fighting over who gets control of the island for 2 centuries. They say that the native aristocrats deem themselves to be the sons of crocodiles and therefore descendants of the most exalted origins. Their scaly ancestors infest the island’s rivers, where they are venerated. Not only are the savage reptiles pampered, but they are offered a ritual diet of nubile maidens and woe betide any foreigner who lifts a finger against the sacred saurians. But the Nautilus entertained no such thoughts. I only caught a brief glimpse of little Roti Island, of the same group as Timor, from the platform at noon. All I knew of it was that its women have a well-established reputation for beauty in the Malaysian marketplace. After the second had taken our position, the Nautilus’s direction inclined towards the southwest. Her prow pointed to the Indian Ocean. I wondered where the captain’s fancy would take us next and if he would return to the coast of Asia or approach the shores of Europe. Both would be curious choices for a man who avoided populated areas. Perhaps he would descend to the south, double the Cape of Good Hope, then Cape Horn and push on to the Antarctic Pole, from which he could, finally, return to the Pacific. Time would tell. After having skirted the reefs of Cartier, Hilbernia, Serinapatam and Scott, we lost sight of the land altogether. On 14th January, with only the liquid element around us, the Nautilus’s speed abated to a considerable extent and her course became irregular. Sometimes she floated on the surface and at other times in the bosom of the water. During this phase of our journey, Captain Nemo made some interesting experiments on the different temperatures of the sea in 163

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her various strata. Under ordinary circumstances, these observations are made by means of complicated instruments whose findings are dubious to say the least. Whether they are thermometric sounding lines, whose glass often shatters under the water’s pressure, or those devices based on the varying resistance of metals to electric currents, their readings cannot be adequately double-checked. In stark comparison, Captain Nemo tested the temperature of the sea depths by going there in his ship, taking his thermometer with him. This immediately provided the accurate degree. Either by loading up her tanks, or by descending obliquely by means of her fins, the Nautilus attained the depths of up to 10,000 yards. The ultimate result of the Captain’s experiments was that the sea, in all latitudes, had a permanent average temperature of 4.5° centigrade, at a depth of 3.291 feet. It so happened that, on the morning of 15th January, the Captain and I were both strolling on the platform. He asked me if I knew how salt water differs in density from sea to sea. I replied in the negative, adding that there was a lack of rigorous scientific observations on this subject. “I’ve taken a number of perfectly reliable observations,” he told me. I took the opportunity of pointing out that the Nautilus existed in a separate world and its discoveries never made their way to shore. He mused over this notion and then seemed to decide that he rather liked it: “You’re right, professor. This is a separate world. It’s as alien to the earth as the planets accompanying our globe around the sun. And we’ll never become familiar with the work of scientists on Saturn or Jupiter. But since fate has linked our lives, I can reveal the results of my observations to you, if you wish.” “I’m all attention, Captain.” He went on to explain the difference between the densities of water in the different seas. Starting with a fresh water representation of 1.000, he put the Atlantic’s waters at 1.028, the Pacific’s at 1.026 and the Mediterranean’s at 1,030. I was thrilled simply to hear that the Nautilus ventured into the familiar Mediterranean Sea. When Captain Nemo proceeded to inform me that the density of the Ionian Sea was 1.018 and that of the Adriatic 1.029, I was assured that our Commander did not avoid the heavily travelled waters of Europe. Ned Drake would be pleased to learn that we may soon be travelling near civilized shores. We spent that day and the next with all sorts of experiments, on the degree of salinity in waters of different depths, or on their electric properties, colouration and transparency. In every instance, Captain Nemo displayed an ingenuity equalled only by his graciousness toward me. And then he disappeared without the slightest warning. I saw no more of him for some time. On 16th January, the Nautilus seemed to have fallen asleep a few yards beneath the surface of the waves. Her electric motors were turned off and she drifted at the mercy of the currents. I assumed that the crew was occupied with interior repairs, which must 166

have been necessary quite regularly, given the engine’s strenuous activities. My companions and I then witnessed an unusual spectacle. The saloon hatches were open. With the lantern off, a hazy darkness reigned underwater. The sky above was stormy and cast only the faintest light on the ocean’s upper strata. Under these conditions, even the largest fish looked like nothing more than an ill-defined shadow. I wondered if some atmospheric condition had intensified the phenomenon to make it so magical. Perhaps a storm had been unleashed on the surface. If so, the Nautilus would be blissfully unaware of its furious activity. And so we progressed, constantly charmed by some new marvel. Milou observed and classified his zoophytes, articulates, molluscs and fish. The days passed quickly and I lost track of them. We were fixed to our shell like snails and I can vouch with experience that it is remarkably easy to lead the life of a snail. I was slipping increasingly further away from my life on land, when a disruption occurred to remind me of our strange circumstances. On 18th January, the Nautilus lay in longitude 105° and latitude 15° south. The weather was threatening and the sea rough and billowy, spurred on by a strong easterly wind. The barometer, which had been going down for some days, foreboded a storm brewing. I had gone up to the platform just as the lieutenant was taking his measure of the hour angles. According to habit, I waited until the daily phrase was said. But on that day, it was replaced with another phrase. It was no less comprehensible, but certainly different. Captain Nemo quickly appeared with a looking glass, his attention avidly fixed on the horizon. The Captain did not take his eye away from the point of observation for some minutes. When he finally he lowered his glass, he engaged in a rapid exchange with his lieutenant. The latter seemed under the sway of an extreme emotion that he tried to suppress, in vain. Captain Nemo remained cool throughout. The Captain gave the impression of making objections about something to which the lieutenant replied with formal assurances. At least, this is what I gathered from their tone and gesture. Nemo then paced from one curlicued platform end to another, without seeming to notice me. His step was firm, but less regular than usual. Sometimes he stopped and observed the sea with his arms crossed. I tried my best to see the cause of all of this, but my efforts across that great expanse were futile. At that point, the Nautilus was hundreds of miles from the nearest coast. The lieutenant kept lifting his spyglass to examine the horizon further. Unlike his Commander, he became increasingly agitated, often tapping a nervous foot against the metal floor. Before long, Captain Nemo gave orders for the ship to increase her speed. The propeller whirled faster. The second then called for Nemo’s attention again and the latter stopped his pacing to take up the spyglass once more. He looked for a long time. I was deeply curious and descended to the drawing room, where I located the superb long-range telescope I normally 167

used and took it back to the platform with me. I leaned my elbows on the unfurling mounds of metal that housed the great lantern, preparing to scour the sea and sky. But no sooner had I put glass to eye than it was snatched from my hands. I turned and Captain Nemo was there. He was barely recognizable. His facial features were completely transfigured into a mask of violent hatred. Gleaming with inner fire, his eyes had shrunk beneath his frowning brow. His teeth were half bared. His rigid body, clenched fists and head drawn between the shoulders removed all trace of the urbane Commander I was accustomed to dealing with. He did not move. My glass rolled at his feet, where he had thrown it. I wondered what it was that had brought this fit on. At first, I wondered if I had accidentally done something to upset him. But his eye was not fixed on me. Its steely glare was directed towards that point on the horizon. At last, he recovered himself and spoke a few words to the lieutenant. He then turned to me: “Professor Jeanneret, I now require that you honour one of the conditions that bind you to me.” His voice was imperious. “What is it, Captain?” “You and your partners must be placed in confinement until I see fit to release you.” “You’re in command,” I replied. “But, might I ask you one question?” “You may not.” There was nothing further to be achieved there. I went to Ned Drake and Milou’s cabin and told them what was about to transpire. The reader may judge how well this news was received by the Canadian. But it was not the time for an altercation. A small group of crew members were waiting for us at the door. They escorted us to the room where we had spent our first night on board the Nautilus. Ned Drake tried to raise an objection, but the door was shut in his face. “Will Master explain to me what it all means?” asked Milou. I could only tell my companions what had passed. We were all equally at a loss as to how to account for it. I sank into deep speculation. Captain Nemo’s strange facial seizure haunted me. I was unable to think cohesively and could only invent the most bizarre hypotheses. My thoughts were interrupted the Canadian, who declared: “Look here, Sir, lunch is served.” It was only then that I realised the table had been laid for us. Ned Drake and Milou had been patiently waiting for me to begin the meal. I sat down at the table and they followed suit. Milou then suggested, by my leave, that we all ate heartily, as we had no idea when next we would be seeing another meal. I agreed that the last time we had been in that room, service had indeed been slow. “Unfortunately,” said Ned Drake, “they have only given us the ship’s fare.” 168

“Friend Ned,” said Milou, “what would you have said if the meal had been entirely forgotten?” This dose of common sense actually kept the harpooner quiet for once and we finished our meal in silence. After lunch, we each found a nook in the undulating walls which we propped ourselves against and prepared for rest. Soon after, the luminous globe that lighted the cell went out. We were in complete darkness once again. Ned Drake was soon asleep and, to my astonishment, Milou did the same. I was trying to work out what could have caused such irresistible drowsiness in the everalert Fleming, when I felt a dense torpor saturate my brain. In spite of all efforts, my eyes kept closing. Once more, the twisting coils encircling the room started to distort and seemed to grab at me. The anguished hallucinations had returned. It was then that I came to the painful realisation our food had been laced with soporific substances. “No doubt, all produced from the ocean,” I muttered through heavy, rubbery lips. I heard the sound of the panels closing faraway. It echoed in my brain for a long time until the sea’s gentle rocking motion ceased. I felt numb. My limbs were paralyzed and floating in compete stillness. My eyelids, now leaden caps, would no longer rise and I gave in to a morbid sleep. The visions gave way to senselessness. I awoke the next day with my head singularly clear. To my great surprise, I was in my own room. My companions, no doubt, had been reinstated in their cabin without having noticed it anymore than I had. Wondering if I was free to leave my room, I tried the door. It unlocked. I went through the fiery gangways to the central staircase. Up the stairs and ladder, the hatches were opened. I mounted the platform. Ned Drake and Milou were there, waiting for me. I questioned them, but they knew no more than I did. The Nautilus was as tranquil and mysterious as ever. The writhing metallic thrusts of her upper structure bobbed on the waves in silence. Even the Canadian’s keen eyes found the horizon deserted. A noisy breeze blew in from the west. After renewing its air, the Nautilus stayed at an average depth of 15 yards, from which she kept returning to the surface. This manoeuvre was contrary to custom. Each time, the chief officer would climb onto the platform and his usual phrase rang through the ship. There was no sign of Captain Nemo or the rest of the crew. Only my mute steward made an appearance around lunchtime with a plate of food. At 14:00, I was in the library arranging my notes, when the door opened and Captain Nemo entered. I bowed to him and he responded with an almost imperceptible movement and no word of greeting. I resumed shuffling my papers in the hopes that, by not prying, he might be predisposed to give me an explanation of the night before. He did nothing of the sort. I looked up and noted that he seemed greatly fatigued. Every aspect of his features exuded a profound sadness, as if he were in mourning. He walked to and 169

fro, sat down and then got up again, sometimes taking a random book from the shelves and then replacing it. Finally, after a period of fiddling with his instruments, he said: “Are you a physician, Professor Jeanneret?” This was a question I so little expected that I stared at him a good while, without answering. “Are you a physician?” he repeated. “Many of your scientific colleagues also took their degrees in medicine, like Gratiolet and Moquin-Tandon.” “You’re correct,” I said. “I am a doctor and used to be on call at the hospitals. I practised for several years before entering the museum.” “Very well, sir.” This was evidently a satisfactory answer. But he paused before questioning me further. “Professor Jeanneret, would you consent to give your attentions to one of my men?” “Is he ill?” “Yes.” “Then I‘m ready to follow you.” “Come, then.” I don’t know why, but my heart started to pound. I suspected a connection between the events of the previous night and the state of the sick man. Captain Nemo took me to the poop of the Nautilus and into a cabin near the sailors’ quarters. There, on the bed, lay a man of about 40 years of age, with strongly melded, Anglo-Saxon features. I bent over him. Not only was he ill, but also badly wounded. His head was swathed in blood-soaked bandages. I undid these carefully, while he stared resolutely ahead. He gave no sign of the pain this must have caused him. It was a horrible wound. His cranium had been smashed open by some blunt instrument, leaving part of his brain exposed. The cerebral matter had suffered deep abrasions. Blood clots had formed in the dissolved mass, taking on the colour of wine dregs. Both contusion and concussion of the brain had occurred. The patient’s breathing was laboured and muscle spasms made his face quiver. Cerebral inflammation was complete and had brought on a paralysis of movement and sensation. I took the wounded man’s pulse. It was intermittent. His body’s extremities were already growing cold and I saw that death was inevitable. I dressed the unfortunate man’s wounds, readjusted the bandages on his head and turned to Captain Nemo. “What caused this wound?” I asked. “What is your opinion of his state?” was the reply. I hesitated before giving it. “You may speak,” said Captain Nemo. “This man doesn’t understand French.” I gave a long look at the wounded man. “He’ll be dead in 2 hours.” “Can nothing save him?” “Nothing.” Captain Nemo clenched his fists and tears glistened in his eyes, 170

when I had thought him incapable of weeping. I watched the dying man for some moments. His life was ebbing away, little by little. Under the electric light that bathed his deathbed, he grew pale. I looked at his intelligent forehead, furrowed with premature wrinkles, caused by some great sorrow. I wanted to learn the secret of his life by straining to hear his last words. But Captain Nemo dismissed me. I left the unhappy cabin and returned to my room, much affected by the scene. The day was haunted by gruesome forebodings and I slept badly that night. Between my broken dreams, I thought I could hear moaning, like the notes of a funeral dirge.

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24. The Coral Kingdom The next morning I went onto the bridge to find Captain Nemo already there. He looked as strained as the day before. As soon as the Captain saw me, he came over to brusquely propose another underwater excursion, effective immediately. No mention of the dying man was made. I accepted the invitation and went to find Ned Drake and Milou. They were in their cabin. Milou was eager to accept the proposition of another excursion and, to my great surprise, so was the Canadian. It was then 08:00 in the morning. Half an hour later, we were in the armoury, suited up and equipped with our breathing and lighting devices. The double door was opened and, accompanied by Captain Nemo and 12 of his crew, we set foot on the firm seafloor. We were at a depth of about 30 feet. The Nautilus rested on a gentle slope whose uneven bottom I estimated to be 15 fathoms in depth. This underwater environment was entirely different to the one we had visited on the previous excursion under the waters of the Pacific Ocean. Here, there was no fine sand, submarine prairies or sea forest. We were now in the coral kingdom. In the zoophyte branch, class Alcyonaria, one finds the order Gorgonaria, which contains 3 groups: sea fans, isidian polyps, and coral polyps. Precious coral belongs in this last category, an unusual substance that, at different times, has been classified in the mineral, vegetable, and animal kingdoms. Medicine to the ancients, jewellery to the moderns, it was only placed in the animal kingdom in 1694, by Peysonnel of Marseilles. A coral is a unit of tiny animals assembled over a brittle and stony polypary. These polyps have a unique generating mechanism that reproduces them via the budding process. Each has an individual existence, while also participating in a communal life, embodying a kind of natural socialism. I was familiar with the latest research on this bizarre zoophyte, which, some naturalists have observed, turns to stone while taking on the form of a tree. I felt honoured to visit these fascinating petrified forests. We turned on our Ruhmkorff devices and went along a coral shoal that was still in the process of forming. Given a great deal of time, it will someday close off this section of the Indian Ocean. After walking for about 2 hours, we had attained a depth of about 300 yards. That is to say, we had reached the extreme limit at which coral can begin to form. It was an immense forest of huge, mineral vegetation, enormous petrified trees linked by elegant garlands of hydra, from the genus Plumularia. These tropical creepers of the sea were decked out in shades and gleams. We passed freely under these lofty boughs, lost up in the shadows of the waves while at our feet were organ-pipe coral, stony coral, star coral and fungus coral. 174

Sea anemone from the genus Caryophylia formed a carpet of flowers all strewn with dazzling gems. The sight was so remarkable that I began to resent not being able to share my sense of wonder with my companions. The glass and metal of our helmets became a prison. I envied the fish that populated this liquid element. Then, after giving it some thought, I decided I would rather be an amphibian, able to spend long hours either at sea or on shore, according to its whims. Captain Nemo had stopped. We also halted and, turning round, I saw that the crewmen were forming a semi-circle around their leader. It was only at this point that I noticed 4 of them were carrying an oblong-shaped object on their shoulders. We were occupying the centre of a vast clearing, surrounded by the lofty tree forms of the underwater forest. Our lamps cast a radiant twilight over the area, creating elongated shadows on the seafloor. Past the boundaries of the clearing, the darkness deepened, relieved only by little sparks of light reflected by the sharp points of coral. Ned Drake and Milou stood near me as we watched a strange scene unfold. Examining the seafloor, I saw that it swelled at certain places from low bulges encrusted with limestone deposits. They were arranged with a regularity that betrayed the hand of man. On a pedestal of roughly piled rocks, in the middle of the clearing, was a coral cross, with long extended arms. The colour was so intense it could have been made from petrified blood. At a signal from Captain Nemo, one of the men advanced. At some feet from the cross, he detached a mattock from his belt and began to dig. There was now no mistaking that we were in a cemetery. Captain Nemo and his men had come to bury their companion in the inaccessible ocean floor. The grave was dug slowly. Fish fled on all sides as their retreat was disturbed. I heard the pick ringing on the limestone floor, while its iron tip gave off sparks when it hit upon a stray flint. The hole grew longer and wider until it was deep enough to receive the body. The pallbearers came forward. Wrapped in a tissue of white linen, made from mussel fan filaments, the body was taken from its box and lowered into the grave. I briefly had time to notice that the box itself was ornamented with the Nautilusâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s signature, swirling curvature. There was evidently time devoted on board to the decoration of coffins. Captain Nemo, arms crossed on his breast, knelt in a posture of prayer, alongside the deceasedâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s comrades. My companions and I bowed reverently. The grave was then filled in with rubble from the seafloor. It formed a low mound. When it was over, Captain Nemo and his men rose and went closer to the grave. They all knelt sank again and, bending on one knee, each extended their hands in a gesture of farewell. Then the funeral procession returned to the Nautilus, in a steady ascent. We passed under the forest arches, through the midst of the thickets and along the coral bushes till the rays of the shipâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s lantern heralded her presence. By 13:00, we were back on board. As soon as I had changed my clothes, I went up to the platform. 175

In the grip of conflicting emotions, I sat down near the binnacle. After some time, Captain Nemo joined me. I rose and said: “So, the man died last night as I said he would?” “Yes, Professor Jeanneret.” “And now he rests with his companions in that coral cemetery.” “Yes, forgotten by the world, but not by us. We dig the graves and then entrust the polyps with the job of sealing away our dead for eternity.” He buried his face in his hands and tried to suppress a sob. Then he added: “Our peaceful cemetery lies hundreds of feet below the surface of the waves.” “Your dead sleep quietly at least, Captain.” “Yes, sir. Undisturbed by sharks or men.”

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PART II

177

1.The Indian Ocean The coral cemetery left a profound impression on my mind. That moving scene made me aware that Captain Nemo would live out his life in the heart of this immense sea. His grave lay ready for him in one of its deepest abysses. Not one of the ocean’s or the land’s monsters could trouble the last sleep of the crew of the Nautilus, bound together in death as in life. Regarding our Captain, I could no longer be content with Milou’s theory. The worthy lad insisted on seeing the Nautilus’s commander as one of those underappreciated scientists who return mankind’s indifference with contempt. For Milou, Captain Nemo was merely a misunderstood genius who had grown tired of the world’s deceptions and took refuge in the waters where he could follow his instincts freely. To my mind, this hypothesis explained only one aspect of the Captain’s complex character. The mystery of the afternoon we had been put to sleep led me down a different path. I could not forget the violence with which he had snatched the spyglass from my eyes and the mortal wound delivered to the crew member due to some unaccountable collision. Captain Nemo was not content to shun humanity. I was now convinced that, while his formidable submersible catered to his need for freedom, it was also used for some form of terrible revenge. At that moment, nothing was clear to me, but I was beginning to catch a glimmering of our situation amidst those dark waters. However, nothing bound us to Captain Nemo. He was convinced escape from the Nautilus was impossible and we had not even had to give our word of honour that we would not try to escape. My companions and I were captives masquerading under the name of “guests” for courtesy’s sake alone. Ned Drake certainly never gave up on his hope of recovering his freedom. No doubt, he would take the first opportunity for escape that came about and I would join him. And yet, I would feel some remorse at making off with the Nautilus’s secrets, which Captain Nemo had been so generous in revealing. Was he the persecuted or the persecutor? The man’s personality was riddled with contradictions and I was unsure if I should admire or detest him. In all honesty, I wanted to finish the underwater tour of the world we were on before I quitted his company forever. We had seen what no man had yet seen and my curiosity was insatiable to see more of the wonders gathered under the seas, even if I had to pay for it with my life. I was, nevertheless, well aware that we were getting closer to populated shores. If a chance of salvation arose, it would be sheer cruelty to sacrifice my companions to my passion for scientific discoveries. I would have to go with them. The human being in me craved this eventuality, but the scientist dreaded it. On that day, 21st January 1868, the second officer came to take the 178

altitude of the sun at noon. I mounted the platform, lit a cigar and watched the operation. Several times, I made loud remarks and comments in French, which he certainly would have responded to had he understood the language, but the man remained mute. As he was making observations with his sextant, the strong man, who had accompanied us on our first underwater excursion on foot, came to clean the serpentine curves of the ship’s lantern. I then had the opportunity to examine the fittings of that mechanism and noted that its strength had been increased a hundredfold by biconvex lenses, designed like those of a lighthouse. Its illuminating power was produced in a vacuum, which ensured both its steadiness and its intensity. The vacuum also reduced wear on the graphite points that the luminous arc expanded from. This must have been an important point of economy for Captain Nemo, who could not replace them easily. While appreciating the workings of the apparatus, I decided I found its appearance too startling to please the eye. Its twisting forms were too dramatic and forceful, suggestive of a thrusting, powerful force. Although organic in feel, its structural supports had an angular tension, as if it were a bony extension of the submersible’s shell that encased its large, pointed eye. The overall effect was unsettling for me and I could not help but associate it with some alien ship of war. When the Nautilus was ready to continue its submarine journey, I went down to the saloon. The hatches were closed and our course was marked for due west. We were ploughing the waters of the Indian Ocean, a vast liquid plain, with a surface of 550,000,000 hectares. Its waters are so transparent that one can get dizzy leaning over them. The Nautilus floated between 50 and 100 yards deep for some days. To anyone without a great love of the sea, the hours would have seemed long and monotonous. But my daily walks on the platform, when I steeped myself in the ocean air, the rich sights through the drawing room windows and the compiling of my memoirs all took up my time. There were also the books in the library, many of which were previously unknown to me. At that point in our journey, I became particularly engrossed in the work of Eugène Viollet-le-Duc who promoted a return to the simplicity of medieval craftsmanship. All things considered, we enjoyed an excellent state of health. I could easily have gone without Ned Drake’s efforts to vary our diet. With a regulated temperature, I had not suffered a single cold. Even if I had, the ship had a good stock of the madrepore Dendrophylia, known in Provence by the name of “sea fennel”. Also, a poultice made from the dissolved flesh of polyps makes an excellent cough medicine. From 21st to 23rd January, the Nautilus went at the rate of 250 leagues per 24 hours. We were able to observe huge numbers of different kinds of fish as they were attracted to the electric light and tried to follow us. However, no matter how hard they tried, most of them were soon left behind. On the morning of 24th Januray, we observed Keeling Island. This 179

once-uninhabited piece of land had been a site of great dispute in the 1820s, when the wealthy Englishman Alexander Hare, former governor of a colony in Borneo, settled there, along with a harem of 40 Malay women. Once they had established themselves, a Scottish merchant seamen named Clunies-Ross arrived with his family, also with an aim to make it his home. He began an attack on Hare for ownership of the island. After prolonged hostilities, during which time most of the harem women ran off with Clunies-Ross’s sailors, Hare became disheartened, and fled. The Scot was known for minting his own currency on the island, which he then used as wages for his workers. The currency could only be redeemed at Clunies-Ross’s company shop. This madreporic atoll was home to magnificent specimens of coconut trees, which have been remarked upon by Mr Darwin and Captain Fitzroy when they had visited. The Nautilus skirted the shores of this desert island. The nets brought up numerous specimens of polyps and echinoderms, plus some unusual Mollusca shells. Captain Nemo’s fine walnut cabinets were enriched by some valuable exhibits from the delphinula snail species. I also added some pointed star coral, a kind of parasitic polypary that often attaches itself to seashells. Soon, Keeling Island disappeared on the horizon and our course was directed in a north-west direction, towards the Indian Peninsula. “Civilization!” Ned Drake exclaimed on that day. “Much better than those Papuan Islands where there were more savages than venison. On the Indian shore there are roads and railways, English and French villages amongst the Hindus. We wouldn’t go 5 miles without bumping into a fellow countryman. Come on now, isn’t it time for our sudden departure from Captain Nemo?” I was forced to dissuade the poor fellow once again. I reasoned that the Nautilus was going back towards Europe and it would be far more prudent to act once we were in our home waters. I refused to argue the point with him any further. Deep down, I was determined to exploit our time on board the Nautilus as fully as I could. On 26th January, the ocean was entirely deserted. The Nautilus passed the day on the surface, beating the waves with her powerful screw and making them rebound at a great height. Under such circumstances, I had no doubt that all who saw it would mistake it for a cetacean. I spent the better part of the day on the platform, watching the sea. There was nothing on the horizon until, at about 16:00, a steamer ran west across our counter. Her masts were only visible for an instant. She could not see the Nautilus as she was too close to the water. I would guess that the steamboat belonged to the Oriental Company line, which runs from Ceylon to Sydney, touching at King George’s Sound and Melbourne. At 17:15 in the evening, just before that fleeting twilight that defines the transformation from day to night in tropical zones, Milou and I were astonished by an extraordinary spectacle. It was a shoal of argonauts travelling along the surface of the ocean. This delightful animal, according to the ancients, is a sign of good luck. 180

Aristotle, Athenaeus, Pliny and Oppian studied its habits and lavished it with all the scientific poetry of Greece and Italy. They called it “nautilus” and “pompilius”. But modern science has not endorsed these designations. This mollusc is now known by the name “argonaut”. Anyone in the vicinity of Milou would soon learn that the branch Mollusca is divided into 5 classes; that the first class features the Cephalopoda (whose members are sometimes naked, sometimes covered with a shell), which consists of 2 families, the Dibranchiata and the Tetrabranchiata, which are distinguished by their number of gills; that the family Dibranchiata includes 3 genera, the argonaut, the squid, and the cuttlefish, and that the family Tetrabranchiata contains only one genus, the Nautilus. After this catalogue, if some recalcitrant listener confuses the argonaut, which is acetabuliferous (in other words, a bearer of suction tubes), with the Nautilus, which is tentaculiferous (a bearer of tentacles), it will be simply unforgivable. It was a school of argonauts belonging to the species covered with protuberances and exclusive to the Indian seas that accompanied us. We could count several hundred of them. These graceful molluscs swam backwards by means of a locomotive tube, through which they sucked up water and then propelled themselves by expelling it. Of their 8 tentacles, 6 were elongated and stretched out, floating on the water. The other 2 were rounded into palms and spread to the wing to serve as a light sail. I could see their undulating, spiral-shaped shells, which Cuvier justly compares to a graceful cockleboat. It really is a boat, which bears the creature that secretes it, without adhering to it. “The argonaut is free to leave its shell,” I told Milou, “but it never does.” “Not unlike Captain Nemo,” Milou replied sagely. “He should have christened his ship the Argonaut.” The Nautilus floated for almost an hour in the midst of this shoal of molluscs. Then, for no discernible reason, they suddenly took flight. At some hidden signal, every sail was abruptly lowered. Arms were folded, bodies contracted, shells overturned, and the whole fleet disappeared under the waves. Never had a ship’s squadron manoeuvred with more unity. Night then fell. The waves barely surged in the breeze and spread placidly around the curvilinear forms of the Nautilus. The next day, 27th January, we cut the equator at the 82nd meridian and entered the northern hemisphere. A formidable troop of sharks provided us with an escort throughout the day. The terrible creatures teem in these seas, rendering them extremely dangerous. There were Cestracio philippi sharks, with brown backs and whitish bellies, armed with no less than 11 rows of teeth; bigeye sharks whose throats were marked with a large black spot surrounded with white that resembled an eye; and also Isabella sharks, with rounded speckled snouts. These powerful creatures often hurled themselves at the saloon windows with a violence that was less than comforting. At such times, Ned Drake was no longer master 181

of himself. He wanted to go to the surface and harpoon the monsters, particularly the smooth-hound sharks, whose mouths are studded with teeth like a mosaic and some large tiger sharks, nearly 6 feet long, that insisted on provoking him personally. But the Nautilus soon picked up speed and easily left all the man-eaters behind. By 28th January, we had reached the entrance of the vast Bay of Bengal. Here we repeatedly met with the gruesome spectacle of human corpses floating on the water. They were the dead of Indian villages that had not been fully devoured by vultures and carried by the Ganges to the surface of the waves. The sharks finished off what the birds were unable to do. At about 19:00, the Nautilus was sailing, half immersed in a sea of milky white waves. As far as the eye could see, the ocean seemed lactified. The new moon was barely 2 days old at the time and the entire sky seemed pitch black in comparison to the whiteness of the waters. Milou could not believe his eyes and questioned me as to the cause of this strange phenomenon. I explained that the milk sea, common to the coasts of Amboyna and our current location was caused by myriads of infusoria, a sort of luminous little worm, gelatinous and without colour. Its thickness is about that of a single hair and its length is not more than 7 thousandths of an inch. I told him how these insects adhere to one another, sometimes for up to several leagues. The worthy ladâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eyes grew wide when I informed him that ships have been said to float on these milk seas for up to 40 miles. To stop his brain from imploding, I begged him to desist from trying to compute the number of fusoria in 40 square miles. I am not sure if he heeded me, as he remained deep in thought for a lengthy period of time. The Nautilusâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s spur sliced through the whitish waves as we glided silently through the soapy water. I was reminded of those foaming eddies that a bayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s currents and counter-currents sometimes leave between each other. It was towards midnight that the sea returned to its usual colour. But behind us, the sky reflected the whitened waves all the way to the horizon line and, for a long time, seemed imbued with the hazy glimmerings of an aurora borealis.

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2. A New Proposition It was 29th January and the Nautilus had come to the surface in latitude 9° 4’ north. There was land about 8 miles to the west. The first thing I noticed was a cluster of mountains about 2,000 feet high with a whimsical shape. After our position fix, I went to the saloon and consulted the chart. I saw that we were near the island of Ceylon, the pearl that dangles from the lower lobe of the Indian Peninsula. I went to the library for a book about this island, one of the world’s most fertile. Sure enough, I found a volume entitled Ceylon and the Singhalese by H.C. Sirr, Esq. It told me that the island’s length is 275 miles; its maximum width, 150 miles; its circumference, 900 miles; its surface area, 24,448 square miles, in other words, a little smaller than that of Ireland. When I returned to the drawing room, I found Captain Nemo and his second there. The Captain glanced at his map and then turned to me and said: “The Island of Ceylon is known for its pearl fisheries. Would you like to visit one of them, Professor Jeanneret?” “Certainly, Captain.” “Well, that is easily done. But we will be seeing the fisheries, not the fishermen. The annual harvest hasn’t begun yet. I shall give orders to make for the Gulf of Mannar. We’ll arrive late in the night.” The Captain said something to his second who then left the room. I looked for the Gulf of Mannar on the chart and found it off the north-western shores of Ceylon. It was formed by the long curve of little Mannar Island. We would have to go all the way up Ceylon’s west coast to reach it. “Professor,” Captain Nemo then told me, “there are pearl fisheries in the Bay of Bengal, the seas of the East Indies, the seas of China and Japan, plus those seas south of the United States, the Gulf of Panama and the Gulf of California. But it’s off Ceylon that such fishing reaps its richest rewards. No doubt, we’ll be arriving a little early. Fishermen gather in the Gulf of Mannar only during the month of March and, for 30 days, some 300 boats concentrate on the lucrative harvest of these treasures from the sea. In each boat are 10 oarsmen and 10 fishermen. The latter divide into 2 groups, dive in rotation, and descend to a depth of 12 yards with the help of a heavy stone clutched between their feet and attached by a rope to their boat.” “Do you mean to tell me that such primitive methods are still all that they use?” I said, aghast. “All,” was Captain Nemo’s answer. “Never mind the fact that these fisheries belong to the most industrialized people in the world, the English. The whole island was granted to them in the Treaty of 183

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perfectly acceptable, but tempting fate in shark-infested waters was another story altogether. I knew that, in certain countries like the Andaman Islands, the negros never hesitate to attack sharks, with a dagger in one hand and a running noose in the other. But I also knew that few who affront these creatures ever return alive. Besides, I am not a negro. I was beginning to resent the offhand manner in which the Captain had extended his deplorable invitation. He had left me envisioning huge jaws armed with multiple rows of teeth, capable of cutting a man in half. I could already feel a definite pain around my pelvic girdle, where they are wont to aim for. I tried to concentrate on Sirr’s book, but I kept seeing fearsome jaws between the lines. At some point in my state of agitation, Milou and the Canadian entered, quite calm and even cheerful. Ned Drake was animated at the thought of a hunting excursion and Milou was very taken with the gentlemanly manner in which the Captain had invited them to join. “He didn’t tell you anything else?” “Nothing, sir,” the Canadian replied. “Except that you’d already discussed this little stroll.” “Indeed,” I said. “But didn’t he give you any more details?” “Not a one, Mr. Naturalist. You are going on this venture, aren’t you?” “Me? Why yes, certainly, of course. I can see that you like the sound of it, Mr Drake.” “Why, yes. It will be a really unusual experience.” “And possibly dangerous?” I asked in an insinuating tone. “How could a simple trip to an oyster bank be dangerous?” said the harpooner. Clearly, Captain Nemo had not seen fit to plant the idea of sharks in the minds of my companions. I stared at them with anxious eyes, as if they were already missing a limb or 2. Milou asked me to give some background on pearl fishing. As he was uninterested in the occupational hazards for the fishermen, I concentrated on everything I had just learned from the Englishman H.C. Sirr. First, I had to explain what a pearl actually was: “To the poet, a pearl is the tear of the sea. For the Orientals, it is a drop of solid dew. The ladies see it is a jewel they can wear on their fingers, necks and ears. As to the artisan, you can see right here, on the very couches on which we are sitting, how a small amount of this precious product of the ocean has been included in the inlaid pattern, making the whole object one of luxury. A chemist, however, views the pearl as a mixture of calcium phosphate and calcium carbonate, with a little gelatine protein mixed in. Lastly, it is the naturalist who knows it to be a festering secretion from the organ that produces mother-of-pearl amongst bivalves.” “Branch Mollusca, class Acephala, order Testacea,” interjected Milou. “Precisely so, Milou. And amongst these pearl-producing Testacea include rainbow, abalone, turbo snails, giant clams and saltwater scallops. In short, all those that secrete mother-of-pearl, the bluish,violet or white substance that lines the interior of valves.” 187

“Mussels too?” asked the Canadian. “Mussels of certain waters,” I explained. “Those in Scotland, Wales, Ireland, Saxony, Bohemia and France.” “Good. In the future I shall pay closer attention to them,” said the Canadian. “But,” I continued, “the ideal mollusc for secreting pearls is the pearl oyster, Meleagrina margaritifera. Pearls are the result of mother-ofpearl solidifying into a globular form. They either adhere to the oyster’s shell or become embedded in the creature’s folds. On the valves, it is held fast, but it is loose when on the inside. Its kernel is always a small, hard object, maybe a barren egg or a grain of sand around which the pearly matter deposits itself year after year, in thin concentric layers. One oyster can house several pearls. There is a tale concerning a particular oyster containing 150 sharks, but I doubt the story myself.” “Sharks?” “Did I say ‘sharks’? I meant to say pearls,” I said, hurriedly. “Sharks would not make sense.” Milou inquired as to how pearls are extracted. I explained that, when the pearls are on the outside of the shell, the fishermen often pull them off with pincers. But the most common method is to lay the oysters on the mats of seaweed that cover the beaches. The animal dies in the open air. By the end of 10 days, they are in an advanced stage of decomposition and are plunged into large tanks of seawater. They can be opened and washed after this. At this point, the sorters begin their twofold task. First, they remove the layers of mother-of-pearl, known as “legitimate silver”, “bastard white” or “bastard black” in the industry. These are then shipped out in cases weighing up to 330 pounds. The oyster’s meaty tissue is then removed, boiled and strained, so that even the smallest of pearls can be extracted. I went on to tell my companions how the value of the found pearls is established according to their size; as well as their shape; “water”, the term used for their colour; and their “orient”, which is their dappled and glimmering lustre that makes them so pleasing to the eye. “But it must be a long, hard job, sorting out these pearls by size,” the Canadian said. “No, my friend,” I replied. That task is performed by 11 strainers, or sieves, that are pierced with different sizes of holes.” “How ingenious,” Milou said, “to reduce dividing and classifying pearls to a mechanical operation. And could master tell us the profits brought in by harvesting these banks of pearl oysters?” “According to Sirr’s book,” I replied, “these Ceylon fisheries are farmed annually for a total profit of 3 million man-eaters.” “Does Master mean ‘francs’?” asked Milou. “Yes, of course, francs: 3 million Francs.” I went on. “But I don’t think these fisheries bring in the returns they once did. Similarly, the Central American fisheries used to make an annual profit of 4 million Francs during the reign of King Charles V, but now they bring in only 66% of that amount. All in all, it’s estimated that 9 million Francs is 188

the current yearly return for the whole pearl-harvesting industry.” “But, haven’t certain famous pearls been quoted at extremely high prices?” Milou said. “Yes, my boy. They say Julius Caesar gave Servilia a pearl worth 120 thousand Francs.” “I’m sure I’ve heard stories about some lady in ancient times who drank pearls in vinegar,” put in Ned Drake. “Cleopatra,” said Milou. “It can’t have tasted very good,” was the Canadian’s response. “Abominable, Ned my friend,” Milou replied. “But when a little glass of vinegar is worth 1,5 million Francs, its taste is a small price to pay.” “Well, I’m sorry I didn’t marry the girl,” the Canadian said, gesturing despairingly with his hands. “Ned Drake married to Cleopatra?” Milou said, raising his eyebrows. “But I was all set to tie the knot, Milou,” the Canadian replied in all seriousness. “And it wasn’t my fault the whole business fell through. I even bought a pearl necklace for my fiancée, Jane Gail. But she went and married somebody else instead. Well, that necklace cost me only $1.50, but you can absolutely trust me on this, Professor, its pearls were so big, they wouldn’t have gone through that strainer with the largest holes.” “My gallant Ned,” I replied, laughing. “Those were artificial pearls, ordinary glass beads whose insides were coated with Essence of Orient.” “Wow.” the Canadian replied. “That Essence of Orient must sell for quite a large sum.” “As little as zero. It comes from the scales of a European carp and is nothing more than a silver substance that collects in the water, preserved in ammonia. It’s worthless.” “Perhaps that’s why Jane Gail married somebody else,” said Mr Drake, philosophically. “But,” I said, “getting back to pearls of great value, I don’t think any sovereign ever possessed one superior to the pearl owned by Captain Nemo.” “That one?” Milou said, pointing to a magnificent jewel in a glass case mounted in sinuously carved wood and gilded with a Rococo flourish of bronze leaves. “Exactly. And I’m certainly not far off when I estimate its value at 2 million … ” “Francs,” Milou said quickly. “Yes,” I said, “2 million Francs. And, no doubt, all it cost our Captain was the effort of picking it up.” “Ha!” Ned Drake exclaimed. “During our stroll tomorrow, who says we won’t run into one just like it?” “What good would a pearl worth millions do us here on the Nautilus?” “Here, no,” Ned Drake said. “But elsewhere . . .” In fact, Ned Drake was quite right. If we ever managed to bring a pearl worth millions to Europe or America, it would make the 189

story of our adventures more authentic and far more rewarding. Milou then asked if pearl fishing was ever dangerous. “Not at all,” I answered quickly, my voice quavering slightly, “so long as certain precautions are taken.” “What are the risks involved in such an excursion,” said Ned Drake, “apart from swallowing mouthfuls of seawater?” I attempted to adopt Captain Nemo’s careless tone, saying: “As you say, Master Ned, some mouthfuls of seawater. By the way, you’re not, by any chance, afraid of sharks, are you?” “Me?” exclaimed Ned Drake. “I‘m a harpooner by trade. It‘s my job to make a mockery of them.” “However,” I said, “this is not a case of fishing for them with an swivel hook and hoisting them on board to be chopped up, their hearts thrown back in the sea.” “Then it is a issue of …” “Precisely.” “In the water?” “In the water.” “Ye gods, Sir. Just give me a good harpoon. You know, sharks are badly designed beasts. They have to turn on their bellies in order to snap you up, so you have time … “ Ned Drake had a way of saying “snap” that made my blood run cold. “Well, what about you, Milou? How do you feel about sharks?” “I think I must be frank with Master.” So much the better, I thought. “If Master means to face the sharks, I don’t see why his faithful servant should not do the same.”

190

3. A Pearl in 10 Millions Night fell and I went to bed. My dreams were filled with maneaters and I slept poorly. It occurred to me that the French word for shark, “requin”, has its linguistic roots in the word “requiem”. I was awakened by the steward at 04:00. I rose hurriedly, dressed and went into the saloon. Captain Nemo was waiting for me. “Mr Jeanneret, are you ready to start?” he said. “I am ready.” “Then, please follow me.” “And my companions, Captain?” “They are prepared and waiting.” “Are we not to put on our diver’s dress?” “Not yet. I have allowed the Nautilus to come too near the coast and we’re quite far from the Mannar oyster bank. The skiff will take us to the exact point of disembarking, which will save us a long trek. It carries our diving apparatus, which we can put on when we begin our underwater exploration.” Captain Nemo conducted me to the central staircase and up to the platform. Milou and Ned Drake were already there, seemingly still delighted about the pleasure trip that was in store. Five sailors from the Nautilus waited in the boat, which was moored alongside. The night was still dark. Layers of clouds cloaked the sky, allowing only a few stars to be seen. I looked to where the land lay and saw nothing but a blurred line enclosing most of the horizon, from southwest to northwest. The Nautilus was now west of the gulf formed by the mainland and the Mannar Island. Under the dark waters stretched a bank of shellfish, the inexhaustible field of pearls whose length is more than 20 miles long. Captain Nemo, Ned Drake, Milou and I took our places in the stern of the longboat. Her coxswain went to the tiller and his 4 companions leaned on their oars. The moorings were cast off and we pulled clear. The boat headed south. The oarsmen did not hurry. I noticed that they waited 10 seconds between each stroke, as in the method adopted in most navies. Whilst the craft coasted, drops of liquid flicked from the oars and splattered the waves like splashes of molten lead. A mild swell made the skiff roll gently and a few cresting billows lapped at her bow. We were silent. I was not entirely convinced that we would ever see the wondrous Nautilus again. What Captain Nemo was thinking about was anyone’s guess. His outward manner told me nothing. That he would value the lives of his men over ours in a shark attack, I had no doubt. I wondered how he felt about having the land so near to his person. The Canadian, without question, considered it to be too far away. At about 05:30, the first glimmers on the horizon revealed the 191

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upper line of the coast more distinctly. It was quite flat in the east and rose a little to the south. Five miles still separated it from us and the misty waters merged with its shoreline. The sea was deserted with not a boat or diver in sight. Profound silence reigned. As Captain Nemo had said, we had come to these waterways a month too soon. Daylight came suddenly at 05:55, without a real dawn. The solar rays pierced the curtain of clouds piled up on the eastern horizon and the radiant orb rose swiftly. I saw the land clearly and could even make out a few trees scattered here and there. The boat neared Mannar Island, which was rounded to the south. Captain Nemo rose from his seat and watched the sea. At his signal, the anchor was dropped. But the chain barely ran as the water was little more than a yard deep. This was one of the shallowest spots near the bank of shellfish. “Here we are, Mr Jeanneret,“ said Captain Nemo. “You see that enclosed bay? In a month’s time it will be filled with numerous export fishing boats and their divers will ransack these waters. Happily, the bay is well suited to that kind of fishing. It’s sheltered from the strongest winds and the sea is never rough. We will now put on our dresses and begin our stroll.” I did not answer and, with the help of the sailors, began to put on my heavy aquatic clothes. Captain Nemo and my companions also dressed. It became evident that none of the Nautilus men were to accompany us on this new expedition. We were soon enveloped up to the neck in India rubber, with air supplies fixed to our backs by braces. I enquired as to the absence of the Ruhmkorff apparatus and the Captain explained that the waters were shallow enough to be sufficiently lit by solar rays. He was also loath to attract any undue attention from the nearby land through the use of electric light. Ned Drake and Milou were already ensconced in their headgear and could not hear us. One last question remained to be asked: “Where are our weapons? Our rifles?” “Rifles? What for? Don’t your mountaineers attack bears with daggers in hand? Is not steel surer than lead? Here is a sturdy blade. Put it in your belt and let’s start.” My companions were armed in the same way. Moreover, Ned Drake was now brandishing an enormous harpoon that he must have stowed in the skiff before leaving. Following the Captain’s example, I allowed myself be crowned by the heavy copper sphere. The reservoir of air went into action immediately. The sailors helped us overboard one after the other and we set foot on level sand in less than 2 yards of water. Captain Nemo made a sign and we followed him down a gentle slope till we disappeared under the waves. Once beneath the waves, I became surprisingly calm and my fear left me. The ease with which I could move increased my confidence and there were many sights to captivate the imagination. The sun gave sufficient light underwater and the tiniest objects remained visible. After 10 minutes of walking, we were in 16 feet of water. The terrain had become almost flat. 194

As the sun got progressively higher, it increasingly lit up the watery mass. The seafloor changed little by little. Its fine-grained sand was followed by a causeway of smooth crags covered by a carpet of molluscs and zoophytes. It was at about 07:00 that we found ourselves surveying the oyster banks on which pearl oysters reproduce by the millions. These valuable molluscs stick to rocks, to which they are attached by a mass of brown filaments. Oysters are unable to move and are inferior even to mussels in this respect. The shellfish Meleagrina, that womb for pearls whose valves are nearly equal in size, has the shape of a round shell with thick walls and a very rough exterior. Some of these valves were furrowed with flaky, greenish bands that radiated down from the top. These were the young oysters. The others had rugged black surfaces, measured up to 6 inches in width, and were 10 years old or more. Captain Nemo pointed to an enormous heap of oysters and I could well understand that the mine was inexhaustible. Nature’s creative power is far beyond man’s instinct for destruction. Ned Drake, ever faithful to his instincts, quickly filled a net with some of the finest specimens. But there was no time to tarry. We had to follow Captain Nemo, who seemed to have his own private paths. The ground was rising and, sometimes, when I held my arm up, it was above the water surface. Then the level of the floor depth would also lower, unpredictably. We often rounded high rocks scarped into pyramids. In their dark crevices, huge crustaceans aimed their long legs like heavy artillery and watched us with fixed eyes. Underfoot crept millipedes, bloodworms, aricia and annelid worms, whose tubular tentacles were incredibly long. A large grotto opened before us, hollowed from a picturesque heap of rocks whose smooth heights were coated with hanging underwater flora. At first, the cave seemed very dark to me. Inside, the sun’s rays seemed to diminish by degrees. Their hazy transparency was nothing more than drowned light. Captain Nemo entered and we followed. My eyes soon grew accustomed to the comparative gloom. I could distinguish unpredictably contoured springing of a rocky vault, supported by natural pillars firmly based on a granite foundation. It reminded me of the heavy columns of Tuscan architecture. After descending a rather steep slope, our feet trod the bottom of a circular pit. Here, Captain Nemo stopped and pointed to a large object. It was an oyster of extraordinary dimensions: a colossal giant clam, a holy water font that could have held a whole pool, with a basin of more than 2 yards wide, even larger than the one on board the Nautilus. I approached the phenomenal mollusc and saw that it adhered to a table of granite. Thus isolated in the calm waters, it had grown steadily over time. I estimated the weight of this giant clam to be nearly 700 pounds. Such an oyster must contain about 30 pounds of meat and one would need King Gargantua’s stomach to eat a couple dozen. Captain Nemo was evidently familiar with the bivalve and seemed 195

to be checking on its state. The giant clam’s 2 valves were partly open. The Captain placed his dagger between them, vertically, to keep them in place and reached his hand inside. We watched him raise the fringed, membrane-filled tunic that made up the creature’s mantle. There, between the leaf-like folds, I saw a loose pearl the size of a coconut. Its globular shape, perfect clarity and admirable orient made it a jewel of inestimable value. Carried away by my curiosity, I reached out my hand to touch it, but the Captain quickly stopped me. He then withdrew his dagger and the 2 shells closed. I understood his intentions. He was leaving the pearl hidden beneath the clam’s mantle to grow even larger. With each passing year, the mollusc’s secretions would add more concentric layers. The captain alone was familiar with the cave where this wonderful fruit of nature was “ripening” and one day he would transfer it to his dearly beloved museum. Perhaps, following the examples of oyster farmers in China and India, he had even predetermined the creation of this pearl by sticking some piece of glass or metal under the mollusc’s folds to be gradually covered with mother-of-pearl. In any case, comparing this pearl to others I already knew about, and to those shimmering in the captain’s collection, I estimated that it was worth at least 10 million Francs. It was a superb natural curiosity rather than a luxurious piece of jewellery, because I don’t know of any female ear or throat that could possibly handle it. Our visit to the giant clam came to an end. Captain Nemo left the cave, and we climbed back up the bank of shellfish. As we continued on our journey, the shallows drew noticeably closer to the water’s surface. Soon, we were in only 3 feet of water and my head was well above ocean level. Milou rejoined me and, gluing his copper helmet to mine, communicated a friendly greeting with his eyes. But the lofty plateau did not last long and we were soon back underwater. After about 10 minutes, the Commander stopped us again. I thought it was time to turn around and return to the Nautilus, but he gestured that we should crouch beside him at the foot of a wide crevice. His hand pointed to a spot in the liquid mass, which I watched attentively. Five yards away, a shadow appeared and sank to the ground. The disquieting thought of sharks shot through my mind again. Happily, I was mistaken. It was not a monster of the deep, but a living man; a black Indian fisherman. The poor devil had no doubt come to glean what he could before the harvest. I could make out the bottom of his canoe moored some feet above his head. He was diving and going up to the surface repeatedly. He held a stone, cut in the shape of a sugar loaf, between his feet. Attached to a rope made fast to the boat, this helped him to descend more rapidly. A bag for his finds completed the list of his apparatus. On reaching the sea floor, about 5 yards deep, he went on his knees to scoop up oysters at random, placing them in the bag. Then he went up, emptied the bag, pulled up his stone and started again. Each operation lasted about 30 seconds. The diver did not see us. A shadow cast by the rocky crag hid us 196

from view. Even if he had, the Indian would not be able to conceive of that fact that there were men of his own species crouching nearby and watching his every movement. He went up and down again, about several times. I noticed that he did not collect more than 10 shellfish with each plunge, as he was obliged to tear them from the banks to which they clung with a tough mass of filaments. I knew that a good deal of the oysters he was risking his life for had no pearls inside them. I observed him carefully. His movements were systematic and, for about half an hour, he worked steadily. I was getting accustomed to watching this novel method of fishing, when the Indian suddenly made a gesture of terror. He gathered himself as if to return to the surface of the water. The reason for his dread was soon evident. A gigantic shadow had appeared just above the unfortunate diver. It was a shark of enormous size, advancing diagonally, his eyes ablaze and jaws open. I was mute with horror and unable to move. The scene that followed lasted seconds, but seemed infinitely longer. In essence, the poor fisherman was knocked unconscious by the shark’s tail and Captain Nemo bravely went to the man’s rescue. When things seemed to going badly for the Captain, Ned Drake joined the fray. Clouds of blood saturated the water and blocked our view. I was aware that the shark’s struggles agitated the water with such violence that its eddies threatened to overturn me. When the beast was finally given its death blow, Ned Drake managed to pull the Captain clear. He was uninjured. Captain Nemo regained himself and went straight to the Indian to cut the cord holding him to the stone. He took the fellow in his arms and carried him to the surface. The 3 of us followed and, a few moments later, were safe on the fisherman’s boat. The Captain took great pains to try to resuscitate the unfortunate man. I was doubtful of his success. While the poor creature’s immersion had not been long, the blow from the shark’s tail could have been lethal. Fortunately, through the efforts of both the Captain and Milou, I saw the Indian regain consciousness, bit by bit. He opened his eyes. His surprise and fear at seeing our great copper heads bending over him was evident. What he must have thought when Captain Nemo proceeded to draw a bag of pearls from the pocket of his diving suit and place it in his hands was impossible to say. The munificent gift from the Man of the Seas to a poor Cingalese was accepted with a trembling hand. His bewildered eyes made it clear that he did not know what to make of the superhuman beings he now owed both his life and his fortune. At a sign from the Captain, we left the Indian and returned to the bank of shellfish. Retracing our steps, we walked for 30 minutes before encountering the anchor of the Nautilus’s skiff. Once on board, the waiting sailors helped us remove the heavy copper carapaces. Captain Nemo’s first words were for the Canadian: 197

“Thank you, Mr Drake,” he said. “Tit for tat, Captain,” replied the Canadian. “I owed it to you.” The ghost of a smile glided across the Captain’s lips and no more was said on the subject. “To the Nautilus!” he commanded. The boat flew over the waves. After some minutes, we came across the shark’s corpse, floating on the surface. I could now discern from the black markings on the tips of its fins that it was a terrible Squalus melanopterus, well known in these seas. The floating body was more than 25 feet long. Its enormous mouth occupied more than one-third of its bulk. It was clearly an adult, as could be deduced from the 6 rows of teeth forming an isosceles triangle in its upper jaw. Milou looked at it with purely scientific interest. I am sure he correctly placed it in the class of cartilaginous fish, order Chondropterygia with fixed gills, family Selacia, genus Squalus. Whilst I was contemplating this inert mass, a dozen of these voracious melanoptera appeared around our boat. Paying no attention to us, they threw themselves on the dead body and quarrelled over every scrap of it. By 08:30, we were back on board the Nautilus. I was then able to reflect on the incidents that had so recently taken place. Two impressions inevitably stood out. The first concerned Captain Nemo’s unparalleled bravery and the second his unprecedented devotion to a fellow human being, a representative of that race from which he had fled beneath the seas. In spite of everything, this strange man had not yet succeeded in completely hardening his heart. When I made this observation to him, he answered in a tone that came very close to being touched with emotion: “That Indian lives in an oppressed country and, until my last breath, I too will be a native of that same land; any country that is oppressed.”

198

4. The Red Sea In the course of the day of 30th January, the Island of Ceylon disappeared under the horizon. At a speed of 20 miles per hour, the Nautilus slid into the labyrinth of canals that separate the Maldives and Laccadive Islands. Our vessel hugged the Island of Kiltan. This coral island was discovered by Vasco da Gama in 1499. The Portuguese tried to take control of it in the 17th century to exploit its coir supply, but did not succeed. By then, we had fared 7,500 leagues from our starting point in the Japanese Seas. When the Nautilus rose to the surface of the ocean the next day, there was no more land in sight. Setting its course to the northnorthwest, the ship headed toward the Gulf of Oman, carved out between Arabia and the Indian Peninsula and providing access to the Persian Gulf. This was obviously a blind alley, with no possible outlet. I was unable to say where Captain Nemo was taking us. Of course, this did not satisfy the Canadian who demanded to know where we were going. “We’re going, Mr Drake, where the Captain’s fancy takes us.” “His fancy won’t take us very far. The Persian Gulf has no outlet and if we enter those waters, it won’t be long before we return in our tracks,” said the Canadian. “All right, then we’ll return. After the Persian Gulf, if the Nautilus wants to visit the Red Sea, the Strait of Bab el Mandeb will still be there to let us in.” “I don’t have to tell you, Professor, that the Red Sea is just as landlocked as the gulf, since the Isthmus of Suez hasn’t been cut all the way through yet. And even if it were, a boat as secretive as ours wouldn’t risk a canal intersected with locks. So the Red Sea won’t be our way back to Europe either.” “But I didn’t say we’d return to Europe.” “What do you figure, then?” “I figure that, after visiting these unusual waterways of Arabia and Egypt, the Nautilus will go back down to the Indian Ocean, perhaps through Mozambique Channel, perhaps off the Mascarene Islands, and then make for the Cape of Good Hope.” “And once we’re at the Cape of Good Hope?” the Canadian persisted, with his trademark obstinacy. “Well, then, we’ll enter that Atlantic Ocean with which we aren’t yet familiar. What’s wrong, Ned, my friend? Are you tired of this voyage under the seas? Bored with these underwater wonders? Speaking for myself, I’ll be extremely distressed to see the end of a voyage so few men will ever have a chance to make.” “But, Professor Jeanneret, don’t you realize that soon we’ll have been imprisoned for 3 whole months aboard this pock-marked Nautilus? I am tired of spending each day staring at its deranged metal tapeworms. Ye gods, I haven’t been given a drop of drink in this 199

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festering coffin, yet the walls and even the floor beneath our feet reel and bend around me as if I had drunk a bottle! All these preposterous windy bits and curly ends are enough to make even a hardened old sailor … “ “No, Ned,” I interrupted, coolly. “I’m afraid I don’t keep track of every day and every hour. And, what’s more, I find this vessel an absolute pleasure to behold. These forms around us that you find so repulsive echo Nature’s bounty, in which we are, quite literally, immersed. Captain Nemo’s submersible simply embraces the magic of plant and animal life. These extended curves embedded in the walls and furniture aren’t just squiggly lines plumped on top of a standard framework. Rather, each line has been carefully placed to emphasize the overall structure of the object, or the ship itself. Every line follows a principle, or a set of rules, if you like. For myself, this ornamentation is a symbol of the Nautilus, embodying both her debt to nature and the scientific progress that enables her to move forward. I believe that modern vessels and, later, our cities’ buildings will start to follow a similar style, for hundreds of years to come. As soon as our engineers and architects catch up to Captain Nemo’s discoveries, that is.” “Be all that as it may, Professor — and for myself, I can’t see how anybody who doesn’t have Captain Nemo’s millions could ever afford to commission any more ridiculous, slithering wastage of good materials — I want to know when our little journey will be over?” “At the appointed time, Ned. Meanwhile, there’s nothing we can do about it. Our discussions are futile.” He was belligerently silent. “My gallant friend, if you come and tell me that there is a chance to escape, then I’ll happily go over the possibilities with you. But that isn’t the case now,” was my final word. “That’s all fine and dandy, then. But, in my humble opinion, a life in jail is a life without joy. No matter how many eels decorate cage.” At the time, I resolved never to try and speak about the nuances of art with the harpooner again. He did not have the capacity to understand anything more than what was practical. On reading this short dialogue now, it reveals to me that, in my mania for the Nautilus, I was turning into the doppelganger of its commander. For 4 days, the Nautilus investigated the Gulf of Oman at various speeds and depths. It seemed to be travelling randomly, without a clear path but we never passed the Tropic of Cancer. After leaving that sea, we caught a momentary glimpse of Muscat, one of the most important cities in Oman. I admired its strange appearance, surrounded by black rocks on which white houses and forts stood in relief. I saw the rounded domes of mosques, the elegant tips of minarets and its leafy terraces. But it was a fleeting vision. The Nautilus soon sank under the waves. We passed along the Arabian coast of Mahrah and Hadramaut, their undulating lines of mountains relieved by ancient ruins. On 5th February, we finally reached the Gulf of Aden, a perfect funnel stuck into the neck of Bab el Mandeb, which served to bottle 202

the Indian waters in the Red Sea. On 6th February, the Nautilus floated in sight of Aden, where some believe Cane and Abel are buried. Perched on a promontory, which a narrow isthmus joins to the mainland, is an impregnable version of Gibraltar. The British rebuilt these fortifications after taking possession of the place in 1839. I caught a glimpse of the octagon minarets of this town that the Arab historian Idrisi describes as having once been the richest and busiest commercial centres on the coast. I had assumed that, at this point, Captain Nemo would back out again. But to my great surprise he did no such thing. We entered the Straits of Bab-el-mandeb the next day. In Arabic, the name means, “The Gate of Tears”. The Nautilus cleared it’s 32 mile length in barely an hour. As we were going at full steam, I saw nothing. Not even the Island of Perim, where the British built fortifications to strengthen Aden’s position. There were many English and French steamers ploughing this narrow passageway. Liners were going from Suez to Bombay, Calcutta, Melbourne, Réunion Island and Mauritius. There was far too much traffic for the Nautilus to make an appearance on the surface, so she prudently remained below. It was noon when we finally found ourselves in the waters of the Red Sea. This great lake, so famous in biblical traditions, is seldom replenished by rains, fed by no important rivers and is continually drained by a high rate of evaporation. Its water level drops 1.6 yards every year. If it were fully landlocked, like a lake, this unusual gulf would probably dry up altogether. On this score, it is inferior to its neighbours, the Caspian Sea and the Dead Sea. Their levels are lower, only to the point where their evaporation exactly equals the amounts of water they take to their hearts. This Red Sea is 1,600 miles long, with an average width of 150 miles. In the days of the Ptolemies and the Roman emperors, it was one of the world’s greatest commercial arteries. When its isthmus has been cut through, it should completely regain that bygone importance that the Suez railways have already brought back, in part. I did not even try to understand the Captain’s most recent caprice, leading him to enter the gulf. But I was, nevertheless, quite pleased he had done so. The Nautilus slowed her speed, sometimes keeping to the surface, at others diving to avoid a vessel. I was thus able to observe the upper and lower parts of this curious sea. Mocha came in sight at dawn on 8th February. This ruined town, whose walls could fall at the sound of a canon, still shelters a few leafy date trees, here and there. It was once an important trading city visited by that famed explorer of the Arab world, Marco Polo. The Nautilus then approached the African shore, where the depth of the sea was greater. There, through the opened panels, we were able to contemplate exquisite bushes of coral and huge chunks of rock, coated with a splendid fur of green algae and fuci. There was a vast array of scenery along the sandbanks and volcanic islands of the Libyan coast. It was on the Eastern coast that these tree forms appeared in their full glory. On the coast of Tehama, this species 203

of zoophyte not only flourished underwater, but also formed picturesque networks that unfurled about 60 feet above the surface. The latter were more fanciful, but with less colour than the former, which kept their bloom thanks to the vitality of the waters. I passed many a charming hour at the window of the saloon, admiring fantastic new specimens of submarine fauna and flora under the electric light. I called Milou to my side. When we were at an average depth of 26 to 29 feet, the Nautilus slowly skimmed every beautiful rock on the easterly coast. Sponges grew there in every possible shape: Globular, stalk-like, leaf-like and finger-like. With reasonable accuracy, they lived up to their nicknames of basket sponges, chalice sponges, distaff sponges, elkhorn sponges, lion’s paws, peacock’s tails, and Neptune’s gloves — designations bestowed on them by fishermen more poetically inclined than scientists. A gelatinous, semi-fluid substance coated the fibrous tissue of these sponges. From this tissue escaped a steady trickle of water that, after carrying sustenance to each cell, was being expelled by a contracting movement. The viscous matter disappears when the polyp dies, emitting ammonia as it rots. In the end, all that remains are the fibres, either gelatinous or made of horn, that constitute your household sponge, which takes on a russet colour and is used for various tasks, depending on its degree of elasticity, permeability, or resistance to saturation. These polyparies could now be seen sticking to rocks, shells of molluscs, and even the stalks of water plants. They clung to the smallest crevices, some sprawling, others standing or hanging like coral outgrowths. I explained to Milou that sponges are fished up in 2 ways, either by dragnet or by hand. The latter method calls for the services of a diver, but it’s preferable because it spares the polypary’s tissue, leaving it with a much higher market value. Other zoophytes swarming near the sponges consisted chiefly of a very elegant species of jellyfish. There were also a wide variety of squid, to represent the mollusc family. Reptiles were represented by virgata turtles, belonging to the genus Chelonia, which also furnished our table with a dainty but wholesome dish. On 9th February, the Nautilus floated in the broadest part of the Red Sea. This is found between Souakin, on the west coast, and Komfidah, on the east coast, with a diameter of 90 miles. That day, at noon, after the bearings were taken, Captain Nemo mounted the platform, where I happened to be. I was determined not to let him elude me without at least trying to get some information out of him regarding his plans. As soon as he saw me, he approached and graciously offered me a cigar. “Well, sir, does the Red Sea please you? Have you observed its wonders? Fish, zoophytes, gardens of sponges and forests of coral? Have you caught sight of the towns perched on its shores?” “Indeed, Captain Nemo,” I replied, “and the Nautilus is wonderfully suited to this whole survey. Ah, it’s a clever boat!” “Yes, sir, clever, daring, and invulnerable. She fears neither the Red Sea’s dreadful storms nor its currents and reefs.” 204

“Yes,” I said, “this sea is mentioned as one of the worst, and, in the days of the ancients, if I’m not mistaken, it had an abominable reputation.” “Thoroughly abominable, professor. The Greek and Latin historians can find nothing to say in its favour. The antique geographer Strabo adds that it’s especially dangerous during the rainy season. The Arab Idrisi, referring to it by the name Gulf of Colzoum, relates that ships perished in large numbers on its sandbanks and that no one risked navigating it by night. This, he claims, is a sea subject to fearful hurricanes, strewn with inhospitable islands, and with nothing good to offer, either on its surface or in its depths. Actually, the same views can also be found in Arrian, Agatharchides, and Artemidorus.” “Those historians didn’t navigate aboard the Nautilus,” I replied. “Exactly,” said the Captain, smiling. “In that respect, the moderns aren’t much more advanced than the ancients. It took many centuries to discover the mechanical power of steam. Who knows whether we’ll see a second Nautilus within the next 100 years? Progress is slow, Professor Jeanneret.” “It’s true,” I replied. “Your ship is a century ahead of its time, perhaps even several centuries. It would be most unfortunate if such a secret were to die with its inventor.” This was the wrong thing to say. Captain Nemo was silent for some minutes before resuming: “We were discussing,” he said, “the views of ancient historians as to the dangers of navigating this Red Sea?” “Yes, but weren’t their fears exaggerated?” I said. “Yes and no, Professor Jeanneret,” answered Captain Nemo, for whom the Red Sea seemed to be close to his heart. “To a modern ship, well rigged, solidly constructed and in control of her course, thanks to obedient steam, some conditions are no longer hazardous that, previously, offered all sorts of dangers to the vessels of the ancients. Picture those early navigators venturing forth in sailboats built from planks lashed together with palm-tree ropes, caulked with powdered resin and coated with dogfish grease. They didn’t even have instruments for taking their bearings and navigated by guesswork in the midst of currents they barely knew. Under such conditions, shipwrecks had to be numerous. But, nowadays, steamers providing service between Suez and the South Seas have nothing to fear from the fury of this gulf, despite the contrary winds of its monsoons. Their captains and passengers no longer prepare for departure with sacrifices to placate the gods and, after returning, they don’t traipse in wreaths and gold ribbons to say thanks at the local temple.” “Of course,” I said. “And steam seems to have killed off all gratitude in seamen’s hearts. But since you seem to have made a special study of this sea, captain, can you tell me how it got its name?” “Many explanations exist on the subject, Professor Jeanneret. Would you like to hear the views of one chronicler in the 14th century?” “Gladly.” 205

“This fanciful fellow claims the sea was given its name after the crossing of the Israelites, when the Pharaoh perished in those waves that came together again at Moses’ command: ‘To mark that miraculous sequel, the sea turned a red without equal. Thus no other course would do but to name it for its hue.’ ” “A poet’s explanation, Captain Nemo,” I replied, “but that’s not sufficient for me. What are your personal views?” “They are as follows: To my thinking, this ‘Red Sea’ designation must be regarded as a translation of the Hebrew word ‘Edrom’. If the ancients gave it that name, it was because of the unique colour of its waters.” “Until now, however, I’ve seen only clear waves, without any special hue.” “Surely, but, as we move ahead to the far end of this gulf, you’ll start noticing its odd appearance. I recall once seeing the bay of El Tur completely red, like a lake of blood.” “And you attribute this colour to the presence of microscopic algae?” “Yes. It’s a purplish, mucilaginous substance produced by those tiny buds known by the name trichodesmia, 40,000 of which are needed to occupy the space of 0.04 inches. Perhaps you’ll encounter them when we reach El Tur.” “So, Captain Nemo, this isn’t the first time you’ve gone through the Red Sea aboard the Nautilus?” “No, sir.” “Then, since you’ve already mentioned the crossing of the Israelites and the catastrophe that befell the Egyptians, I would ask if you’ve ever discovered any traces under the waters of that great historic event?” “No, professor, and for an excellent reason.” “What’s that?” “That same locality where Moses crossed with all his people is now so clogged with sand, camels can barely get their legs wet. You can understand that my Nautilus wouldn’t have enough water.” “And the spot . . . ?” I asked. “That locality lies a little above Suez in a sound that used to form a deep estuary when the Red Sea stretched as far as the Salt Lakes. Now, whether or not their crossing was literally miraculous or not, the Israelites did cross there in returning to the Promised Land and the Pharaoh’s army certainly perished at precisely that locality. I think that excavating those sands would bring to light a great many weapons and tools of Egyptian origin.” “Obviously,” I replied. “And for the sake of archaeology, let’s hope that sooner or later such excavations do take place, once new towns are settled on the isthmus after the Suez Canal has been cut through … although, the canal will be of little use to a ship like the the Nautilus.” 206

“Indeed, but of great use to the world at large,” Captain Nemo said. “The ancients well understood the usefulness to commerce of connecting the Red Sea with the Mediterranean. But they never dreamed of cutting a canal between the 2. Instead, they picked the Nile as their link. If we can trust tradition, it was probably Egypt’s King Sesostris who started digging the canal needed to join the Nile with the Red Sea. What’s certain is that, in 615 BC, King Necho II was hard at work on a canal that was fed by Nile water and ran through the Egyptian plains opposite Arabia. This canal could be travelled in 4 days. It was wide enough that 2 triple-tiered galleys could pass through it abreast. Darius the Great, son of Hystaspes, continued the construction that was probably completed by King Ptolemy II. Strabo saw it used for shipping but the weakness of its slope between its starting point, near Bubastis, and the Red Sea left it navigable only a few months of every year. This canal served commerce until the century of Rome’s Antonine emperors. It was then abandoned and covered with sand, subsequently reinstated by Arabia’s Caliph Omar I, and finally filled in for good in 761 or 762 AD by Caliph Al-Mansur, in an effort to prevent supplies from reaching Mohammed ibn Abdullah, who had rebelled against him. During his Egyptian campaign, your General Napoleon Bonaparte discovered traces of this old canal in the Suez desert, and when the tide caught him by surprise, he almost perished just a few hours before rejoining his regiment at Hadjaroth, the very place where Moses had pitched camp 3,300 years before him.” “Well, Captain, what the ancients hesitated to undertake, Mr de Lesseps is now about to conclude. His joining of these 2 seas will shorten the route from Cadiz to the East Indies by 5,592 miles. Africa will soon be an immense island.” “Yes, Professor Jeanneret, and you have every right to be proud of your fellow countryman. Such a man brings a nation more honour than the greatest commanders. Like so many others, he started out with disapproval and setbacks, but he triumphed nevertheless. And it’s sad to think that this deed, which should have been an international feat and would have ensured that the administration responsible would be lauded by history, will succeed only through the efforts of a private individual. So, all hail to Mr de Lesseps!” “Yes, all hail to that great French citizen,” I replied, quite startled by how emphatically Captain Nemo had just spoken. “Unfortunately,” he went on, “I can’t take you through that Suez Canal, but the day after tomorrow, when we’re in the Mediterranean, you’ll be able to see the long jetties of Port Said.” “The Mediterranean?” I exclaimed. “Yes, sir. Does that astonish you?” “What amazes me is that we’ll be there the day after tomorrow.” “Really?” “Very much, Captain. Although, since I’ve been aboard your vessel, I should have become more accustomed to not being amazed by anything by now.” “But what is it that so startles you?” “The thought of how hideously fast the Nautilus will need to go, 207

if it’s to double the Cape of Good Hope, circle around Africa, and lie in the open Mediterranean by the day after tomorrow.” “And what makes you think that we will circle Africa? What’s all this talk about doubling the Cape of Good Hope?” “Well, unless the Nautilus navigates on dry land and crosses over the isthmus … “ “Or under it, Professor Jeanneret.” “Under it?” “Certainly,” Captain Nemo replied, serenely. “Under that tongue of land, nature made what man today is making on its surface a long time ago.” “What! There’s a passageway?” “Yes, an underground passageway that I’ve named the Arabian Tunnel. It starts below Suez and leads to the Bay of Pelusium.” “But isn’t that isthmus composed of nothing but quicksand?” “To a certain depth, yes. But by 164 foot, there is a firm foundation of rock.” “Did you discover this passageway by chance or experiment?” I asked, with increasing wonder. “A mixture of both, Professor, probably with more logic than luck.” “Captain, I can’t believe my ears.” “Sir, the old saying aures habent et non audient still holds good. Not only does this passageway exist, but I’ve taken advantage of it on several occasions. If I didn’t intend to make use of it, I wouldn’t have ventured into the blind alley that is the Red Sea.” “Would it be indiscreet of me to ask how you discovered this tunnel?” “Sir,” the Captain answered, “there can be few secrets between men who will never leave each other.” I chose to ignore this disturbing innuendo and waited for Captain Nemo’s explanation. “Professor,” he told me, “the simple logic of the naturalist led me to discover this passageway and I alone am familiar with it. I’d noticed that, in the Red Sea and the Mediterranean, there exist a number of absolutely identical species of fish: Eels, butterfish, greenfish, bass, jewelfish and flying fish. Certain of this fact, I wondered if there weren’t a connection between the 2 seas. If there were, its underground current had to go from the Red Sea to the Mediterranean simply because of their difference in level. So I caught a large number of fish in the vicinity of Suez and slipped copper rings around their tails. They were then tossed them back into the sea. A few months later, off the coast of Syria, I recaptured a few specimens of my fish, adorned with their telltale rings. So this proved to me that some connection existed between the 2 seas. I searched for it with my Nautilus and located it. I tested that the passage was navigable and soon, professor, you will experience my Arabian Tunnel for yourself ”

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5. The Arabian Tunnel On that day, I reported to Milou and Ned Drake that part of my conversation with Captain Nemo which concerned them. When I told them we would be in Mediterranean waters within 2 days, Milou clapped his hands. The Canadian shrugged his shoulders. “An underwater tunnel?” he exclaimed. “A connection between 2 seas? I never heard of such malarkey!” “Ned, my friend,” Milou replied, “would you have believed in the Nautilus if you had heard of it? Of course not, yet here we are. So don’t shrug your shoulders so blithely and don’t discount something with the feeble excuse that you’ve never heard of it.” “We’ll soon see,” Ned Drake responded, shaking his head. “After all, I’d like nothing better than to believe in your captain’s little passageway. May Heaven grant that it really does take us to the Mediterranean.” That same evening, in latitude 21˚ 30’ north, the Nautilus floated on the surface of the sea, approaching the Arabian Coast. I saw Jidda, the most important financial centre of Egypt, Syria, Turkey and India. The Portuguese Lopo Soares de Albergaria, who successfully captured Ceylon in 1518 was unable to take this city when he attempted it in 1517. I could clearly see its buildings, the ships anchored in its quays and those bigger vessels that have to drop anchor at the port’s offshore mooring. The sun, which was rather low on the horizon, struck the houses of the town in full force, accentuating their whiteness. Cabins made of wood and reeds demarcated the Bedouin quarter on the outskirts. Soon, Jidda faded into the evening shadows and the Nautilus sank beneath the slightly phosphorescent water. The next day, 10th February, we sighted several ships running on our opposite tack. The Nautilus returned to underwater navigation, but, at noon, the sea was deserted again and she rose to the waterline. Joined by Ned and Milou, I went to sit on the platform. The coast to the east was a blurred mass in a damp fog. We were leaning against the sides of the skiff and chatting of one thing and another, when Ned Drake stretched his hand toward a point in the water, saying to me: “See anything out there, Professor?” “No, Ned,” I replied, “but you know I don’t have your eyes.” “Take a good look,” Ned went on. “There, ahead to starboard, almost level with the beacon … don’t you see a mass that seems to be moving around?” “Right,” I said after observing carefully. “I can make out something like a long, blackish object on the surface of the water.” “A second Nautilus?” Milou said. “No,” said the Canadian, “unless I’m badly mistaken, that’s some marine animal.” 209

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“Are there whales in the Red Sea?” Milou asked. “Yes, my boy,” I replied. “They’re sometimes found here.” “That’s no whale,” continued Ned Drake, whose eyes never strayed from the object they had sighted. “We’re old chums, whales and I, and I couldn’t mistake their little mannerisms.” “Let’s wait and see,” Milou said. “The Nautilus is heading that direction, and we’ll soon know what we’re in for.” And soon enough, the blackish object was not more than a mile away from us. It looked like a great sandbank stranded in the open sea. I still couldn’t make up my mind what it was. “Oh, it’s moving off ! It’s diving!” Ned Drake exclaimed. “Damnation! What can that animal be? It doesn’t have a forked tail like baleen whales or sperm whales, and its fins look like sawedoff limbs.” “But in that case … ” I put in. “Good lord,” the Canadian went on, “it’s rolled over on its back, and it’s raising its breasts in the air!” “It’s a siren!” Milou exclaimed. “With all due respect to master, what if it’s an actual mermaid?” The word “siren” put me back on track. I realized that the animal belonged to the order Sirenia: Marine creatures that legends have turned into mermaids, half woman and half fish. “No,” I told Milou, “that’s no mermaid. It’s an unusual creature of which only a few specimens are left in the Red Sea. That’s a dugong.” “Order Sirenia, group Pisciforma, subclass Monodelphia, class Mammalia, branch Vertebrata,” Milou replied. And once Milou has spoken, there’s nothing else to be said. Ned Drake kept staring. His eyes gleamed with desire at the sight of that animal and his fingers curled around an imaginary harpoon. He gave every impression of waiting for the right moment to jump overboard and attack the creature. “Oh, Sir,” he told me in a voice trembling with excitement, “I’ve never killed anything like that before.” Just then, Captain Nemo appeared on the platform. He spotted the dugong and understood the Canadian’s feelings. He addressed him directly: “If you held a harpoon, Mr. Drake, would your hands be itching to put it to work?” “Absolutely, Sir.” “Would it displease you to return to your fisherman’s trade for a day and add this cetacean to the list of those you’ve already hunted down?” “It wouldn’t displease me one bit.” “All right, you can try your luck!” “Thank you, Sir,” Ned Drake replied, his eyes ablaze. “Only,” the Captain went on, “I urge you to aim carefully at this animal, in your own personal interest.” “Is the dugong dangerous to attack?” I asked, despite the Canadian’s shrug of the shoulders. “Yes, sometimes,” said the Captain. “They can turn on their 212

assailants and capsize their boats. But this danger is hardly to be feared with Mr Drake. His eye is sharp and his arm sure. If I recommend that he aim carefully at this dugong, it’s only because the animal is justly regarded as fine game, and I know he doesn’t despise a choice morsel.” “Aha!” the Canadian put in. “This beast offers the added luxury of being good to eat?” “Yes, Mr Drake. Its flesh is red meat and highly prized. Throughout Malaysia, it is set aside for the tables of aristocrats. Accordingly, this excellent animal has been hunted so bloodthirstily that, like its manatee relatives, it’s becoming increasingly more scarce.” “In that case, Captain,” Milou said in all seriousness, “wouldn’t it be advisable to spare its life, in the interests of science?” “Maybe,” the Canadian answered, “it would be better to hunt it down, in the interests of mealtime.” “Then proceed, Mr Drake,” Captain Nemo replied. “Happy Hunting!” And proceed we did. Seven crew members arrived with a harpoon to launch the skiff and man her oars. We set forth after our tasty prize without delay. The animal gave a marvellous hunt, despite being wounded and bleeding early in the chase. We chased it unflaggingly for a full hour, and I’d begun to think it would prove too difficult to capture, when the animal got the untimely idea of taking revenge on us, a notion it would soon have cause to regret. It wheeled on the skiff, to assault us. Arriving within 20 feet of the skiff, the dugong stopped, sharply sniffing the air with its huge nostrils, pierced not at the tip of its muzzle but on its topside. Then it gathered itself and sprang at us. Half overturned, it shipped a ton or 2 of water that we had to bail out. But thanks to our skillful coxswain, we were fouled on the bias rather than broadside, so we didn’t capsize. Clinging to the stempost, Ned Drake thrust his harpoon again and again into the gigantic animal, which imbedded its teeth in our gunwale and lifted the longboat out of the water as a lion would lift a deer. We were thrown on top of each other, and I have no idea how the venture would have ended had not the Canadian, still thirsting for the beast’s blood, finally pierced it to the heart. I heard its teeth grind on sheet iron, and the dugong disappeared, taking our harpoon along with it. But the harpoon’s barrel soon popped up on the surface, and a few moments later the animal’s body appeared and rolled over on its back. Our skiff rejoined it, took the beast in tow, and headed to the Nautilus. It required pulleys of great strength to hoist Ned Drake’s prize onto the platform. The monster weighed 11 thousand pounds. It was carved up in sight of the Canadian, who remained to watch every detail of the operation. At dinner the same day, my steward served me some slices of this flesh, skilfully dressed by the ship’s cook. I found it excellent, even better than veal. The next day, the Nautilus’s larder was further enriched by more delicate game. A flight of terms alighted on the Nautilus. It was a 213

species of the Sterna Nilotica, peculiar to Egypt. Its beak is black, with a grey head and stippled eyes surrounded by white dots. It has a greyish tail and belly, with a white throat and red feet. By then, the Nautilus had reduced speed. It moved ahead at a saunter, so to speak. I observed that the Red Sea’s water was becoming less salty the closer we got to Suez. At 17:10 in the afternoon, we sighted Cape Ras Mohammed to the north. This cape forms the tip of Arabia Petraea, which lies between the Gulf of Suez and the Gulf of Aqaba. It will be an important strategic position for trade once the Suez Canal is in place and therefore the Ottomans had best keep a strong military presence there to keep the British from taking control. The Nautilus entered the Strait of Jubal, which leads to the Gulf of Suez. I could clearly make out a high mountain crowning Ras Mohammed between the 2 gulfs. It was Mount Horeb, that biblical summit known as Mount Sinai, where Moses met God face to face. The mind’s eye always pictures it as wreathed in lightning. At 18:00, sometimes floating and sometimes submerged, the Nautilus passed well out from El Tur, which sat at the far end of a bay. Its waters seemed to be dyed red, as Captain Nemo had already pointed out it would be. Then night fell in the midst of a heavy silence, occasionally broken by the calls of pelicans and nocturnal birds and surf chafing against rocks, or by the distant moan of a steamer churning the waves of the gulf with noisy paddles. From 20:00 to 21:00, the Nautilus remained a few feet beneath the waters. According to my calculations, we had to be quite close to Suez. Through the panels in the saloon, I spotted rocky bottoms brightly lit by our electric rays. It seemed to me that the strait was getting narrower and narrower. At 21:15, the vessel had returned to the surface. I climbed onto the platform, impatient to pass through Captain Nemo’s tunnel. I could not sit still, so went to breathe the fresh night air. In the shadows, I spotted a pale signal light glimmering a mile away, half discoloured by mist. “A floating lighthouse,” said someone next to me. I turned and saw the Captain. “That’s the floating signal light of Suez,” he said. “It won’t be long before we reach the entrance to the tunnel.” “It can’t be very easy to enter it.” “No, sir. As a result, I prefer to stay in the pilothouse and direct the manoeuvres myself. And now, if you’ll kindly go below, Professor Jeanneret, the Nautilus is about to sink beneath the waves. It will only return to the surface after we’ve cleared the Arabian Tunnel.” I followed Captain Nemo. The hatch closed, the ballast tanks filled with water and the submarine sank some 32 feet down. Just as I was about to repair to my stateroom, the captain stopped me. “Professor,” he said to me, “would you like to go with me to the wheelhouse?” “I was afraid to ask,” I replied. “Come along, then. This way, you’ll learn the full story about 214

navigating both underwater and underground.” Captain Nemo led me to the central stairway. Halfway up the staircase, he opened a rounded door. This was surrounded by a particularly riotous mass of sea anemone-like metallic growths that plunged into elongated, swirling tentacles to encompass an asymmetrical doorframe. We went along the upper gangways, which were similarly decorated. Every join and line was accentuated by writhing and sinuous support. I was impressed anew at the abilities of Captain Nemo’s craftsmen to make metal look vegetal. We arrived at the wheelhouse at one end of the platform. A muscular crew member, who must have been steering, made way for us inside the space. It was a cabin measuring 6 feet square and resembled those occupied by the helmsmen of steamboats on the Mississippi or Hudson rivers in its layout, if not in its decor. The cabin’s rounded walls were crowned by a cap of biconvex glass about 16 feet in diameter that extended out of the Nautilus’s hull. When the helmsman stood on an elevated platform directly underneath, his head became encased in the cap and he was able to see in every direction outside of the ship. An upright wheel geared to rudder cables running to the Nautilus’s stern was placed in front of the helmsman, so that he could steer with ease while looking out. Four perfect circles of deadlights, set in slightly hooded, concave plates that leaned in opposite directions to each other, were set into the walls for maximum visibility. Looking around that curved space, I couldn’t see any hard lines. From the subtle ivory inlay on the wheel itself, to the tilted edges of the arms of the steersman’s chair, all seemed sculpted and touchable with smooth transitions. When I stood on the platform to see through the glass, I was aware of the giant iron fronds that, from the outside, gave the appearance of holding the glass pod in place. As rounded metal pincers held the outside lights in place, so too was this format echoed in the architecture of the cabin in miniature form around the platform and wheel. The Captain assumed the helmsman’s position, saying: “Now let’s find our passageway.” Electric wires linked the pilothouse with the engine room so that the Captain could simultaneously signal heading and speed to his Nautilus from this vantage point as well as from his room. He pressed a metal button and, immediately, the propeller slowed down. I stared in silence at the high, sheer wall we were skirting just then. This was the firm base of the sandy mountains found along the coast. We went on in this fashion for about an hour, staying only a few feet away from the mass of rock. Captain Nemo often referred to the 2 concentric circles of the compass hanging behind the wheel. Peering upwards through the glass, I was able to spot magnificent coral substructures, zoophytes, algae and crustaceans with enormous quivering claws that stretched forth from crevices in the rock. 215

At a 22:15, a dark wide gallery opened ahead of us and the Nautilus was brazenly swallowed up. I could hear strange rumblings along our sides. It was the water of the Red Sea being hurled toward the Mediterranean by the tunnel’s slope. Our engines tried to offer resistance by churning the waves with the propeller in reverse, but the Nautilus went with the torrent, as swift as an arrow. Along the narrow walls of this passageway, I saw only brilliant streaks, hard lines, fiery furrows, all scrawled by our speeding electric light. I tried to curb the pounding of my heart by placing my hand over it. At exactly 22:35, Captain Nemo left the steering wheel and turned to me: “The Mediterranean,” he said, with quiet triumph. The Nautilus had just cleared the Isthmus of Suez in less than 20 minutes, thanks to the torrent.

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6. The Grecian Archipelago At the dawn of the next day, 12th February, the Nautilus rose to the surface. I hastened onto the platform. The hazy outline of Pelusiun could be seen about 3 miles to the south. Ned Drake and Milou joined me just after 7:00. “Well, Mr Naturalist,” the Canadian said in a jovial tone, “and how about that Mediterranean?” “We’re floating on it, Ned, my friend. We cleared that insuperable isthmus in a matter of minutes.” “I don’t believe a word of it,” the Canadian replied. “Then you’re in the wrong, Mr Drake,” I said. “That flat coastline curving southward is the coast of Egypt.” “Tell that to the marines, Sir,” answered the stubborn Canadian. “But if Master says so, then it is true,” said Milou. “What’s more,” I said, “Captain Nemo himself did the honours in his tunnel. I stood beside him in the pilothouse while he steered the Nautilus through that narrow passageway. Ned, you have such good eyes, I am sure you are able to spot the jetties of Port Said stretching out to sea.” The Canadian looked carefully. “Indeed,” he said. “You’re right, Professor, and your captain’s a superman. We’re in the Mediterranean. Fine. So now let’s have a chat about our little doings, if you please, but,” he glanced around furtively, “in such a way that nobody overhears.” It was obvious what the Canadian was driving at. In any event, I thought it best to let him have his chat. We went to sit next to the hooded cast iron lantern, where we were less exposed to the damp spray from the billows as much as from curious listeners. “Now, Ned, we’re all ears,” I said. “What do you want to tell us?” “What I’ve got to tell you is very simple,” the Canadian replied. “We’re in Europe and before Captain Nemo’s whims take us deep into the polar seas or back to Oceania, I say we should leave this cursedly ugly ship.” I must confess that such discussions with the Canadian always baffled me. While I didn’t want to restrict my companions’ freedom in any way, for myself, I had no desire to leave Captain Nemo. Thanks to him and his submarine, I was coming nearer to getting to grips with my undersea research by the day. And I was rewriting my book on the great ocean depths in the midst of its very element. I strongly doubted I would ever have such an opportunity to observe the ocean’s wonders again. It was unthinkable for me to entertain the idea of leaving the Nautilus before completing my area of study. I tried to convince him that the journey would eventually come to an end. “Where and when?” he wanted to know. “I can’t say, Ned. Or, rather, I suppose it will be over when 217

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these seas have nothing more to teach us. Everything that begins in this world must inevitably come to an end.” “I think as Master does,” Milou replied, “and it’s extremely possible that, after crossing every sea on the globe, Captain Nemo will bid us a fond farewell.” “Bid us a fond farewell?” the Canadian exclaimed. “You mean beat us to a fare-thee-well!” “Let’s not exaggerate, Mr Drake,” I went on. “While I do believe we’ve nothing to fear from the Captain, I don’t share Milou’s views. We’re privy to the Nautilus’s secrets. As a result, I don’t expect that the Commander will meekly stand by while we spread those secrets all over the world.” “But, in that case, what do you expect?” the Canadian asked. “That we’ll encounter an advantageous condition for escaping in about 6 months time just as readily as now.” “Great Scott!” Ned Drake put in. “And where, if you please, will we be in 6 months, Mr Naturalist?” “Perhaps here, perhaps in China. You know how quickly the Nautilus moves. It crosses oceans like swallows cross the air. She doesn’t fear heavily travelled seas, so she may well hug the coasts of France, England or America, where an escape attempt could be carried out just as effectively as here.” “Professor Jeanneret,” the Canadian replied, “your arguments are rotten to the core. You are talking about the far distant future and I’m talking about right now. We are here and we must take advantage of it.” I was hard pressed by Ned Drake’s common sense and felt myself losing ground. I no longer knew what arguments to put forward on behalf of my need to remain on board. “Sir,” Ned went on, “let’s suppose that, by some impossibility, Captain Nemo offered your freedom to you this very day. Would you accept?” “I don’t know,” I replied. “And suppose he adds that this offer he’s making you today won’t ever be repeated, then would you accept?” I did not reply. “And what thinks our friend Milou?” Ned Drake asked. “Your friend Milou has nothing whatsoever to say for himself,” the fine lad replied serenely. “He’s a completely disinterested party on this question. Like his master and his comrade Ned, he’s a bachelor. Neither wife, parents, nor children are waiting for him back home. He’s in Master’s employ and he thinks and speaks like Master. Much to his regret, however, he can’t be counted on to form a majority. Only 2 persons face each other here: Master on one side and Ned Drake on the other. That said, your friend Milou is listening, and he’s ready to keep score.” I couldn’t help smiling as Milou wiped himself out of existence. Deep down, the Canadian must have been overjoyed at not having to take him on as an opponent. “Then, Sir,” Ned Drake said, “since Milou is no more, we’ll have this discussion between just the 2 of us. I’ve talked and you’ve 220

listened. What’s your reply?” It was obvious that the matter had to be settled and evasions were distasteful to me. “Ned my friend, here it is: You have right on your side and my arguments can’t stand up to yours. It will never do to count on Captain Nemo’s benevolence as the most ordinary good sense forbids him to set us free. Good sense further decrees that we should take advantage of our first opportunity to leave the Nautilus.” “Fine, Professor Jeanneret, that’s wisely said.” “But one provision,” I said, “just one: The opportunity must be the real thing. Our first attempt to escape must succeed, because if it misfires, we won’t get a second chance. Captain Nemo will never forgive us.” “That’s also well put,” the Canadian replied. “But your provision applies to any escape attempt, whether it happens in 2 years or 2 days. So there is still the question of now. If a promising opportunity comes up in the next few days, do we grab it?” “We do. And now, Ned, will you tell me what you mean by a promising opportunity?” “One that leads the Nautilus on a cloudy night within a short distance of some European coast.” “And you’ll try to get away by swimming?” “Yes, if we’re close enough to shore and the ship’s afloat on the surface. No, if we’re well out and the ship’s navigating under the waters. In that case, I’ll try to get hold of the skiff. We’ll plant ourselves inside, undo the bolts and rise to the surface, without the helmsman in that warped bow seeing a thing.” “Fine, Ned. Stay on the lookout for such an opportunity, but don’t forget that a single slipup will cost us our lives.” “I won’t forget, Sir.” “And now, Ned, would you like to know my overall thinking on your plan?” “Gladly, Professor Jeanneret.” “Well then, I think — and I don’t mean ‘I hope’ — that your promising opportunity won’t arise soon.” “Why not?” “Because Captain Nemo can see that we haven’t given up all hope of recovering our freedom. He’ll keep on his guard, most of all in seas within sight of the coasts of Europe.” “I’m of Master’s opinion,” Milou chimed in. “We’ll soon see,” Ned Drake replied, shaking his head. “And so, Ned,” I said, “let’s leave it at that. Not another word about any of this. The day you’re ready, alert us and we’re with you. It’s in your hands now.” And so ended the conversation. Much to the Canadian’s distress, my predictions about the Nautilus’s course in European seas were well founded. Whether Captain Nemo distrusted us in these seas or simply wished to hide from the numerous vessels that frequented it, he stayed in mid-waters well away from any coasts. When the ship emerged to breathe, there was no land to be seen. Sometimes she went to extreme depths. Between the Greek 221

Islands and Asia Minor, we went more than a thousand fathoms down and still did not sight the ocean floor. I only knew we were near the Island of Carpathos, one of the Sporades, when Captain Nemo, in one of his rare sociable moods, placed his finger on a spot on the map and recited the following lines from Virgil: “Est Carpathio Neptuni gurgite vates, Caeruleus Proteus.” It was, indeed, the ancient abode of Proteus, the old shepherd of Neptune’s flocks. The Greeks called it “Karpathos” but today it is known as the Island of Scarpanto, an island located between Rhodes and Crete. Through the window of the saloon, I could see only its granite bedrock. The next day, 14th February, I decided to dedicate some time to studying the fishes of the Archipelago. But, for some reason or another, the panels remained sealed shut. After consulting our bearings, I saw that we were going towards Candia, the ancient Island of Crete. At the time when I embarked on the Thomas Jefferson, the island had been in revolt against the despotic rule of the Ottomans. I was completely ignorant as to how the rebels had fared since that time. I doubted that Captain Nemo, who had shut himself off from all communication with the land, could tell me. When I found myself alone with him in the drawing room that night, I made no allusion to the event. Besides, he seemed silent and pre-occupied. Contrary to the recent trend, he ordered both panels to be opened. Walking from one to the other, he examined the waters attentively. As I could make no guess as to what he was searching for, I contented myself with studying the different kinds of fish that were now visible. I couldn’t take my eyes off marine wonders, when I was surprised by an unexpected apparition. There, in the midst of the waters, was a man, a diver carrying a leather purse at his belt. He swam with a strong hand and disappearing at regular intervals to breathe at the surface. I turned to Captain Nemo and cried: “I think a man is shipwrecked! He must be saved!” The Captain did not answer me, but came and leaned against the panel. The diver approached and, with face flattened against the glass, stared in at us. To my deep astonishment, Captain Nemo signalled to him. The man answered immediately and made for the surface of the water. He did not return. “Don’t be alarmed,” said Captain Nemo. “It is Nicholas of Cape Matapan, nicknamed “Il Pesce”. He’s well known throughout the Cyclades as a bold diver. Water is his element more than land and he spends his time going continually from one island to another, even as far as Crete.” “You know him, Captain?” “Why wouldn’t I, Professor Jeanneret?” Having said this, Captain Nemo went to a piece of heavy but elegant furniture standing near the left of the saloon. I watched him open a large asymmetrical drawer, festooned with a delicate interlacing of wooden filigree and supported by sturdy legs, swollen 222

at the floor as if it were the natural curve of a tree trunk. It was filled with a great many gold ingots. The Captain ignored my presence. I wondered where this immense treasure, whose worth I was unable to guess, came from. Even more importantly, I wanted to know what he planned to do with it. I saw him remove a sturdy iron box from another compartment. Its cover displayed a brass version of the Nautilus’s insignia. I did not say one word; I simply gaped. Captain Nemo took the ingots out, one by one, and methodically arranged them in the strong box till it was filled to the brim. At this point, I could estimate that it held about 4,000 pounds’ worth of gold, worth about 2 million Francs. The chest was securely fastened and the captain wrote an address on the lid, in characters, which I assumed to be Modern Greek. This being done, he pressed a knob whose wiring signalled to the crew’s quarters. Four men soon appeared and, not without difficulty, pushed the chest out of the room. I listened to the sound of it being hoisted up the iron companionway by means of pulleys. Captain Nemo then turned to me: “You were saying, Professor?” “I wasn’t saying a thing, Captain.” “Then, Sir, with your permission, I’ll bid you good night.” And with that, Captain Nemo left the saloon. I returned to my room, greatly puzzled. I tried to sleep, but in vain. I wanted to work out the connection between the appearance of the diver and that chest of gold. At a certain point, I could tell from certain rolling and pitching movements, that the Nautilus was leaving the depths and returning to the water’s surface. Then I heard steps upon the platform and I could hear that the skiff was being launched. It struck the side of the Nautilus for an instant and then all sounds of activity ceased. About 2 hours later, the noises came back. This time, the boat was hoisted aboard, returned to its socket, and the Nautilus plunged beneath the waves. Those millions had been taken to their unknown address. At what location on the continent and to which recipient, I had no idea. The next day, I told Ned Drake and Milou about the night’s events, which had aroused my curiosity to fever pitch. They were as intrigued as I was. “But where does he take his millions to?” Ned Drake asked. To that, there was no possible answer. After having breakfast, I returned to the saloon and set to work. I was engrossed with arranging my notes till 17:00 that day. It was around that time that I became aware of being overheated. I wasn’t sure if it was some personal indisposition, but I was forced to remove my fan mussel jacket. It was odd as we were not in high latitudes and, even if this was the case, the Nautilus was submerged and should not have been affected by a change in temperature. The manometer showed a depth of 60 feet, which was beyond the reach of atmospheric heat. I tried to continue my work, but the temperature continued to rise to the point of being unbearable. I began to wonder if there had 223

been a fire on board. I was about to leave the saloon when Captain Nemo entered. He went to consult the thermometer and turning to me said: “42° centigrade.” “I have noticed it, Captain. And if it gets the slightest bit hotter, I won’t be able to bear it.” “Don’t be silly, professor, it won’t get any hotter unless I want it to.” “Do you mean that you can control this heat?” “No, but I can back us away from the fireplace producing it.” “So it’s outside?” “Indeed. We’re cruising in a current of boiling water.” “Impossible!” I exclaimed. “Look.” The panels had opened and I could see a completely white sea around the Nautilus. Steaming sulphurous fumes were uncoiling in the midst of the waves, which were bubbling like water in a copper boiler. I put my hand on one of the glass panes, but snatched it back before it was burnt. “Where are we?” I asked. “Near the Island of Santorini, professor,” said the captain, “and right in the channel that separates the volcanic islets of Nea Kameni and Palea Kameni. I wanted to see the curious sight of an underwater eruption again.” “I thought,” I said, “that the formation of such new islands had come to an end.” “Nothing ever comes to an end in these volcanic waterways,” Captain Nemo replied. “Thanks to its underground fires, our globe is continuously under construction in these regions. According to the Latin historians Cassiodorus and Pliny, by the 19th year of the Christian era, a new island, the divine Thera, had already appeared in the very place these islets have more recently formed. Then Thera sank under the waves, only to rise and sink once more in the year 69 A.D. From that day to this, such plutonic construction work has been in abeyance. But on 3rd February, 1863, a new islet named George Island emerged in the midst of sulphurous steam near Nea Kameni and was fused to it on the 6th of the same month. Seven days later, on 13th February, the islet of Aphroessa appeared, leaving a 32 foot channel between itself and Nea Kameni. I was in these seas when that phenomenon occurred and was able to observe its every phase. The islet of Aphroessa was circular in shape, measuring 300 feet in diameter and 30 feet in height. It was made of black, glassy lava mixed with bits of feldspar. Finally, on 10th March, a smaller islet called Reka appeared next to Nea Kameni, and since then, these 3 islets have fused to form one single island.” “What about this channel we’re in right now?” I asked. “Here it is,” Captain Nemo replied, showing me a chart of the Greek Islands. “You can see that I’ve entered the new islets in their place.” “But will this channel fill up one day?” “Very likely, professor. Since 1863, 8 little lava islets have surged up in front of the Port of St. Nicolas on Palea Kameni. So it’s 224

obvious that Nea and Palea will join in the days to come. In the middle of the Pacific, tiny infusoria build continents, but here they’re built by volcanic phenomena. Look, sir! Look at the construction work going on under these waves.” I returned to the window. The heat had become unbearable. The sea, which previously had been white, was now red, due to the presence of iron salts. Despite the ship being hermetically sealed, an unbearably strong, sulphurous smell filled the room. The scarlet flames outside were so bright that I could not make out the ship’s electric light. By that point, I was swimming in perspiration and choking, about to be boiled alive. I was convinced I could feel myself cooking. “We can’t remain in boiling water any longer,” I told the Captain. “It would not be prudent,” he said, as impassive as ever. An order was given and the Nautilus tacked about, retreating from the furnace. We were breathing fresh air on the surface 15 minutes later. The thought occurred to me that, if Ned Drake had chosen this part of the ocean to escape in, we would never have gotten away from the sea of fire with our lives. I watched the Captain take leave of the platform, thoughtfully. The next day, 16th February, we left the basin between Rhodes and Alexandria, which is thought to be about 1,500 fathoms deep. The Nautilus gave Cerigo a wide berth and, doubling Cape Matahan, left the Grecian Archipelago.

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7. The Mediterranean in 48 Hours We were in the Mediterranean, the ideal blue sea. For the Hebrews, it was “the great sea”, for the Romans, the “mare nostrum”. Bordered by orange trees, aloes, cacti and sea pines, perfumed with the scent of myrtle, surrounded by rugged mountains, saturated with pure and transparent air and continuously under construction because of underground fires. It is the perfect battlefield, where Neptune and Pluto still struggle for world domination. The French historian Michelet says the beaches of this sea may revive a man due to its invigorating climate. But, beautiful as it was, I was unable to take more than a quick glance at the Mediterranean’s basin. We went at full speed through a sea whose surface area is made up of over 125 thousand square miles. I estimated that the Nautilus covered a track of about 600 leagues in no longer than 48 hours. Leaving from the shores of Greece on the morning of 16th February, we had crossed the Straits of Gibraltar by sunrise on the 18th. Captain Nemo’s inestimable personal knowledge of the region was not available as that mysterious individual failed to appear even once during our passage. Clearly, the Mediterranean was distasteful to Captain Nemo, being enclosed by those countries that he most wanted to avoid. The waves and breezes must have brought back too many memories, if not too many regrets. In these waters, he no longer had the freedom of movement of the open seas. Our speed was usually 25 miles an hour, so Ned Drake was forced to abandon his escape plans. There was no chance of his making use of the skiff when we were going at the rate of 13 yards every second. We might as well have tried to jump out of a train at full speed. In any case, our vessel only went to the surface of the water to renew its stock of air at night. It steered entirely according to the compass and the log. I saw no more of the scenes beneath the Mediterranean than a passenger on an express train sees of the landscape. All I could make out were the distant horizons as the foregrounds flashed past like lightening. But Milou and I were able to take note of those fish that were able to keep pace with the Nautilus for a short space of time. We kept ourselves positioned at the windows for this purpose. Of all the fish in this sea, I actually viewed some, while I only glimpsed others. There were also those that I never saw at all because of the Nautilus’s great speed. The description that follows is categorized accordingly. Lampreys a yard long, which are common to nearly every environment, snaked past us, lit up by the Nautilus’s electric light. We saw a type of ray from the genus Oxyrhynchus, measuring 5 feet wide. It had a white belly with a spotted, ash-gray back and was carried along by the currents like a huge shawl stretched open. 228

Other rays passed by so quickly, I couldn’t tell if they were those that the ancient Greeks named “eagle ray”, or those that modern fisherman have inflicted with the designations “rat ray,” “bat ray,” and “toad ray”. Dogfish known as topes, 12 feet long and especially feared by divers, were racing with each other. The brief appearance of what seemed to be large, bluish shadows were, in fact, thresher sharks, 8 feet long and gifted with an extremely acute sense of smell. Dorados from the genus Sparus appeared in silver and azure costumes encircled with ribbons, which contrasted with the dark colour of their fins. These fish, with eyes set in brows of gold, were sacred to the goddess Venus. Known to frequent all waters, fresh or salt, the valuable dorado lives in every climate and can tolerate any temperature. Their line dates back to prehistoric times and preserves all its beauty from those far-off days. Magnificent sturgeons, 29 to 30 feet long, went past the windows with great speed, banging the glass with their powerful tails as they went, showing off their bluish backs with small brown spots. They resemble sharks, without equalling them in strength and can be found in every sea. In the spring they delight in swimming up the great rivers, fighting the currents of the Volga, Danube, Po, Oder, Rhine and Loire in order to feed on herring, mackerel, salmon and codfish. Although they belong to the class of cartilaginous fish, they are, nevertheless, considered to be a delicacy and are eaten fresh, dried, marinated or salt-preserved. In Roman times, they were borne in triumph to the table of the epicure Lucullus. Whenever the Nautilus drew near the surface, the inhabitants of the Mediterranean that were the easiest to observe were tuna from the genus Scomber, which belong to the 63rd genus of bony fish. They are blue-black on top and silver on the belly. Their dorsal stripes give off a golden gleam. These tuna follow ships in search of shade from the hot tropical sun. They trailed the Nautilus as they must have once done with the vessels of the Count de La Pérouse. The tuna competed in speed with our submarine for long hours and I couldn’t stop marvelling at their form, so perfectly crafted for racing. Their heads are small, their bodies sleek, spindle-shaped and, in some cases, over 9 feet long, with very strong pectoral fins and forked caudal fins. Like some flocks of birds, whose speed they equal, these fish swim in triangle formation, which prompted the ancients to think that the tuna had knowledge of geometry and military strategy. And yet, they cannot escape the Provençal fishermen who prize them as highly as the ancient inhabitants of Turkey and Italy did. These valuable animals leap right into the Marseilles tuna nets and perish by the thousands. Milou thought he spotted a turtle that was 6 feet wide and adorned with 3 protruding ridges that ran lengthwise. I was sorry to miss this reptile because, from Milou’s description, I believe I recognized the leatherback turtle, a rare species. For my part, I noted only some loggerhead turtles with long carapaces. As for zoophytes, for a few moments I was able to marvel at a wonderful, orange-hued hydra from the genus Galeolaria that clung to the glass of our port panel. It consisted of a long, lean 229

filament that spread out into countless branches and ended in the most delicate lace ever spun by the followers of Arachne. Unfortunately I couldn’t fish up this wonderful specimen. I would have seen no other Mediterranean zoophytes if, on the evening of the 16th, the Nautilus hadn’t slowed down in an odd fashion. We were then passing between Sicily and the coast of Tunis. In the narrow space between Cape Bon and the Straits of Messina, the bottom of the sea seemed to rise all at once. There was a raised bank, no more than 9 fathoms deep, while the depths on either side were up to 90 fathoms. The Nautilus had to proceed with caution so as not to strike against this underwater barrier. I showed Milou the position on our map of the Mediterranean that this reef occupied. “But, if Master pleases,” Milou ventured to observe, “it looks like an isthmus connecting Europe to Africa.” “Yes, my boy,” I replied, “it cuts across the whole Strait of Sicily. Smith’s soundings prove that, in the past, these 2 continents were actually connected between Cape Boeo and Cape Farina.” “I can easily believe it,” Milou said. “I might add,” I went on, “that there’s a similar barrier between Gibraltar and Ceuta and, in prehistoric times, it ensured that the Mediterranean was completely closed off.” “What would happen if some day a volcanic upheaval raises these 2 barriers back above the waves?” the lad asked. “That’s most unlikely, Milou.” “If Master will allow me to finish, I mean that, if this phenomenon occurs, it would be greatly distressing to Mr. de Lesseps, who has gone to such pains to cut through his isthmus.” “Agreed, but I repeat, Milou, that such a phenomenon won’t ever occur. The intensity of these underground activities continues to diminish. Volcanoes were quite numerous in the world’s early days, but they’re now going extinct, one by one. The heat inside the earth is growing weaker and the temperature in the globe’s lower strata is noticeably cooling with each passing century … to its detriment. Our globe’s heat is its life.” “But the sun … ” “The sun isn’t enough, Milou. Can it restore heat to a corpse?” “Not that I’ve heard.” “Well, my friend, someday the earth will be a cold corpse. Like the moon, which long ago lost its vital heat, our globe will become lifeless and unliveable.” “In how many centuries?” Milou asked. “In hundreds of thousands of years, my boy.” “Then we have ample time to finish our voyage,” Milou replied, simply. With Milou reassured, we went back to studying the shallows that the Nautilus was skimming at moderate speed. Milou got quite far with his classifications, but he didn’t have time to finish off the class Crustacea through an examination of its stomatopods, amphipods, homopods, isopods, trilobites, 230

branchiopods, ostracods and entomostraceans. In order to complete his study of marine articulates, he would have needed to mention the class Cirripedia, which contains water fleas and carp lice, as well as the class Annelida, which he would have divided without fail into tubifex worms and dorsibranchian worms. But having gone past the shallows of the Strait of Sicily, the Nautilus resumed its usual deep-water speed. From then on, no more molluscs, zoophytes or articulates. Just a few large fish sweeping by like shadows. During the night of 16th February, we entered the second Mediterranean basin, whose maximum depth we found at just over 3 thousand yards. The Nautilus, driven downward by its propeller and slanting fins, descended to the lowest strata of this sea. There, instead of natural wonders, the watery mass offered scenes that were both thrilling and dreadful. We were crossing that part of the Mediterranean that is the most fertile in casualties. From the coast of Algiers to the beaches of Provence, countless ships have been wrecked. Compared to the vast liquid plains of the Pacific, the Mediterranean is a mere lake, but an unpredictable one. Today, she may be kindly to those frail vessels drifting between a double ultramarine of sky and water, while tomorrow she could be badtempered and turbulent, demolishing even the strongest ships beneath sudden waves that smash down with great violence. In our swift cruise through these deep strata, I saw many vessels lying on the seafloor. Some were already caked with coral and others were clad in only a layer of rust, augmented with anchors, cannons, shells, iron fittings, propeller blades, parts of engines, cracked cylinders and staved-in boilers. Hulls floated in midwater, either upright or overturned. Some of these wrecked ships had perished in collisions, others from hitting granite reefs. I saw a few that had sunk straight down, with their masting still upright and their rigging stiffened by the water. They looked like they were at anchor by some immense, open, offshore mooring where they were waiting for their departure time. When the Nautilus passed between them, showering them with sheets of electricity, they seemed ready to salute us with their colours and send us their serial numbers. But only silence and death filled this field of catastrophes. I took note that the Mediterranean depths seemed to get increasingly cluttered with this gruesome wreckage as the Nautilus drew nearer to the Strait of Gibraltar. At that point where the shores of Africa and Europe were starting to converge, collisions were commonplace. I saw hundreds of iron undersides, the phantasmagorical ruins of steamers, some lying down, others rearing up like fearsome animals. One of these boats made a dreadful first impression. Her sides had been torn open, her funnel bent and her rudder separated from the sternpost, still hanging from an iron chain. Marine salts had eaten her stern away. I wondered how many lives had been dashed in this shipwreck and if some sailor on board had lived to tell the dreadful story. It occurred to me, lord knows why, that this boat buried under the sea might have been the Atlas, lost with all hands some 20 years ago 231

and never heard from again. It was a truly a ghastly tale that these Mediterranean depths could tell. So much wealth has been lost and far too many victims have met their deaths in this enormous boneyard. Briskly unconcerned, the Nautilus ran at full propeller through the midst of these ruins. It was near 03:00 in the morning when she hove in front of the entrance to the Strait of Gibraltar. There are 2 currents here: an upper current, long known to exist, that carries the ocean’s waters into the Mediterranean basin; and a lower counter-current, whose existence can only be proved through deduction. In essence, the Mediterranean receives a continual influx of water, not only from the Atlantic, but also from rivers emptying into it. As local evaporation isn’t sufficient to restore the balance, the total amount of added water should make this sea’s level higher every year. As this isn’t the case, we must assume that there is a lower current that carries the Mediterranean’s surplus through the Strait of Gibraltar and into the Atlantic basin. And so it turned out. The Nautilus took full advantage of this counter-current, advancing swiftly through the narrow passageway. For an instant, I glimpsed the wonderful ruins of the Temple of Hercules buried undersea, as mentioned by Pliny and Avianus. A few minutes later, we were floating on the waves of the Atlantic.

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8. The Bay of Vigo After having completed nearly 10,000 leagues in 3 and a half months, a distance greater than the circumference of the earth, the Nautilus’s spur now broke the waters of the Atlantic. After leaving the Straits of Gibraltar, Captain Nemo allowed the ship to return to the surface of the waves, so we had the option of resuming our daily walks on the platform. I took the opportunity at once, accompanied by Ned Drake and Milou. At a distance of some 12 miles, one could make out a hazy Cape St Vincent, which forms the southwest point of the Spanish Peninsula. A strong southerly gale was blowing and the sea was swollen and surging, making the Nautilus rock violently. It was almost impossible to keep one’s foot on the platform. After taking in a few gulps of fresh air, we were forced to descend. I returned to my room and Milou to his cabin, but the Canadian followed me with a preoccupied air. Our brief journey across the Mediterranean had not allowed him to pursue his escape plans and he could not hide his disappointment. When the door of my room was shut, he sat down unceremoniously on the tiered wooden bed, without waiting for an invitation. Glancing with disdain at the elegant roils of my desk, which I thought mirrored the watery turmoil outside with a controlled elegance, he then looked thoughtfully in my direction. “Ned my friend,” I told him, “I know how you feel, but you mustn’t blame yourself. Given the way the Nautilus was navigating, it would have been complete insanity to think of escaping.” He did not reply. His pursed lips and frowning brow indicated that he was in the grip of his monomania. “There’s no need to despair yet,” I continued. “We’re travelling up the coast of Portugal. England and France, where we can easily find refuge, are not far off. If the Nautilus had gone south after leaving the Straits of Gibraltar, to regions where there are no continents, I would be uneasy too. But we know that Captain Nemo does not shun civilized seas. In a few days time, I think we’ll be able to act with confidence.” Ned Drake looked at me more intently and said, “It’s for tonight.” I recoiled with surprise, completely unprepared for this new development. I wanted to answer the Canadian but the words would not come. “We agreed to wait for the right circumstances,” he continued, “and it has arrived. Tonight, we’ll be only a few miles from the Spanish coast. It’s cloudy and the wind is blowing towards the shore. You gave me your word, Professor Jeanneret, and now I am counting on you.” I remained silent and he approached me. “Tonight at 21:00,” he said. “I’ve already informed Milou. By that 233

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time, Captain Nemo will be locked in his room and probably in bed. The mechanics and crewmen won’t be able to see us. Milou and I will go to the central staircase. You’ll stay in the library, 2 steps away, and wait for my signal. The oars, mast, and sail are in the skiff. I’ve even managed to stow some provisions inside and I’ve gotten hold of a monkey wrench to unscrew the nuts bolting the skiff to the Nautilus’s hull. So everything’s ready. I’ll see you this evening.” “The sea is rough,” was all I could say. “True,” the Canadian replied, “but we’ve got to risk it. Freedom is worth paying for. Besides, the longboat’s solidly built. A few miles with the wind behind us is no big deal. By tomorrow, who knows? This vessel could be 100 leagues out to sea. If circumstances are in our favour then, sometime between 10:00 and 11:00 this evening, we’ll be landing on terra firma. Or we’ll be dead. So, we’re in God’s hands. I’ll see you this evening.” With these words, he withdrew, leaving me dumbfounded. I had imagined that, with our chance gone, I would have time to reflect on the matter and talk it over. My obstinate companion had not given me this luxury, but I had to admit that he was right. We were certainly in near ideal circumstances. And there was no way in which I could retract my word. Tomorrow, Captain Nemo might take us far away from land. A loud hissing noise informed me that the reservoirs were filling. The Nautilus sunk between the waves of the Atlantic. I stayed in my stateroom and spent a sad day torn between the desire to regain my liberty and my reluctance to abandon the Nautilus. I was going to relinquish this beloved ocean, which I referred to as ‘my own Atlantic’, without seeing its lower strata and learning the secrets I now knew about the Pacific and the East Indies. It felt like putting down a novel after only reading half, or waking up just before a dream had reached its climax. The hours passed painfully. Sometimes I could see my companions and myself safely on shore and, at others, in spite of all reason, that some unforeseen circumstance would prevent Ned Drake’s plans from coming to fruition. I went to the saloon twice to consult the compass, to check if we were heading closer or further away from the coast. But the Nautilus kept in Portuguese waters. She was going north, cruising along the beaches. I had to accept that it was time to prepare for flight. My luggage was light. It consisted only of my notes. As for Captain Nemo, I wondered what he would make of our attempting to escape. I speculated as to how much trouble and hurt it might cause him and what he would do in the case of discovery or failure. I certainly had no complaints about our treatment on board. He had been perfectly hospitable. And yet, leaving him could hardly be seen as ingratitude. We were captives. His intention on keeping us prisoner on board for the rest of our lives seemed to justify our efforts at escape. I hadn’t seen the Captain since our visit to the Island of Santorini. 236

I wondered if fate would bring him to me prior to my departure. I both desired and dreaded it. Listening for footsteps in the stateroom adjoining mine, I could hear nothing. I began to wonder if that eccentric individual was even on board. Since the night when the skiff had left the Nautilus on some mysterious mission, my ideas about him had changed, subtly. In spite of everything he said, I thought that Captain Nemo must have kept up some type of relationship with life on land. I was not even sure if it was true that he never left the Nautilus. Whole weeks had often gone by without my encountering him. I wanted to know what he did in that time. During all those periods, I had assumed he was convalescing in the grip of some misanthropic fit. Perhaps, instead, he was far away, involved in some secret activity whose nature still eluded me. All these ideas and a thousand others assaulted me at the same time. In these strange circumstances, the scope for conjecture was unlimited. I felt terribly queasy. The day of waiting seemed to go on forever. Dinner arrived in my room as usual. Being far too anxious, I ate only a little. I left the table at 19:00. I was due to join Ned Drake and Milou in 120 minutes. My anxiety doubled and my pulse beat violently. I could not sit quietly. Pacing up and down failed to calm my mind. The possibility of perishing was the least of my worries. It was the fear that our plans would be discovered before we left the Nautilus that frightened me. I wanted to see the drawing room, that marvellous marriage of glass, iron, water and air for the last time. I walked around its museum where I had spent so many pleasant and fruitful hours, taking in all its treasures and bizarre curiosities. I had passed so many days amongst the exhibits, which were more valuable than any I had ever encountered, and now I was going to abandon those cases and their precious cargo to the depths of the ocean. It was with regret that I lingered over the elegant cabinets containing Captain Nemoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s specimens of primitive craft, knowing that I would never have the opportunity of studying them more carefully. I would have liked to take a last look through the windows of the saloon, but the panels were sealed. I contented myself with marvelling at the feat of engineering that was the room itself, staring upwards at its splendid glass domes. Passing through the room, I came to the door that led to the Captainâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s stateroom. To my great astonishment, it was ajar. Instinctively, I recoiled. If Captain Nemo was in his room, he might see me. But, on hearing no sounds, I approached. The room was deserted. I pushed the door open and went inside. It had not changed and was retained the look of the cell of the chief monk of some foreign denomination. Then I noticed something new. One of the wooden panels in the wall had been left open to reveal a compartment that was normally concealed. The shelf part contained some fluted glass bottles with bulbous stoppers, presumably containing lotions and possibly medicines. There was a group of small etchings on the back wall 237

behind these. Greatly intrigued, I went forward to investigate. They were depictions of great men in history who had dedicated their lives to a higher human cause. There was Thaddeus Kosciusko, the hero whose dying words had been “Finis Poloniae”; Markos Botzaris, considered to be the reincarnation of Sparta’s King Leonidas for modern Greece; Daniel O’Connell, Ireland’s defender; George Washington, founder of the American Union; Daniele Manin, the Italian patriot; Thomas Jefferson, dead from the bullet of a supporter of slavery; and that martyr for the redemption of the black race, John Brown, hanging from his gallows. The latter was in a style very similar to that employed by Victor Hugo for this subject matter and I wondered if it had indeed been made by that Frenchman. Anything was possible with Captain Nemo. Each image was clearly fashioned by a different hand, made with a variety of mediums with different kinds of frames. I wondered if their lack of stylistic coherence had relegated them to the confines of the compartment so as not to clutter the austere aesthetic of the stateroom. The intimacy of the installation led me to speculate as to Captain Nemo’s relationship to these well-known figures. Weighing up the collection of portraits before me, I began to wonder to what extent he saw himself as a fighter of oppressed people and a liberator of enslaved races. There was even a possibility he had been involved in the recent social and political upheavals that had wreaked so much havoc on our times, like that dreadful civil war in America, greatly lamentable, yet forever glorious. Then the clock struck 20:00. The first beat of the chime’s hammer snapped me out of my reverie. I shuddered, as if in response to some invisible eye that had been observing my inner thoughts and hurried out of the room. I checked the compass in the saloon. Our course was still northwards. The log indicated a moderate speed and the manometer a depth of about 60 feet. I returned to my room and clothed myself warmly in seaboots, an otterskin cap and a great coat made of fan-mussel, lined with sealskin. I was ready and waiting. Only the sound of the propeller could be heard over the silence that reigned on board. I cocked an ear and listened, convinced that a sudden outburst would mean that Ned Drake and Milou had been caught. A ghastly uneasiness came over me. I tried in vain to regain my composure. At a few minutes to 9:00, I put my ear to the Captain’s door. There was still no sound. I returned to the saloon, which was empty and plunged in semi-darkness. I opened the door that led to the library, to find the same solitude and inadequate light. To my great consternation, the Nautilus’s propeller began to slow down and then it came to a stop. Any activity on the part of the crew was bound to affect the escape negatively. The silence was now only disturbed by the beating of my heart. I felt a mild jolt and then realized that the Nautilus had come to rest on the ocean floor. My alarm increased. I still had not heard 238

Ned Drake’s signal and I longed to go to him and to call the whole thing off. It had become obvious we were no longer navigating under normal conditions. Just then, the main door to the saloon opened and Captain Nemo came in. On seeing me, he said: “Ah, professor, I’ve been looking for you. How good is your Spanish history?” He seemed affable enough. But, even if I knew it by heart, a man in my disturbed condition could not have quoted a syllable of even my own country’s history. “Well?” said Captain Nemo. “Did you hear my question? Do you know the history of Spain?” “Very little,” I mumbled. “It just goes to show that even the most learned men can still have much to learn. Please have a seat and I’ll tell you about an unusual episode in this chapter of history.” The captain stretched out on a couch. Mechanically, I took a seat near him, but half in the shadows. “Listen carefully, professor,” he said. “This piece of history concerns you in one definite respect and it will answer a question you’ve been unable to answer up until now.” “I’m listening, Captain,” I said, not having a clue as to what he was driving at and desperately hoping it was unrelated to our plans. “Professor,” he went on, “if you’re amenable, we’ll go back in time to 1702. You’re aware of the fact that in those days your King Louis XIV thought an imperial gesture would suffice to humble the Pyrenees into the dust. He therefore inflicted his grandson, the Duke of Anjou, on the Spaniards. Reigning more or less poorly under the name King Philip V, this aristocrat had to deal with mighty opponents abroad. “In essence, during the year before, the royal houses of Holland, Austria, and England had signed a treaty of alliance at The Hague, which aimed to wrest the Spanish crown from King Philip V and place it on the head of an archduke whom they prematurely dubbed ‘King Charles III’. “Spain had to withstand these allies. The country had practically no army or navy but it wasn’t short of money, so long as its galleons, laden with gold and silver from America, could enter its ports. Late in 1702, Spain was expecting a rich convoy. France sent an escort of 23 vessels under the command of Admiral de Chateau-Renault for the fleet. By that time, the allied navies were roving the Atlantic. This convoy was supposed to put into Cadiz, but after learning that the English fleet lay in wait across those waterways, the admiral decided to make for a French port. The Spanish commanders in the convoy objected to this decision. They wanted to be taken to a Spanish port, if not to Cadiz, then the Bay of Vigo, located on Spain’s northwest coast and not blockaded. Admiral de Chateau-Renault was so indecisive in obeying this directive that the galleons entered the Bay of Vigo. “Unfortunately, this bay forms an open, offshore mooring that’s impossible to defend. So it was essential to hurry and empty the 239

galleons before the allied fleets arrived. And there would have been ample time for this unloading, if a wretched question of trade agreements hadn’t reared its ugly head.” “Are you clear on the chain of events?” Captain Nemo asked me. “Perfectly clear,” I said, not yet understanding why I was being given this history lesson. “Good, then I’ll continue. Here’s what came to pass. The tradesmen of Cadiz had negotiated a charter whereby they were to receive all merchandise coming from the West Indies. So, unloading the ingots from those galleons at the port of Vigo would have been a violation of their rights. They lodged a complaint in Madrid, and obtained the order from the indecisive King Philip V that the convoy was to remain in custody at the offshore mooring of Vigo without unloading, until the enemy fleets had retreated. “Now, just as this decision was being handed down, English vessels arrived in the Bay of Vigo on 22nd October, 1702. Despite his inferior forces, Admiral de Chateau-Renault fought courageously. But when he saw that the convoy’s wealth was about to fall into enemy hands, he burned and scuttled the galleons. That immense treasure went to the bottom of the ocean.” Captain Nemo stopped. I still couldn’t see how this piece of history concerned me. “Well?” I asked him. “Well, Professor Jeanneret,” said Captain Nemo, “we’re actually in that Bay of Vigo now. All that’s left is for us is to probe the mysteries of the place.” The captain stood up and invited me to follow him. By now, I had had time to collect myself. We went to the saloon, which was dark but the panels had been opened. The sea’s waves sparkled through the transparent windows. I stared. Around the Nautilus for a half-mile radius, the waters seemed saturated with electric light. The sandy bottom was clear. Dressed in diving suits, crewmen were busy clearing away half-rotted barrels and disembowelled trunks in the midst of the dingy hulks of ships. Incredibly, out of these trunks and kegs spilled ingots of gold and silver, cascades of jewels and pieces of 8. The sand was heaped with them. The men returned to the Nautilus laden with these valuable spoils. They dropped off their burdens inside and went to resume this immensely lavish form of fishing. I understood. This was the setting of that battle on 22nd October, 1702. Here, in this very place, those galleons carrying treasure to the Spanish government had plunged to the bottom. Whenever he needed, Captain Nemo came to this place to withdraw the millions necessary to ballast his Nautilus. It was for him alone that America had yielded its precious metals. He was the direct and sole heir to these treasures, wrested from the Incas and those peoples conquered by Hernando Cortez. “Did you know that the sea contained such wealth, Professor?” he asked me, with a smile. “I know it’s estimated that there are over 2,000 million pounds of silver held in suspension in seawater,” the scientist in me replied. 240

“Certainly, but in the process of extracting that silver, your expenses would outweigh your profits. Here, by contrast, I have only to pick up what other men have lost. This Bay of Vigo is not unique. I have the position of numerous other sites where ships carrying spoils from the colonies have gone down marked on my underwater chart. Do you understand now why I’m rich to the tune of billions?” “Indeed I do, Captain. Nevertheless, allow me to inform you that by harvesting this very Bay of Vigo, you’re simply forestalling the efforts of a rival organization.” “What organization?” “A company chartered by the Spanish government to search for these sunken galleons. The company’s investors were lured by the bait of enormous gains, because this scuttled treasure is estimated to be worth 500 million Francs.” “It was once 500 million Francs,” Captain Nemo replied. “But no longer.” “Right,” I said. “I would recommend that a timely warning to those investors would be an act of charity. Then again, who knows if it would be well received? Usually, what gamblers regret most isn’t the loss of their money so much as the loss of their insane hopes. Come to think of it, I feel less sorry for them than for the thousands of unfortunate people who would have benefited from a fair distribution of this wealth. Now it will be of no help to them.” No sooner had I voiced this regret than I got the feeling that it had wounded Captain Nemo. “No help?” he said softly, with an obvious underlying animation. “Sir, what makes you assume this wealth goes to waste when it’s me who is amassing it? Do you think I toil to gather this treasure out of selfishness? Who says I don’t put it to good use? Do you think I’m unaware of the suffering beings and oppressed races living on this earth, poor people to comfort, victims to avenge? Don’t you understand … ” Captain Nemo trailed off on these last words. He seemed sorry that he had said this much. But I had already guessed. Whatever motives had driven him to seek independence under the seas, he remained a human being before all else. His heart still throbbed for suffering humanity, and his immense philanthropy went out both to downtrodden races and to individuals. And now I was convinced I knew where Captain Nemo had delivered those millions when the Nautilus navigated the waters near Crete. He was supporting the rebellion against the Ottoman Empire.

241

Horn Cape

and the Cape of Tempests

9. A Lost Continent I awoke the next morning, 19th February, to the sight of the Canadian entering my bedroom. He looked crestfallen and I was not surprised. “Well, Sir?” he said. “Well, Ned, fortune was against us yesterday.” “Indeed. That captain just had to stop at exactly the hour we intended leaving his vessel.” “Yes, Ned. He had business with his bankers.” “His bankers?” “Well, rather his bank vaults. By that, I mean the ocean, where his riches are safer than any national treasuries.” I relayed an account of the events of the previous night to the Canadian. I hoped that, by emphasizing the positive aspects of our captain, I might dissuade the harpooner from further desperate plans. But Ned Drake only expressed his regret at not having had a chance to take a stroll through the battlefield of Viga himself. “However,” he said, “all is not lost. It‘s only my first blow of the harpoon that’s missed. We’ll succeed next time. This evening, if need be.” “Do you have any idea in which direction the Nautilus is heading?” I asked. “I don’t,” he admitted. “Well, at noon we shall see.” The Canadian returned to Milou. As soon as I was dressed, I went to the saloon. The compass was not reassuring. The Nautilus’s course was south-southwest. We were turning our backs on Europe. I waited, with some impatience, till the ship’s progress was reported on the charts. At about 11:30, the ballast tanks were emptied and the submarine rose to the surface. I leaped onto the platform. Ned Drake was already there. There was no more shore in sight, nothing but the stretch of the ocean. A few sails dotted the horizon. No doubt, they were ships going as far as to Cape São Roque to find favourable winds before doubling the Cape of Good Hope. The sky was overcast and a squall was on the way. A furious Ned Drake tried to see through the mists on the horizon. He still held out hopes that, behind all that fog, lay those shores he so longed for. The sun showed itself at noon, but only for an instant. Taking advantage of this rift in the clouds, the chief officer took the orb’s altitude. Then the sea grew turbulent and we went below again. The hatch closed once more. When I consulted the chart an hour later, I saw that the Nautilus’s position was marked at longitude 16° 17’ and latitude 33° 22’. We were a good 150 leagues from the nearest coast. It wouldn’t do to even think about escaping. I will let the reader imagine the extent 244

to which the Canadian threw a tantrum when I was forced to tell him our situation. For myself, I was hardly grief-stricken. I felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted from me and I was able to return to my regular tasks in a state of comparative calm. That night, at 20:50, I was surprised by a visit from Captain Nemo. He asked me, very graciously, if I was had recovered from our vigil from previous night. I answered in the positive. “In that case, Professor Jeanneret, I propose an unusual excursion.” “Propose away, Captain.” “Until now, you have only visited the submarine depths during the day under sunlit conditions. Would you like to see the depths in the dark of night?” “Most willingly.” “I must warn you, the climb will be tiring. We have a long way to walk and will climb a mountain on roads that are not well maintained.” “Everything you’re saying, Captain, only serves to fuel my curiosity. I’m ready to go with you.” “Well, then, come along, professor, and we can get our diving suits.” On arriving at the dressing room, I realized that neither my companions nor any members of the crew had been invited to join us for this excursion. In a few moments, we had put on our diving gear. Those helping us placed the reservoirs on our backs, but did not prepare the electric lamps. I drew the Captain’s attention to this oversight. “They’ll be useless to us,” he replied. I assumed I had not heard him correctly, but was unable to repeat my question as the Captain’s head had already disappeared into its metal case. I finished harnessing myself and felt an alpenstock being placed in my hands. Some minutes later, after going through the usual procedure, we were standing on the bottom of the Atlantic, at a depth of about 150 fathoms. Midnight was near. The waters were intensely dark, but, in the distance, Captain Nemo pointed out a reddish spot of light shimmering about 3 miles from the Nautilus. What this underwater fire might be, what substance fed it and how it was lit up in the liquid mass, I could not say. It certainly lit our way, albeit hazily, but I soon got used to the peculiar kind of darkness and understood why the Ruhmkorff apparatus would have been useless. Captain Nemo and I walked next to each other, heading directly towards the flame. The flat seafloor started to rise gradually. We took long strides, with the help of the alpenstocks, but progress was slow because our feet kept sinking into the slimy mud, mixed with seaweed and flat stones. As we progressed further, I started hearing a kind of pitterpatter above my head. The noise increased, sometimes becoming a continuous crackle. I soon ascertained the cause. It was heavy rainfall falling on the surface of the waves. Instinctively, I worried that I would get soaked and then could not help but laugh at my own absurd notion. To be fair, when wearing those heavy diving 245

suits, one no longer feels the liquid and one has the impression of being merely in the midst of very thick air. After 30 minute’s walk, the seafloor grew rocky. Jellyfish, microscopic crustaceans, and seapen coral provided a faint light with their phosphorescent glimmers. I caught sight of piles of stones covered by millions of zoophytes, tangled with algae. My feet often slipped on this viscous seaweed carpet. Without my alpenstock I would certainly have fallen more than once. When I turned around, I could still see the rays from the Nautilus’s lantern, which was starting to grow pale in the distance. I started to notice that piles of stones were laid out on the ocean floor with a distinct but inexplicable symmetry. I spotted gigantic furrows, with incalculable lengths, trailing off into the distant darkness. And there were other peculiarities. I got the impression that my heavy lead soles kept crushing a litter of bones that made a dry crackling noise. I wondered at these vast plains we were crossing and wished I could ask the Captain about it. I had never gotten the hang of that sign language that allowed him to chat with his companions when they went with him on his underwater excursions. In the meantime, the rosy light that we were following had expanded to light up the horizon. I was extremely puzzled by its presence underwater. I wondered if it was some kind of electric discharge or a natural phenomenon as yet unknown to the scientists who lived on shore. On a totally different note, perhaps the agency that caused the fire was a human hand. Perhaps I was about to meet with Captain Nemo’s companions who shared his underwater lifestyle. There might be a whole colony of men down here who had abandoned the world of men’s woes to find independence in the ocean’s depths. In this frame of mind, and continually excited by the sights I saw around me, I would not have been in the least surprised to be confronted with one of these underwater towns that Nemo had once told me he dreamed of. The road grew brighter and brighter. At this distance, the red glow turned to white. It was radiating from a mountain peak of about 800 feet high. But I realized that what I saw was simply a reflection of the crystal waters of these strata. The furnace that provided the surface of this light was on the far side of the mountain. Captain Nemo advanced without hesitation into the midst of the stone mazes winding across the Atlantic floor. He seemed to know this dreary road well. I followed him with complete confidence. To me, he appeared like some spirit of the sea as he walked in front of me. I could not help but admire the silhouette of his imposing figure that stood out against the luminous horizon. It was 01:00, we arrived at the lower slopes of the mountain. In order to grapple with them, we had to make our way through difficult trails in a dense thicket of dead trees. Turned to stone through the activity of the waters around them, they were without leaves and sap. The trees were crowned, here and there, by gigantic pines, creating the effect of a still-erect coalfield, its roots plunged into broken soil and its branches outlined against the ceiling of the waters like thin, black, paper cut-outs. Picture a forest clinging to 246

the sides of a peak in the Harz Mountains, but submerged. The pathways were cluttered with algae and fucus plants with hundreds of crustaceans swarming among them. I pushed myself forwards, scaling rocks, straddling fallen tree trunks and snapping marine creepers that swayed from one tree to another, startling the fish that flitted from branch to branch. Being so intensely occupied, and led by a man immune to exhaustion, I felt only exhilaration. It is almost impossible to find the words that could accurately portray those woods and rocks in their liquid setting, with their lower parts dark and sullen and their upper reaches tinted red. The intensity of the surrounding light was doubled by the reflecting power of the waters. We climbed rocks that crumbled behind us, collapsing in enormous sections with the hollow rumble of an avalanche. To our right and left were gloomy galleries where the eye soon lost its way. Huge glades opened up, giving every impression of having been cleared by the hand of man. I sometimes wondered whether the residents of these underwater regions would suddenly appear before me. But Captain Nemo continued to climb. Not wanting to be left behind, I followed him as best I could. My alpenstock was a great help. One false step on those narrow chasms sloping down to the side of the gulf would have been fatal, but I walked with a firm tread. I sometimes jumped a crevice which, had we been on a glacier on land, would have made me recoil. I was so intoxicated by the thrill of keeping up amidst all that wild scenery, I even ventured onto the unsteady trunk of a tree fallen across a gorge, without even looking down. Monumental rocks seemed to defy the laws of balance by leaning on erratically cut foundations. From between their stony knees, trees sprang up like jets under fearsome pressure, supporting other trees that supported them in turn. Next, natural towers with wide, steeply carved battlements leaned at angles that, on dry land, gravity would never have allowed. I was well aware that I too was affected by the waterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s powerful density. Despite my heavy clothing, copper helmet and metal soles, I climbed the most impossibly steep slopes with all the nimbleness of a Pyrenees mountain goat. I know that this account sounds hard to believe. I am the chronicler of events that are seemingly impossible and yet incontestably real. This was no fantasy. It was about 2 hours after we had left the Nautilus that we crossed the timberline. The top of the mountain rose 100 feet above our heads, forming a dark silhouette against the brilliant glare coming from its far slope. But I could not linger. Captain Nemo, on familiar terms with these sights, paid no attention. We arrived at a preliminary plateau where there were still more surprises in store. Here were picturesque ruins, clearly betraying the hand of man and not that of our Creator. These were huge piles of stones in which one could make out the indistinct forms of palaces and temples, now decorated in hosts of blossoming zoophytes. Rather than ivy, they were cloaked in algae and fucus plants. 247

I wanted to know what part of the world we were in that had been swallowed up by cataclysms and what people had placed those rocks and stones that could have been the dolmens of prehistoric times. Where had Captain Nemo’s fancy taken me? Of course, I was unable to ask him, so I stopped and pulled at his arm. He shook his head and pointed to the highest peak of the mountain in answer. His gestures suggested that he was saying: “Come along now, come higher.” I followed him with one last burst of energy and, within a few minutes, we had climbed to the top, which crowned the whole rocky mass by 32 feet. I looked down at the side we had just climbed and noticed that the mountain did not rise more than about 800 feet above the level of the plain. But on its far slope it crowned the receding bottom of this part of the Atlantic by a height twice that. My eyes scanned the distance and took in a vast area lit by intense flashes of light. The mountain was a volcano. More or less 50 feet below its peak, I could see a wide crater that vomited torrents of lava. Amid a shower of stones and slag, the liquid fire was dispersed in fiery cascades into the heart of the watery mass. Because of its location, the underwater volcano served as an immense torch, lighting up the lower plains all the way to the horizon. This crater spewed lava rather than flames. Flames require oxygen, so are unable to spread underwater, but a lava flow, which contains the principle of its incandescence within itself, can rise to a white heat, overpowering the liquid element and turning it to steam on contact. Rapid currents swept up all these diffuse gases and torrents of lava slid to the bottom of the mountain, like the eruption of Vesuvius on another Terra del Greco. There beneath my eyes were the ruins of a town. Demolished and overwhelmed, its roofs were open to the sky, its temples fallen down, its arches dislocated and its columns stretched our along the ground. The solid proportions of the remains suggested an affinity to Tuscan architecture. Further off, I could make out the remains of an aqueduct, then the caked heights of an acropolis, which followed the lines of a Parthenon. There were also the remnants of a wharf, suggesting some bygone harbour that had provided shelter to merchant vessels and triple-tiered war galleries on the shores of some long lost ocean. Still further off were long rows of collapsing walls and thoroughfares, an entire Pompeii buried under the waters, discovered by Captain Nemo alone. I had to find out where we were at any cost, even if I had to rip my headpiece off. I tried to communicate with Captain Nemo again, but he stopped me with a short gesture. Then he picked up a chalky stone and went to a black basalt rock, on which he wrote: “ATLANTIS” The word was lightning flashing through my mind. Atlantis was that ancient Land of Meropis mentioned by the historian Theopompus. Plato’s Atlantis, the continent whose very existence has been denied by such philosophers and scientists as Origen, Porphyry, Iamblichus, d’Anville, Malte-Brun and Humboldt, who entered its disappearance in the ledger of myths and folk tales. The 248

country whose reality has nevertheless been accepted by such other thinkers as Posidonius, Pliny, Ammianus Marcellinus, Tertullian, Engel, Scherer, Tournefort, Buffon, and d’Avezac. I now had this city under my eyes, its presence providing unassailable evidence of the catastrophe that had overtaken it. This was the submerged region that had existed outside Europe, Asia and Libya, beyond the Pillars of Hercules. It had been home to those powerful Atlantean people against whom ancient Greece had waged its earliest wars. Plato himself records the lofty deeds of those heroic times. His dialogues Timaeus and Critias were drafted with the poet and legislator Solon as their inspiration. The story goes that, one day, Solon was conversing with some elderly wise men in the Egyptian capital of Sais, a town already 8,000 years of age at the time, as documented by the annals engraved on the sacred walls of its temples. One of these elders related the history of another town 1,000 years older still. This original city of Athens was 90 centuries old and had been invaded and partly destroyed by the Atlanteans. These Atlanteans, he said, resided on an immense continent greater than Africa and Asia combined, taking in an area that lay between latitude 12° and 40° north. Their dominion extended even to Egypt. When they tried to enforce their rule as far as Greece, they were forced to retreat before the indomitable resistance of the Hellenic people. Centuries passed. A cataclysm occurred with floods and earthquakes. A single night and day were all it took to obliterate Atlantis, whose highest peaks of Madeira, the Azores, the Canaries and the Cape Verde Islands still emerge above the waves. These were the immediate thoughts that Captain Nemo’s scrawl sent rushing through my mind. Led by the strangest of fates, I was treading on one of the mountains of that lost continent. My hands were touching ruins many thousands of years old, contemporary with prehistoric times. I was walking in the very place where contemporaries of early man had walked, my heavy soles crushing the skeletons of animals from the age of fable, animals that used to take cover in the shade of trees that had petrified. I lamented our lack of time. I would gladly have gone down the steep slopes of this mountain and crossed this entire immense continent, which surely connects Africa with America. The ruins before us could be the warlike town of Makhimos or the pious village of Eusebes, whose gigantic inhabitants lived for whole centuries and had the strength to raise blocks of stone that still managed to withstand the eroding waters. One day, perhaps, some volcanic phenomenon will bring these sunken ruins back to the surface. There have been numerous underwater volcanoes sighted in this part of the ocean and many ships have felt terrific tremors when passing over these turbulent waters. A few have reported hollow noises that suggested some struggle of the elements far below, others have hauled in volcanic ash hurled above the waves. This whole seafloor is still under construction by plutonic forces, all the way to the equator. In some remote epoch, volcanic disgorging and successive layers of lava might push the peaks of these fire249

belching mountains above the surface of the Atlantic again. As I mused in this way, trying to ingrain every detail of the chaotically picturesque landscape in my memory, Captain Nemo was leaning his elbows on a moss-covered monument, completely motionless. Who knows what thoughts were going through that strange man’s head? It was quite possible he was basking in the sea having overtaken a powerful landmass, ridding the world of some of its war-mongering inhabitants. We stayed in that place an entire hour, contemplating its vast plains in the lava’s glow, which sometimes took on a startling intensity. Inner boiling sent quick shivers running through the mountain’s crust. Noises from deep underneath, clearly transmitted by the liquid medium, reverberated with majestic amplitude. At one point, the moon appeared for an instant through the watery mass, casting a few pale rays over the submerged continent. It was only a fleeting glimmer, but its effect was indescribable. After this, the Captain stood up. Taking one last look at these immense plains, he then made to leave, signalling for me to follow. We went swiftly down the mountain. Once past the petrified forest, I could see the Nautilus’s beacon twinkling like a star. The Captain guided us straight toward it, and we were back on board just as the first glimmers of dawn were whitening the surface of the ocean.

250

10. The Underwater Coal Fields I woke up very late the next day, which was 20th February. I was so exhausted from the night before that I stayed in bed until 11:00. Once I had dressed, I rushed to see what course the Nautilus was taking. The instruments indicated that we were still heading southwards at a speed of 20 miles per hour and at a depth of 50 fathoms. Milou entered and I told him about our nocturnal excursion. The panels were open, so he was still able to catch a glimpse of the submerged continent. The Nautilus was skimming only 11 yards above the soil of the Atlantis plain. The ship scudded along, much like a wind borne air balloon would over some lowlands. The foregrounds passing before our eyes were fantastically carved rocks and forests of trees that had crossed over from the vegetable kingdom into the mineral. Their motionless silhouettes now sprawled beneath the waves. There were also stony masses buried beneath carpets of axidia and sea anemone, bristling with long, vertical water plants, amongst strangely contoured blocks of lava that reminded us of the force of the nearby Plutonic elements. While this extraordinary scenery passed, glittering, under the electric beams, I told Milou the story of the Atlanteans who had inspired the old French scientist Jean Bailly to write so many entertaining, albeit utterly fictitious, narratives. I could now talk about the topic of this lost continent with the fervour of a man who no longer had any doubts. The poor boy tried to listen to my tales of the Atlanteans heroic wars, but he was evidently distracted. Numerous fish were passing by and, in such circumstances, Milou vanishes into his world of classification with scarce interest in history. I could only tag along and resume our ichthyological research. But even though I was observing the different specimens of marine fauna, I didn’t stop marvelling at the long plains of Atlantis. Sometimes an unexpected irregularity in the seafloor would force the Nautilus to slow down. She would then glide into the narrow channels between the hills with the dexterity of a cetacean. If the labyrinth became hopelessly tangled, the submarine would rise above with easy grace. After clearing the obstacle, she resumed her swift course just a few yards above the ocean floor. It was an enjoyable, not to mention impressive, way of navigating that recalled the manoeuvres of an airship ride, except that the Nautilus faithfully obeyed the commands of its helmsman. The terrain was mostly made up of thick slime, mixed with petrified branches. By 15:45, it began to change gradually, growing rockier. It seemed to be strewn with pudding stones and a kind of basaltic gravel called “tuff,” together with bits of lava and sulphurous 251

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obsidian. I had expected these long lowlands to change into mountain regions and was rewarded when the Nautilus started executing some turns. I was then able to notice that the southerly horizon was blocked by a high wall that gave the impression of cutting off any possible exit. It was clear that its summit poked above the level of the ocean. It had to be an island, either one of the Canaries or the Cape Verde Islands. Our bearings hadn’t been marked on the chart and possibly this was deliberate. I had no idea what our position was. In any case, the immense wall seemed to signal the end of Atlantis, of which we had only crossed a small part. Happily, the start of nightfall did not interrupt my observations. I was left to myself as Milou retired to his cabin. The Nautilus slowed down, hovering above the muddled masses on the seafloor and sometimes grazing them, as if wanting to come to rest. Sometimes it rose unpredictably to the surface. I was then able to glimpse a few bright constellations through the crystal waters, specifically 5 or 6 of those zodiacal stars that trail from the tail end of Orion. I would have stayed at the window all night if I could, but the panels closed. The Nautilus had arrived at the perpendicular face of that high wall. How the ship would manoeuvre was anybody’s guess. I repaired to my stateroom. The Nautilus did not stir and I fell asleep with the firm intention of waking up in just a few hours. But it was 08:00 the next day when I returned to the saloon. I stared at the pressure gauge. It told me that the Nautilus was afloat on the surface of the ocean. Strangely, I heard the sound of footsteps on the platform, yet there were no rolling movements to indicate the presence of waves above me. I went to the central staircase and climbed as far as the hatch. It was open. To my great surprise, instead of the broad daylight, I found that we were surrounded by total darkness. Not one star was visible, so I knew it could not still be night-time. Besides, I had never known night to be so utterly black. Once more, I was at a loss as to where Captain Nemo had taken us. I didn’t know what to think, when a voice said to me, “Is that you, professor?” “Ah, Captain Nemo,” I replied, “where are we?” “Underground, sir.” “We’re underground and the Nautilus is still floating?” “She always floats.” “I’m afraid I don’t understand.” “Wait a few minutes and the lantern will be lit. That will shed some light on the situation.” I set my feet on the platform and waited. The darkness was so intense that I could see nothing of the Captain. But when I looked up, I thought I could see a feeble glimmer coming from a circular hole. When the electrical light came on, it dazzled my eyes. I had to close them for a few seconds, before looking around. The Nautilus was stationary. It was next to an embankment that greatly resembled a wharf. The water on which we floated was a lake, completely encircled by a by an inner wall that I estimated 254

to be about 2 miles in diameter and 6 in circumference. The great walls slanted inwards over their base to form a vault in the shape of an upside down funnel with a height of about 600 yards. At the summit was the circular opening through which I had first detected a glimmer of light. “Where are we?” I said. “In the heart of an extinct volcano,” the now-visible captain answered. “The sea invaded its interior after some sort of convulsion of the earth. While you were sleeping, the Nautilus entered this lagoon through a natural channel that opens 32 feet below the water’s surface. This is our homeport. It is secure, secret and convenient. And also sheltered from all winds, even able to withstand hurricanes. I challenge you to show me a better offshore mooring along the coasts of your continents or islands that can equal this one in safety.” “Indeed, Captain, you’re undeniably protected here,” I said. “Who on earth could find you in the heart of a volcano? But what about that opening at the zenith?” “Yes, that’s a crater. It was formerly filled with lava, steam and flames. But now it provides us with the oxygen we need to breathe.” “Which volcanic mountain is this?” “One of the many that are strewn across this sea. Most ships think it’s a reef, but for us it’s a bountiful cavern. I discovered it by chance and it has served me well.” “But isn’t it possible that someone could enter through the mouth of the crater?” “No more than you could exit through it from here. You can only climb about 100 feet up the inner base before the walls overhang. They lean in too far to be scaled.” “I see, Captain. Nature really is your obedient servant in every time and place. But what I don’t understand is, why does the Nautilus need a port?” “It doesn’t. But it does need electricity to run, batteries to generate the electricity, sodium to feed the batteries, coal to make the sodium and coalfields from which to dig the coal. It is right at this spot that the sea has en-gulfed entire forests that sank underwater during prehistoric times. Today they are mineralized and, when transformed to carbon fuel, provide me with inexhaustible coal mines.” “So, your men take up the trade of miners when they are here?” “Exactly so. These mines extend under the waves like those at Newcastle. I don’t need to go on land when my men can work underwater in their diving suits. And then, when we burn the combustible to produce sodium, the smoke escapes through the old volcano’s crater, giving the impression that it is still active. “And are we able to see your men at work?” “No, not this time. I am eager to continue our underwater world tour, so we’re going to make do with our reserve stock of sodium. We’ll stay long enough to load it on board, which is one day, and then resume our voyage. So, Professor Jeanneret, if you’d like to explore the cavern, you’d better seize the day.” 255

I thanked him for this and went off to find my companions who had not yet left their cabin. I invited them to follow me, without telling them where we were. When we mounted the platform, the unflappable Milou gave the impression that it was the most natural thing in the world to wake up and find oneself under a mountain. Ned Drake could think of nothing else but whether there was any escape route out of the cavern. We ate breakfast and then, at about 10:00, set out onto the mountain. “So, here we are. On land, once more,” said Milou. “I don’t see this as land,” said the Canadian. “And, anyway, we are under it, not on it.” A sandy beach stretched out in front of us, buffering the foot of the mountains from the water. It must have measured about 500 feet at its widest and one could easily circle the lake by walking along the sand. The base of those high walls was made up of broken soil over which lay in picturesque piles of volcanic rocks and enormous pumice stones. All these crumbling masses had been polished by underground fires and were coated in shiny enamel that glistened under the Nautilus’s light. As we walked, our tread stirred up the mica-rich soil and it flew up into the air, like clouds of sparks. The ground rose as it moved away from the sandy flats washed by the waves and we soon arrived at some long, winding slopes. The paths were steep and we were only able to climb up a little way at a time, treading cautiously amongst the pudding stones that weren’t fixed into the earth. Our feet kept sliding on glassy trachyte made of feldspar and quartz crystal. The volcanic nature of the landscape was evident wherever one’s eyes laid to rest. I ventured to comment on it: “Can you picture what this funnel must have been like when it was filled with boiling lava, rising all the way to the mountain’s mouth?” “Perfectly,” said Milou. “But can Master tell me why this huge smelter suspended its operations and how the lake came to be?” “In all probability, Milou, a convulsion caused the ground to open up under the surface of the ocean, creating the passageway that the Nautilus now uses. The waters of the Atlantic must have then rushed inside. A fearsome struggle of the elements, fire with water, must have ensued, ending in King Neptune’s favour. Many centuries have passed since then.” “That’s all well and good,” said Ned. “But I’m more worried about our personal interests. I wish this opening had been made above sea level.” “But, Ned, that’s nonsensical. If the opening had been above water, the Nautilus couldn’t have entered through it and we wouldn’t be here in the first place,” Milou said. “And on top of that, Mr Drake, the waters wouldn’t have flooded the cavern, so this would still be an active volcano,” I pointed out. We continued going up. The slopes became steeper and narrower. Sometimes there were deep pits across our path, which had to be cleared. We also had to manoeuvre around massive overhangs of rock. We slid on our knees and crept on our bellies, but with the help of Milou’s dexterity and the Canadian’s 256

tenacity, we were able to persevere. When we were about 98 feet high, the landscape began to change, without becoming any easier. The pudding stones and trachyte gave was to black basilic rock. It lay in swollen and blistered slabs, some warped into prisms and arranged into columns supporting the springs of a massive vault. It was a breathtaking example of nature’s architecture. Among the basaltic rock snaked hardened lava, inlaid with bituminous coal. In certain spots, these were covered by generous carpets of sulphur. The sunshine coming through the crater grew stronger, casting a hazy light over the volcanic waste buried forever in the heart of the mountain. When we reached the height of about 200 feet, we could go no further. The converging walls became overhangs, forcing us to follow a circular route. At this uppermost level, the vegetable world started to gain some ground over the mineral one. There were shrubs and even a few trees growing in crevices in the rock walls. I recognized some spurges and broke off their stems to watch their sap, an effective laxative, trickle out. There were some heliotropes, disproving their reputation as sun worshippers, as there was no sun that would ever reach them here. Their colours were faded and their flower clusters drooped. Some timid chrysanthemums sprouted at the feet of aloes with long, sickly leaves. Between the lava streams, I saw little violets. These retained some scent and I inhaled with great delight. Perfume is the soul of flowers and sea flowers have no soul. We arrived at the foot of a sturdy clump of dragon trees whose muscular roots were slowly splitting the rocks beneath them. Amazingly, Ned Drake spotted a hive of bees. We went to take a closer look and, at the mouth of a hole in a dragon tree trunk, we found thousands of bees swarming. These insects are extremely common in the region of the Canary Islands and highly prized. Of course, Ned Drake wanted to obtain a stock of honey to take on board. It would have been ill mannered to refuse him. He prepared a mixture of dried leaves and sulphur and set them on fire with his tinderbox. He then proceeded to smoke the bees out. The buzzing gradually died down. With the bees gone, the disembowelled hive yielded several pounds of sweet honey, which Ned shoved into his haversack. As we made our way around the inside of the mountain, the lake was revealed in its full expanse. The entire water’s surface was lit up by the Nautilus’s lantern. There was not a ripple on the water. The Nautilus was completely still and it was possible to make out workmen bustling about the platform, their black shadows standing out starkly against the bright light. From that distance they were no bigger than the bees. As we rounded the highest edge of the rocky foothills, I realized that insects were not the only inhabitants of the volcano. In the mountain shadows, I could see birds of prey circling and soaring around nests perched high on the tips of rocks. There were sparrow hawks with white bellies and screeching kestrels. Marvellously fat bustards scampered over the slopes, as fast as their stilt-like legs 257

would take them. I’ll let the reader decide Ned Drake’s reaction to these, especially in light of the fact that he had not brought his rifle with him. He tried throwing stones at them, but after several fruitless attempts, he only managed to wound one of the bustards. He risked his life repeatedly in his attempts to catch the bird, but in the end he managed it and it joined the honeycombs in his sack. This business being concluded, it was time to return to the shore as the ridge had become impossible to navigate. The mouth of the crater that yawned above us looked like the opening to a well. We could see the sky from that point. I watched the clouds, dishevelled by the wind racing past, leaving tatters of mist clinging to the top of the mountain. This proved that the clouds remained at a moderate altitude, as the mountain could not have been more than 1,800 feet above sea level. In half an hour’s time, we were back on the beach. We discovered the mouth of a magnificent cave and took great pleasure in stretching out on its fine-grained sand. Fire had polished the sparkling enamel of its inner walls, sprinkled all over with mica-rich dust. I couldn’t help but smile when Ned Drake started tapping these walls to try and gauge their thickness. Our conversation then turned to his never-ending escape plans. Without going too far, I felt safe offering him this hope: Captain Nemo had gone south only to replenish his sodium supplies. He may well now hug the coasts of Europe and America, which would allow the Canadian to try again with a greater chance of success. We stretched out in that delightful cave for an hour. Our conversation started off in a lively fashion and then languished. Drowsiness descended on us and I saw no good reason to resist. I fell into a heavy doze and dreamed — one doesn’t choose his dreams — that my life had been reduced to the vegetating existence of a simple mollusc. It seemed to me that this cave made up my double-valved shell. Milou’s voice startled me awake: “Master must get up.” “What is it?” I asked, sitting upright. “The water’s coming up,” he said. I was back on my feet in a flash, wet through. The sea was rushing into our retreat in torrents. We definitely were not molluscs and it was time to clear out. In a few seconds, we were safely on top of the cave. “Can Master tell us if that was some new phenomenon?” “Hardly,” I replied. “It was merely the tide, which well-nigh caught us by surprise, like Sir Walter Scott’s hero. The ocean outside is rising, so the level of the lagoon must too. We’ve gotten off lightly. Let’s go change clothes.” We completed our circular wander in about 45 minutes and went back on board. The crewmen were just finished loading the sodium supplies and the Nautilus could have departed immediately, but Captain Nemo gave no orders. I wondered if he was waiting for nightfall so that he could exit through his underwater passagewayin secret. It was entirely possible. 258

Whatever the reason, by the next day the Nautilus had left its homeport and was navigating well away from any shore, a few yards beneath the waves of the Atlantic.

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11. The Sargasso Sea The Nautilus did not change direction. For the time being, we had to abandon any hopes of returning to European seas. Captain Nemo navigated only southwards and I did not dare to guess where he was taking us. On the day we left the extinct volcano, we crossed a curious part of the Atlantic Ocean. It is impossible not to have heard of that great warm water current the Gulf Stream. After emerging from the channels off Florida, it heads towards Spitzenbergen, splitting before entering the Gulf of Mexico, near latitude 44˚ north. It’s larger arm makes for the coasts of Ireland and Norway, while the second heads southwards at the level of the Azores before hitting the coast of Africa, sweeping in a long oval before returning to the Caribbean Sea. This second arm, which is more like a collar than an arm, encircles a portion of cold, tranquil ocean called the Sargasso Sea. Thus, it creates a lake in the open Atlantic, with the waters of the warm current taking up to 3 years to complete its circumference. The Sargasso Sea covers the drowned continent of Atlantis in its entirety. Some authors have suggested that the blanket of weeds that is strewn across this sea were torn loose from the lowlands of that ancient landmass. But, in all probability, the grasses, algae and focus plants are most likely to have been carried from the beaches of Europe and America by the Gulf Stream. In fact, this is one of the reasons why Christopher Columbus deduced the existence of the New World. When the bold explorer’s ships reached the Sargasso Sea, they had great difficulty making there way through the thick weeds. To their great consternation, they were forced to spend 3 long weeks crossing that section of the ocean. The Nautilus had brought us to a watery prairie, a tightly woven tapestry of gulf weed, algae and bladder wrack, so dense and compact that a ship’s sternum had great difficulty tearing through it. Captain Nemo, quite sensibly, stayed at a depth some yards below the herbaceous mass. The name “Sargasso” comes form the Spanish word “sargazzo”, meaning “kelp”. This kelp, or berry plant, is the main ingredient in the massive conglomerate. According to the expert on the subject, Commander Maury, author of The Physical Geography of the Sea (which was, of course, also in the Nautilus’s library) the reason is as follows: “If bits of cork or chaff, or any floating substance, be put into a basin, and a circular motion be given to the water, all the light substances will be found crowding together near the center of the pool, where there is the least motion. Just such a basin is the Atlantic Ocean to the Gulf Stream, and the Sargasso Sea is the center of the whirl.” 262

I tend to agree with Maury and was lucky enough to be able to be able to study the phenomenon from a unique vantage point. Amongst the brown vegetable mass above us, were all manner of things from various parts of the globe. There were tree trunks ripped from the Rocky Mountains or the Andes, sent down from the Amazon or the Mississippi, alongside numerous pieces of wreckage torn from vessels, keels, undersides and bulwarks, so weighed down by barnacles they could not rise to the surface. In the passing of years, Maury’s other view will surely come to fruition. He has predicted that these objects, having been collected in this way over centuries, will be turned to stone through the water’s activity. Then even more coalfields will be formed, providing valuable reserves for man who, by that time, will have exhausted his supply on land. In the midst of that tangled fabric of fucus and weeds, I was able to spy some delightful, pink coloured, star shaped alcyon coral; sea anemones trailing the long tresses of their tentacles; and red, green and blue varieties of jellyfish, especially the big, rhizostome jellyfish whose blue tinted parasols are trimmed with violet festoons, as described by Cuvier. We spent the whole day of 22nd February in the Saragasso Sea. Naturally, fish that are partial to marine plants and crustaceans are abundant here. By the next day, the ocean had resumed its ordinary appearance. For the next 19 days, the Nautilus stayed in the middle of the Atlantic, travelling at a steady pace of 100 leagues per day. It was clear to me that Captain Nemo wanted to continue his underwater agenda. I had no doubt that he intended to double Cape Horn and head back to the Pacific. Ned Drake now had good reason to worry. We could never manage to leave the Nautilus on those vast seas, devoid of any islands, and we had no way of countering the Captain’s whims. Our only option was to go along with him. At that point, I still held some hope in the possibility of exerting some influence over Captain Nemo, through persuasion rather than force or cunning. Perhaps, when this voyage was over, he would agree to set us free once more, so long as we solemnly swore never to reveal the secret of his existence. But I had to negotiate this delicate question with extreme caution. At the very outset, he had declared, in no uncertain terms, that his clandestine existence relied on us remaining on board the Nautilus for the rest of our days. And if I did broach the subject, I might well arouse his suspicions and jeopardise our escape plans, when we came across more favourable circumstances. I weighed up all these considerations in my mind and even talked them through with Milou, but he was hardly perturbed by our situation. All in all, I was beginning to fear that I would never set foot in my home country again. Not a single noteworthy incident occurred during those 19 days. The Captain was hard at work and I saw very little of him. In the library, I often found books that he had left lying open. They were largely about natural history. He had also thumbed through 263

my notes on submarine life and had covered the margins with corrections and additions. He certainly did not agree with many of my theories and formulas, but he seemed quite content to leave the communication there and never made any mention of it when he saw me. Sometimes, I heard mournful sounds coming from the organ being played with exquisite expression. But this was only in the dead of night while the Nautilus slumbered in the depths of the ocean. During this part of the voyage, we spent whole days floating on the surface of the water. The sea was almost completely deserted. I saw only a few sailing vessels, heading for the Cape of Good Hope and bound for India. One day, we were chased by the longboats of a whaling ship, which undoubtedly thought, as I once had, that we were a giant cetacean of great value. Captain Nemo evidently did not feel it was worth wasting the gallant gentlemen’s time and ended the hunt abruptly by diving under the waves. This incident fascinated Ned Drake inordinately. I am quite certain that he greatly regretted that the harpoons could not pierce our sheet-iron skin. We continued under these conditions until 13th March. On that day, Captain Nemo starting using the Nautilus for some fascinating depth-sounding experiments. By then, we had journeyed nearly 13,000 leagues since our departure from the high seas of the Pacific. Our bearings were the latitude of 45˚ 37’ south, with a longitude 37˚ 53’ west. These were the same waters where Captain Ruskin of the Victoria paid out 15,300 yards without finding the bottom. It was here, too, that Lieutenant Furness, of the American frigate the Painted Lady, could not reach the bottom at 16,500 yards. Captain Nemo had decided to take the Nautilus to the lowest depths to test different soundings. I took it upon myself to record his experiment. The window panels opened and we prepared to head towards the distant seabed. Apparently, it was not possible to make the dive by using the ballast tanks. Perhaps it wouldn’t have created a sufficient gain to the Nautilus’s gravity. I also reasoned that, in order to return to the surface, it would be necessary to eject the excess water and our pumps might not have been strong enough to overcome the extreme pressure outside. Captain Nemo made for the ocean floor by submerging on a gradual diagonal, with the help of the vessel’s lateral fins, which were set at a 45˚ angle to the waterline. The propeller was then set to work at its maximum speed and its 4 blades churned the waves with indescribable force. Under this powerful thrust, the Nautilus quivered like a resonating piano string and the ship sank steadily. The Captain and I remained in the saloon, watching the pressure gauge’s needle. We had soon gone beyond the limits where the depths can sustain marine life. While most thrive closer to the surface of the sea, there is a small amount of animal life that can dwell at great depths. I observed a species of dogfish called the cow shark that is equipped with 6 respiratory slits, the telescope fish with its enormous eyes, the armoured gurnard with gray thoracic fins plus black pectoral 264

fins and a breastplate protected by pale red slabs of bone, then finally the grenadier, living at a depth of 1,312 yards, by that point tolerating a pressure of 120 atmospheres. I asked Captain Nemo if he had ever spotted any fish at greater depths. “Fish? Not often.” he answered. “But, given the current state of marine science, who are we to presume anything about what we really know of these depths?” “Well, Captain, in going toward the ocean’s lower strata, we know that vegetable life disappears more quickly than animal life. We also know that moving creatures can still be found where water plants no longer grow. Oysters and pilgrim scallops live in up to 2,000 yards of water and Admiral Hawksmoor, England’s hero of the polar seas, pulled in a live sea star from a depth of 2,500 yards. We know that the crew of the Royal Navy’s William Blake fished up a starfish from 2,620 fathoms, hence from a depth of more than one vertical league. Would you still say, Captain Nemo, that we really know nothing?” “No, professor,” the Captain replied, “I wouldn’t be so discourteous. Yet, can you explain how these creatures can live at such depths?” “I explain it on 2 grounds,” I replied. “In the first place, because vertical currents, which are caused by differences in the water’s salinity and density, can produce enough motion to sustain the rudimentary lifestyles of sea lilies and starfish.” “True,” the captain put in. “In the second place, because oxygen is the basis of life, and we know that the amount of oxygen dissolved in salt water increases rather than decreases with depth, that the pressure in these lower strata helps to concentrate their oxygen content.” “Really? We know that, do we?” Captain Nemo said, with a slight edge to his voice. But he softened, saying: “Well, professor, we have good reason to believe it because it’s the truth. I might add, in fact, that the air bladders of fish contain more nitrogen than oxygen when these animals are caught at the surface of the water and, conversely, more oxygen than nitrogen when they’re pulled up from the lower depths. Which bears out your formulation. But let’s continue our observations.” My eyes were back on the pressure gauge. The instrument indicated a depth of 6,500 yards. We had been heading downwards for almost an hour and the Nautilus continued to sink. These deserted waters were wonderfully clear, with a transparency I am unable to illustrate here. An hour later we were at 14,216 yards and the ocean floor was still nowhere in sight. It was at 15,310 yards, or 7,000 fathoms, that I saw blackish peaks rising in the midst of the waters. But these summits could have belonged to mountains as high, or even higher, than the Himalayas or Mount Blanc. The extent of these depths remained incalculable. Withstanding the powerful pressures it was travelling through, the Nautilus sank still deeper. I could feel its sheet-iron plates trembling down to their riveted joins. Metal bars arched, bulkheads groaned and the saloon windows seemed to be warping inward under the water’s pressure. 265

But the sturdy mechanism did not give way. Around these rocky slopes lost under the waters, I still spotted some seashells: Tube worms, lively annelid worms from the genus Spirorbis, and certain starfish specimens. But, soon, these last representatives of animal life also vanished. At 3 vertical leagues down, the Nautilus passed below the limits of underwater existence, as an air balloon rises above the breathable zones in the sky. We reached a depth of 4 vertical leagues and, by that point, the Nautilus’s plating was tolerating a pressure of 1,600 atmospheres. I could no longer contain my excitement, saying: “We are actually traversing the deepest regions, where no man has ever ventured before. Look at these magnificent rocks, these uninhabited caves, these last global haunts where life is no longer possible. What a shame we are reduced to preserving it only in memory!” “Would you like to bring back more than just a memory?” the Captain asked. “What do you mean?” “I mean that nothing could be easier than taking a photograph of this underwater region.” Before I had time to express my surprise at this new proposition, a camera was brought into the saloon. The liquid environment, lit up by the Nautilus’s lantern, lay before us in perfect clarity through the glass. The artificial light was almost as good as sunshine. With one last thrust of the propeller, the Nautilus came to a standstill. The camera was aimed at the scenery on the ocean floor and, in a few seconds, we had a perfect negative. I attach a print of the positive here. You can now view those primordial rocks that have never seen the light of day and the deep caves cut into this nether granite that forms the foundation of our globe, the faraway outlines of which stand out in black as if from the brush of certain Flemish painters. In the distance is a mountainous horizon, a wondrously undulating line that makes up the background of this landscape. The general effect of these smooth rocks is hard to capture. They are black, polished, without moss or any other blemish and carved into bizarre shapes that are embedded in a carpet of sand. Meanwhile, his photographic operations over, Captain Nemo said it was time to go up. He did not want to expose the Nautilus to such great pressure for too long a time. “Hold on tight,” he warned. Before I had time to realize why the captain made this recommendation, I was hurled to the carpet. Her fins set vertically and her propeller thrown in gear, the Nautilus rose with lightning speed, shooting upward like an air balloon into the sky. Vibrating with great resonance, she knifed through the watery mass. Not a single detail was visible. In 4 minutes, she had cleared the 4 vertical leagues separating her from the surface of the ocean. She shot out of the water like a giant flying fish before falling back into the sea, making the waves leap to prodigious heights around her. 266

12. Cachalots and Baleen Whales During the night of 13th March, the Nautilus resumed her southerly course. I had assumed that, once abreast of Cape Horn, we would navigate westwards to the Pacific seas and complete our world tour. But we did nothing of the sort and continued towards the southernmost regions. It would have been madness to head for the pole, yet this is exactly what we appeared to be doing. I began to wonder if the Captain’s recklessness was living up to Ned Drake’s worst fears. The Canadian had said nothing to me about his escape plans for some time. He had also become less sociable and increasingly sullen. The imprisonment was weighing heavily on him and I could see the anger building up inside him. Whenever he encountered the captain, his eyes flickered with dark violence and I was in constant trepidation that he would do something rash. On the morning of 14th March, he and Milou found me in my room. “We have a simple question to ask you, Sir,” said the Canadian. “Go on, Ned.” “How many men do you think there are on board the Nautilus?” “It’s impossible to tell, my friend.” “It seems to me that this ship does not need a very large crew.” “Certainly, in the way things are running at the moment, only 10 men should be sufficient.” “All right,” said Ned, “then why should there be more than that?” “If my hunches are to be trusted, Ned, then I would say that it’s because the Nautilus isn’t merely a ship. It’s a haven for people who have severed all ties with dry land, like its master.” “Perhaps,” put in Milou, “but, realistically speaking, all vessels can only hold a finite number of people. Couldn’t Master estimate the maximum capacity?” “How, Milou?” “Through calculation. Master is familiar with the ship’s measurements, hence the amount of air it contains. And Master is aware of the amount that one man consumes per day. When this information is offset with the fact that the Nautilus rises to the surface each day …” “I follow you,” I said, “but those kinds of calculations are still going to come up with very uncertain figures.” “That’s not a problem,” Ned Drake said, insistently. “Then, here’s how to calculate it,” I replied. “In an hour, each man consumes the oxygen contained in 20 gallons of air, hence, during 24 hours, the oxygen contained in 480 gallons. Therefore, we must look for the multiple of 480 gallons of air to give us the amount found in the Nautilus.” “Precisely,” Milou put in. 267

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“Now then,” I continued, “the Nautilus’s capacity is 3 million and 300 thouand pounds, and that of a ton is 200 gallons, so our vessel holds 300 thousand gallons of air, which, divided by 480 . . .” I did a quick pencil calculation. “ . . . gives us the quotient of 625, which is tantamount to saying that the air contained in the Nautilus would be exactly enough for 625 men over 24 hours.” “625!” Ned repeated. “But, rest assured,” I added, “that between passengers, seamen, or officers, I don’t think we total a 10th of that figure.” “But that still means there are too many for 3 men,” Ned Drake muttered, finally realising a truth I had been aware of from the start. “So, my poor Ned, I can only counsel patience.” “And,” Milou replied, “even more than patience, resignation.” “Even so,” the Canadian went on, “Captain Nemo can’t go south forever. He’ll have to stop, if only at the Ice Bank. And then he’ll return to the seas of civilization and it will be time to resume Ned Drake’s plans.” He left us, shaking his head and muttering under his breath. “If I may I make an observation, to Master?” said Milou, “ Poor Ned is longing for everything that he cannot have. He’s haunted by his past way of life and bitterly regrets the restrictions currently placed on us. Master needs to try and understand what he’s going through. He has no way to occupy himself here and it’s breaking his heart. Ned isn’t a scientist and he’s far from fascinated by the seas wonders. He would risk anything just to walk into a tavern in his own country.” Milou was right. The monotony of life on board must have been unbearable to the Canadian, who was used to freedom and outdoor activity. These days, it was a rare thing if something occurred that roused his interest other than the possibility of escape. On that day, however, he was able to lose himself in the happy memories of his previous employment. At 10:50, the Nautilus was floating on the surface of the water and encountered a herd of baleen whales. This did not surprise me. I knew that these animals were being hunted so relentlessly northwards that they took refuge in the ocean basins of the high latitudes. We were sitting on the platform looking out at a tranquil sea. The month of March, the equivalent of October at these latitudes, was providing us with fine autumn days. It was the Canadian who sighted a whale first, on the eastern horizon. And Ned Drake was never mistaken in this count. If you looked carefully, you could make out its dark back, rising and falling above the waves, about 5 miles off from the Nautilus. “Ah,” said the harpoonist with great regret, “if only I were on board a whaler now. This would be an encounter full of adventure. That is one massive animal, over there. Just look at how high his blowholes are spouting air and steam. Damnation! Why am I chained to this hunk of iron instead?” 270

“Why, Ned,” I said, “do you mean to tell me that you are still ruled by your old fishing urges?” “How could any whaler forget his trade, Sir? Who could ever tire of such challenging hunting?” “And you’ve never fished in these seas, Ned?” “Never, Sir. Only in the north seas, around the Bering and the Davis Straits.” “Then, the southern right whale must be unknown to you. It’s the bowhead whale you’ve hunted. He won’t risk going below the equator, the waters are too warm for him.” “What are you feeding me, Professor?” said Ned Drake. “I’m feeding you the facts.” “The facts? By thunder, in 1865, I stepped onto a whale carcass near Greenland and its flank still carried a harpoon bearing the mark of a whaling ship of the Bering Sea. Now I ask you, after it had been wounded west of America, how is it possible that it was killed in the east, unless it had cleared the equator or doubled the Cape of Good Hope?” “Friend Ned asks an excellent question,” said Milou. “What is Master’s response?” “It is simply, my friends, that baleen whales are localized according to species. They never leave certain seas. If one whale went from the Bering Strait to the Davis Strait it must be because there is a passageway between the seas, either along the coast of Canada or Siberia.” “Do you honestly expect us to fall for that?” asked Ned Drake, incredulous. “Master is not joking,” said Milou. “Do you mean to tell me that, because I’ve never fished in these waterways, I don’t know the whales that frequent them?” “That’s exactly what I was trying to say, Ned.” “Well, then, all the more reason to get better acquainted! Look, It’s approaching! Coming this way! It’s actually thumbing its nose towards me as he knows I can’t get at it.” He stamped his foot, brandishing an imaginary harpoon. His hands were trembling. “These cetaceans, are they as big as those in the northern seas?” he asked. “Almost,” I said. “Because I’ve seen enormous whales, Sir, some measuring up to 100 feet long. And I’ve heard that rorqual whales off the Aleutian Islands, a Russian colony, sometimes grow to over 150 feet.” “That sounds a bit far-fetched,” I said. “Those creatures are part of the genus Balaenoptera, with dorsal fins like sperm whales. They’re usually smaller than the bowhead whale.” The Canadian’s eyes had never left the waves. ”You talk about sperm whales as if they were small beasts,” he continued, “but there are tales of gigantic sperm whales that are shrewd creatures. Some cover themselves with algae and focus plants so that people mistake them for islands — Oh, it’s coming closer — They pitch camp and light a fire and then …” 271

“Build houses?” ventured Milou. “Yes, they do, actually. And then, one fine day, the animal dives, dragging the people to the depths.” “Like in the voyages of Sinbad the Sailor,” I said, laughing now. “Mr Drake, you’re riddled with tall tales. These are fantastic sperm whales you’re giving us. I hope you don’t actually believe in them.” “My dear Mr Naturalist,” Ned Drake replied in all seriousness, “when it comes to whales, anything is possible. Look at that one move! It’s stealing away. People say that these animals can swim around the world in only 15 days.” “I won’t disagree, Ned.” “But, what you don’t know, Sir, is that at the beginning of the world, they went even quicker.” “Oh, really? And why is that?” “In those days, its tail moved from side to side, like those on other fish. But the creator saw that they were going too fast and slowed them down by twisting their tails. Ever since then, they’ve been thrashing the waters up and down rather then left and right, which hinders their speed.” “Oh, Ned, do you expect us to fall for that?” I said, co-opting one of his own expressions. “Not greatly,” he said, “and no more than if I told you there are 300 foot whales weighing a million pounds.” “That is, indeed, impressive,” I said, “but you must grant me that there are some cetaceans that manage to reach significant sizes, being able to provide up to 120 tons of oil.” “I’ve been witness to that,” said the Canadian. “I’m sure you have, Ned. And I’m also certain that some baleen whales can reach the bulk of a hundred elephants. Imagine the impact of such a mass if it were launched at full speed.” “Is it true that they can sink ships?” asked Milou. “I doubt entire ships,” I said, “but it is said that, in 1820, right here in these southern seas, a baleen whale stormed the Essex, pushing it backwards at a speed of 4 yards per second. The ship’s stern flooded and it sank.” Ned looked at me with a twinkle in his eye. “I once got smacked by a whale’s tail. I was in my longboat at the time. My companions and I were thrown into the air about 6 yards high. But next to the Professor’s whale, mine was a baby,” he said. “Do they live a long time?” was Milou’s next question. “A thousand years,” said the harpoonist, without the slightest hesitation. “And how do you know this to be true?” I asked. “Because that’s what people say,” was his response. “And why do people say this?” “Because they know this.” “No, Ned, people don’t know this, they merely assume it. The logic is as follows: When fishermen first started hunting whales, about 400 years ago, these animals were larger than they are today. So people now think that they are smaller because they haven’t had the time to reach their full potential. That’s why the Count de Buffon’s 272

encyclopedia claims that they should live for up to 1,000 years. Do you understand?” He did not. He was no longer even listening to me. That baleen whale kept coming closer and his eyes devoured it. “Oh!” he cried, “it’s not one whale, it’s 10, 20, a whole pod! And I can’t do a thing about it!” “But, Ned, my friend, why not just ask Captain Nemo for permission to hunt?” said Milou. Ned Drake disappeared down the hatch to go and find the captain. Moments later, they had reappeared together. Captain Nemo watched the herd cavorting amongst the waves, now about a mile from the Nautilus. “They’re southern right whales,” he said. “There goes the entire fortune of a whaling fleet.” “Well, Sir, couldn’t I hunt them? Just to keep my hand in with my old trade?” asked Ned Drake. “Hunt them?” said Captain Nemo, “What on earth for? We’ve no use for whale oil on this ship.” “But in the Red Sea you gave your permission for us to chase a dungong, Sir,” said the Canadian. “In that situation, it was a matter of providing meat for my crew. Here, it would be killing for the sake of it. I don’t allow such murderous sport, Mr Drake. When your colleagues kill the southern right whale or the bowhead whale, they commit a serious crime. The whole of Baffin Bay has already been depopulated and, if they’re not careful, the entire species is going to be wiped out. So please leave those cetaceans alone. They have quite enough natural enemies, from the swordfish and the sperm whale to the sawfish, without you adding to the slaughter. The Canadian’s facial expressions during this lecture on hunting ethics were not pleasant to look at. Such arguments were a waste for words to a professional harpooner. Ned Drake stared at the Captain, misunderstanding what he was saying. But the Captain was right. The barbaric bloodlust of fishermen will one day end the baleen whale’s existence. Studying the herd, the Captain said to me, “Am I right in claiming that the baleen whale has enough natural enemies without factoring in man? These poor creatures are soon going to be faced with dangerous opponents. Eight miles to leeward are blackish specks moving about. Can you see them, Professor Jeanneret?” “Yes, Captain.” “Those are sperm whales, or cachalots, dreadful creatures that I’ve sometimes encountered in herds of up to 300. They’re cruel and destructive beasts and deserve to be exterminated.” The Canadian cheered up at these last words. “Well, Captain,” I said, “on behalf of those baleen whales, there’s still time …” “I don’t see the point of running unnecessary risks, professor. The Nautilus’s spur can deal with those creatures more efficiently than Ned Drake’s harpoon.” The Canadian’s feelings concerning this mode of attack were all 273

too obvious. “Wait and watch,” said the Captain, ”and you’ll soon see a new style of hunting that you’ve never considered before. We’ll have no mercy on the ferocious cetaceans. They’re only mouths and teeth.” As that monstrous herd continued to approach, we went to the aid of the baleen whales. We situated ourselves in the saloon, where we watched the slaughter through the opened panels, while Captain Nemo sat with the helmsmen to help him operate the submarine that had become a weapon of destruction. I felt the beats of the propeller getting stronger as we moved forwards. A slaughter of epic proportions then ensued. The Nautilus was able to manoeuvre deftly to ensure that not a single long-sculled predator escaped her spur. In the Captain’s hands, she became a terrifying harpoon. Ned Drake dropped his scepticism and started enjoying himself, even applauding at certain points. Finally, the mass of monsters was thinned out. The agitated water became tranquil again. I felt the vessel rising to the surface and the hatch was opened. We rushed to the platform to see the water covered in mutilated corpses. It looked as if some terrible explosion had wreaked havoc among the torn, slashed and shredded flesh. We floated amidst the gigantic bodies, bluish on the black and whitish on the belly, all deformed by massive protuberances. A few frightened sperm whales could be seen fleeing in the distance. Several miles of waves around us were red from all the blood. Captain Nemo joined us. “Well, Mr Drake,” he said. “Well, Sir?” replied the Canadian, whose enthusiasm had now died down. “It was a terrible sight, to be sure. But I’m a hunter, not a butcher. And this is outright butchery.” “It was the slaughter of destructive nuisances,” said the Captain, curtly. “The Nautilus is no butcher’s knife.” “I prefer my harpoon,” said Ned Drake. “Each to his own,” responded the Captain, staring intently at the Canadian. I was truly afraid that the latter would give vent to his pent up violence, which would have dire consequences for all of us. But a baleen whale that was being pulled up alongside the ship diverted his attention. The poor animal had been a victim of those cachalots. I recognized the southern right whale’s squat head and dark body. Anatomically, it’s distinguished from the white whale and the black right whale by the fusion of its 7 cervical vertebrae. And it has 2 more ribs than its relatives. This creature was floating on its side, revealing a belly riddled with bites, undeniably dead. Still hanging from the tip of its mutilated fin was a little baby whale that it had been unable to protect from the slaughter. Its open mouth let water flow through its whalebone like a murmuring surf. A couple of Captain Nemo’s men climbed onto the whale’s flank. To my astonishment, I saw them draw milk from its udders, which was enough to fill 3 casks. The captain offered me a cup of this still-warm 274

milk. I couldn’t help showing my distaste for such a beverage. He assured me that the drink was excellent, no different from cow’s milk. I sampled a little and was forced to agree. This milk was a valuable reserve ration for us, as we could manufacture butter or cheese from it, which would provide a pleasant change of pace from our standard fare. From that day on, I was forced to note, with some distress, that Ned Drake’s attitude toward Captain Nemo worsened. I decided to keep a close watch on the Canadian’s movements and activities.

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13. The Ice Bank The Nautilus continued her southerly course, passing the 50th meridian with considerable speed. Would she try to go to the pole? I considered this to be unlikely. All other attempts to attain that goal had failed. Furthermore, the season was fairly advanced, as 13th March along Antarctic shores corresponds to 13th September in the northern hemisphere, marking the equinoctial period. On 14th March, I spotted floating ice in latitude 55˚. They were plain strips of rubble that formed reefs of around 23 feet long, which were washed over by the waves, creating a great deal of foam. The Nautilus stayed on the ocean’s surface. Having spent time in the Arctic Seas, Ned Drake was already familiar with icebergs, but Milou and I, on seeing them for the first time, were entranced. A dazzling white band stretched across the sky in the southern horizon. This is given the name “ice blink” by English sailors. Clouds, no matter how dense they might be, cannot obscure the phenomenon. This is the herald to a pack or shoal of ice. Larger blocks of ice soon made their appearance, shining in different degrees, depending on the amount of mists encircling them. Some of these had undulating green veins, as if someone had scrawled on them with copper sulphate. If coloured with limestone green, these could have provided sufficient building materials to make an entire town out of marble. Others resembled huge amethysts that allowed the sunlight to shine on their insides. The rays were then reflected out again from the thousand facets of the crystal surfaces. The further south we journeyed, the more of these floating islands we saw. Polar birds nested on them by the thousands. These were pigeons, cape kestrels, also called puffins, and their calls were overwhelming. Some of them mistook the Nautilus for the corpse of a whale and alighted on it, prodding the ship’s metal surface with their beaks. While navigating through the ice, Captain Nemo often stayed on the platform. He scanned the deserted waterways with great concentration. Sometimes, I noted a jubilant gleam in his remote eyes. He seemed to be quite comfortable in these seas forbidden to men. He usually just stood on the platform gazing at the icy seas, completely still, until his piloting instincts got the better of him and he went to take over the wheel. The Captain steered the Nautilus with great dexterity, dodging masses of ice, some of which were several miles in length. Their heights varied from 77 to 87 yards. At certain points, the horizon appeared to be completely blocked off. Once abreast of latitude 60˚, there were no more passageways. Moving with great care, Captain Nemo managed to locate a narrow opening, which he slipped the ship into, knowing full well that it would close behind us. Through his skilful guidance, 278

the Nautilus glided through all manner of different kinds of ice with an elegance that quite charmed Milou. The temperature outside was -2˚ to -3˚ centigrade below zero, but we kept warm in furs for which seals and aquatic bears had paid the price. The ship’s interior was never too cold, as the electricity provided heating as required. Also, the Nautilus only had to sink a few feet below the waves to find a better temperature. If we had arrived 2 months earlier, this latitude would have been in perpetual daylight, but we were already experiencing 3 to 4 hours of night. Soon there would be 6 months of shadow across these circumpolar regions. On 15th March, we passed beyond the latitude of New Shetland and South Orkney. The Captain explained to me that, formerly, numerous different tribes of seals had inhabited the area. But American and British whalers had slaughtered them all, even the pregnant females. What had once been lively populated shores were now only silence and death. Following the 55th meridian, the Nautilus cut the Antarctic Circle on 16th March at 11:15. We were completely surrounded by ice, which blocked off the horizon. But Captain Nemo kept finding new passageways to get us further south. I had to ask where he was going at some point. “Straight ahead,” was Milou’s view, “and then, when he can’t go any further, he’ll stop.” “I wouldn’t bet on it,” I cautioned, wary of previous experience. To be honest, this bold venture was hardly displeasing to me. I was in complete awe of the beauty of that region and the superb, dramatic forms of ice. The cracked and frosted surfaces reminded me of the treacle effects found in the glassworks on board the Nautilus, especially the gelatinous lamps lining the gangway whose animated light effects often gave the impression that the objects were half alive. My observation seemed to please Captain Nemo when I told him. He was kind enough to explain the technique that had gone into the production of these luminous works of art. Influenced by an ancient Japanese method, bits of hard glass were mixed with coloured oxides and molten glass and were then fired like stoneware to achieve the desired affect. Contemplating the landscape, the frozen shapes sometimes suggested an oriental town made up of countless minarets and mosques. In other parts, a city in ruins, flung to the ground by convulsions in the earth. These scenes varied greatly, being continuously affected by the sun’s oblique rays and, at times, were also completely swallowed up by the grey mists of blizzards. I witnessed explosions and cave-ins, leading to great iceberg somersaults that could unfurl all around us, altering the scenery like the changing landscape in a diorama. If the Nautilus was submerged during these losses of balance, we could hear the noise of the activity spreading beneath the waters with frightful intensity. The collapsing masses created daunting eddies down to the ocean’s lower strata and also made the Nautilus roll and pitch like a ship 279

left to the fury of the elements. I often looked around and could see no escape route. Panicking despite myself, I then assumed we were imprisoned for good, but Captain Nemo never failed to find new passageways from the tiniest of indications. His instincts were never wrong and he looked out for signs like slender threads of bluish water streaking through the ice fields. I was sure that he already had some experience in guiding the Nautilus through Antarctic seas. On 16th March, the ice finally blocked our path completely. It wasn’t the Ice Bank yet, but huge ice fields that the cold had welded together. This did not dissuade Captain Nemo. He proceeded to launch his vessel against the ice with great violence. The Nautilus drove into the brittle mass like a wedge, splitting them up with a dreadful crackling sound, like an old-fashioned battering ram but powered with electrical force. As it plunged forwards, ice rubble was thrown into the air, only to fall back around us like hail. Through sheer brute force, the submersible carved out a channel for itself. Sometimes the momentum of the ship carried it on top of these tracts of ice, crushing them with its weight. At other times, when cooped up beneath the ice fields, it split them with simple pitching movements, creating wide punctures. Violent squalls assaulted us during the daytime. The mists could be so heavy that we couldn’t see from one end of the platform to the other. The wind shifted sharply to every point on the compass. The snow was beginning to pile up in such densely packed layers that it had to be chipped loose with blows from picks. Even in a temperature of merely -5° centigrade below zero, every outside part of the Nautilus was coated with ice. A ship’s rigging would have been rendered useless under these conditions, as its tackle would have jammed in the grooves of the pulleys. But a craft without sails, driven by an electric motor that needed no coal, could face such high latitudes. The barometer generally stayed quite low, only falling as far as 28.94 inches of mercury. Our compass indications no longer offered any guarantees. The further south we went, the more our needles started acting up, marking completely contradictory directions. The southern magnetic pole does not coincide with the actual South Pole. In fact, according to the astronomer Hansteen, the magnetic pole is actually located fairly close to latitude 70° and longitude 130°. If we were to abide by Louis-Isidore Duperrey’s observations, then we would say that it is in longitude 135° and latitude 70° 30’. We were forced to walk around with compasses in different parts of the ship to try and take as many readings as possible and work out an average and we often had to chart our course using guesswork alone, a less than satisfactory method in the midst of that winding ice labyrinth whose landmarks change continuously. Finally, on 18th March, the Nautilus was stuck. Despite 20 separate assaults on the ice, the ship made no inroads. Our environment was no longer an ice stream, patch or field. It was an endless barrier created by the fusion of ice mountains. “The Ice Bank,” the Canadian told us. 280

For Ned Drake, and every navigator that had gone, before us, the Ice Bank was known to be an insurmountable obstacle. The sun appeared momentarily around noon and Captain Nemo was able to take a reasonably accurate sight that gave our position as longitude 51° 30’ and latitude 67° 39’ south. We had come far in these Antarctic regions. The liquid surface of the sea was no longer visible. In front of the Nautilus’s spur lay only vast broken plains, forming a tangle of confused chunks with all the unpredictability typical of a river’s surface a short while before its ice breakup. But, in this case, the proportions were gigantic. Sharp peaks stood out along the way, as well as lean spires that rose as high as 200 feet. Farther off, a succession of steeply cut cliffs sported a greyish hue, serving as massive mirrors that reflected the sparse rays of a sun half drowned in mist. Beyond, there reigned a stark silence. In that desolate natural setting, one could only occasionally hear the flapping wings of petrels or puffins. It seemed like everything was frozen, even sound. The Nautilus had to halt in its bold course through these tracts of ice. “Sir,” Ned Drake told me that day, “if your Captain goes any farther . . .” “Yes?” “He’ll be a superman.” “How so, Ned?” “Because nobody can clear the Ice Bank. The man’s powerful but, damnation, he isn’t more powerful than nature! If she draws a boundary line, you have to respect it, whether you like it or not.” “Correct, Ned, but I still have a yearning to know what’s behind this Ice Bank. Behold my greatest source of irritation — a wall!” “Master is right,” Milou said. “The purpose of walls is to frustrate scientists. They should be banned.” “But we already know what’s behind this Ice Bank,” said the Canadian. “Do we? What?” I asked. “Ice, ice, and more ice.” “You may be sure of that, Ned,” I answered, “but I’m not. That’s why I want to see for myself.” “Well, Professor,” the Canadian replied, “you’d better just drop that idea, right now. You’ve made it to the Ice Bank, which is already quite far enough. You can’t get any farther from here, not even with your Captain Nemo and his Nautilus. And whether he wants to or not, we’ll have to head north again, to the land of sensible people.” I had to agree that Ned Drake was right. Until the ships are built that can navigate over tracts of ice, they will have to stop at the Ice Bank. Despite all her efforts, the Nautilus was immobile. Usually, when it is not possible to continue further, there is the option of returning the way one came. This was not the case with our journey. Our route had closed up as we passed through it and if we remained still for much longer we would be frozen here. It was nearly 14:00 in the afternoon when fresh ice began to form over 281

the ship’s sides, with frightening speed. Even I was willing to admit that Captain Nemo’s leadership had shown grave irresponsibility this time. I had been on the platform a long time, when the Captain broke the silence, saying: “Well, Professor, what do you think?” “I think we’re trapped, Captain.” “And what do you mean by trapped?” “Well, we can’t move forwards, backwards or sideways. That’s the definition of trapped in any civilized language.” “So, Professor, you don’t think that the Nautilus will be able to float clear?” “With great difficulty. The season is too far advanced for you to rely on any ice breakups.” “Oh, professor, you never change,” Captain Nemo sighed. “Where I see a forward route, you only see impediments and obstacles. I can assure you that, not only will the Nautilus get clear of this, it is going to continue its journey south.” “Farther south?” I was now gaping at the Captain. “Indeed, Sir, we will go to the pole.” “To the pole?” I was in such shock, I could barely breathe. “Yes, the Antarctic Pole, that remote spot crossed by every meridian on the globe. You should know by now that, with my Nautilus, I go wherever I please.” I did know that. What I knew was that this man was reckless enough to risk all of our lives in order to overcome the obstacles between himself and the South Pole. It was an utterly insane undertaking. Not even the North Pole, which is more attainable, had been reached yet. I was about to call him a madman, when it occurred to me that Captain Nemo may very well have already discovered this pole, where no other man had ever set foot. I asked him directly. “No, sir,” he answered, “but we’re going to do so together. Where others have failed, I will succeed. The Nautilus has never travelled this far south before, but she will go further still.” “I truly want to believe you, Captain,” I said, with a tinge of sarcasm. “Let’s not allow this little Ice Bank to stop us. With such meagre obstacles, let’s forge ahead! Blow it up! And if it still resists, we can just put wings on the Nautilus and fly over it.” “Not over, but under,” was the Captain’s serene reply. And finally Captain Nemo’s plans became clear. “I can see we’re starting to understand each other now, Professor,” he said. “You already have an inkling of the potential of this attempt. The Nautilus has capabilities that no other ship shares. If there is a continent at the pole, then we will stop at it. If it is open sea, then we’ll travel there.” “Right,” I said, starting to be convinced by the captain’s logic. “Even though the surface of the sea has solidified into ice, its lower strata must still be open as the maximum density of salt water is a degree above its freezing point. And if I’m not mistaken, the submerged part of this Ice Bank is in a 4 to 1 ratio to its emerging part.” 282

“Very nearly, professor. For each foot of iceberg above the sea, there is 3 more below. Now then, since these ice mountains don’t exceed a height of 110 yards, they only sink to a depth of 330 yards. And what are 330 yards to the Nautilus?” “A mere trifle, Sir.” “If we go even further down, we’ll find the temperature layer that is common to all ocean water. Anyway, we could comfortably brave the -30° or -40° centigrade cold on the surface with impunity.” “That’s very true,” I replied with growing excitement. “Our sole difficulty,” Captain Nemo went on, “lies in our staying submerged for several days without renewing our air supply.” “Is that all?” I answered. “The Nautilus has huge air tanks. Once filled, surely they’ll supply all the oxygen we need?” “Yes, Professor Jeanneret,” the captain replied with a smile. “But since I don’t want to be accused of foolhardiness, I’m putting all your potential objections to you in advance.” “Which ones remain?” “Just one. If a sea exists at the South Pole, it’s entirely possible that it is completely frozen over. So we may not be able to come up to the surface.” “My dear sir, what about the Nautilus’s spur? Couldn’t it be launched diagonally against those tracts of ice, cracking them open from the impact?” “Ah, professor, you’re full of ideas today.” “Besides, Captain,” I added, with still greater enthusiasm, “why wouldn’t we find open sea at the South Pole just as at the North Pole? The cold-temperature poles and the geographical poles don’t coincide in either the northern or southern hemispheres. Until there is proof to the contrary, we can assume these 2 spots on the earth feature either a continent or an ice-free ocean.” “I think as you do, Professor Jeanneret,” Captain Nemo replied. “But I’d like to point out that after raising so many objections against my plan, you’re now plying me with arguments in its favour.” Captain Nemo was right. I was outdoing him in daring and it seemed like it was now my idea to sweep him along to the pole. On reflection, this was not the case, as Captain Nemo knew the pros and cons of the endeavour far better than I. It merely amused him to see me flying off into extremes. Nevertheless, he didn’t waste an instant. The chief officer had appeared and the men were holding an exchange in their incomprehensible language. Either the chief officer had been alerted previously or he found the plan feasible immediately, because he showed no surprise. But as unemotional as he was, even he couldn’t beat Milou’s response when I told the fine lad our plans. He greeted my announcement with the usual, “as Master wishes,” and I had to be content with that. As for Ned Drake, his shoulders heaved with another despairing shrug. “Honestly, Sir,” he told me, “I don’t know who to pity more, you or your Captain Nemo.” “But we will go to the pole, Mr Drake.” 283

“Maybe, but we won’t come back.” And Ned Drake re-entered his cabin, “to keep from doing something desperate,” he said as he left me. Preparations for the daring adventure were now well under way. The Nautilus’s pumps were working full blast to force air into the tanks and store it at high pressure. It was 15:55 when Captain Nemo informed me that the hatches were about to be closed. I took a deep breath and one last look at the Ice Bank that we hoped to conquer. The skies were reasonably clear and the cold quite brisk at -12˚ below zero. When the wind died down, the cold was actually bearable. Ten men, armed with picks, had climbed down the sides of the ship and were cracking the ice loose around her lower plating. Its snaking coils were soon released from their icy bondage. The whole operation went quickly as the ice was fresh and still thin. We all entered the interior. The main ballast tanks started to fill with that water which was not yet congealed at our line of flotation. The Nautilus sank. I took a seat in the saloon alongside Milou. We stared through the open window at the lower beds of the southernmost part of the ocean. The thermometer rose once more and the needle on the pressure gauge swerved over its dial. At a depth of about 1,000 feet, as predicted by Captain Nemo, it was possible to cruise beneath the undulating surface of the Ice Bank. The Nautilus went even deeper, reaching the depth of 440 fathoms. The water’s temperature at the surface had registered -12˚ centigrade. It was now -10˚, so we had gained 2 degrees. Needless to say, the Nautilus’s heating equipment kept our temperature far higher. “With all due respect,” said Milou, “I honestly think we’re going to clear this.” “So do I,” I replied with deep conviction. Now in open water under the ice, the Nautilus took a direct course to the pole, never veering from the 52nd meridian. Only 22.5° of latitude were left to cross. In other words, slightly more than 500 leagues. The Nautilus travelled at an average speed of 26 miles per hour, that of an express train. If she managed to keep it up, she would take 40 hours to reach the pole. The novelty of our circumstances kept Milou and I at the saloon panels for most of the night. The deserted depths of the sea were lit up by electric rays, with not a fish to be seen. Our progress was swift and exhilarating. You could feel the very vibrations of the long steel hull. I went to catch a couple of hours of sleep at 02:00, as did Milou. I saw no sign of Captain Nemo at any point. I assumed that he was manning the helm. On the next day, 19th March, I was back at my post at 05:15. The electric log showed that the Nautilus had reduced speed. It was already rising to the surface, but with extreme caution, slowly emptying its ballast tanks as it went. My heart was pounding. There was no way of telling if we would emerge into the open and breathe the polar air again. A terrifying jolt told me that the Nautilus had bumped into the 284

underbelly of the Ice Bank. Judging by the noise it made, the ice was still quite thick. To use nautical terminology, we had “struck bottom”, although the phrase usually refers to the opposite direction. The depth was then one of 3,000 feet. I calculated that this gave us 4,000 feet of ice overhead, of which 1,000 feet emerged above water. This meant that the Ice Bank was higher on this side than it had been on the outskirts, a circumstance that was less than encouraging. The Nautilus repeated the same experiment several times that day. There always followed a sickening bump against the ceiling above us. At certain points, the ship encountered ice at a depth of 980 yards, suggesting a thickness of 1,300 yards, of which 328 rose above sea level. The height had effectively tripled since the moment the Nautilus had dived beneath the waves. I meticulously noted these different depths, obtaining the underwater profile of this upside-down mountain chain. By evening, there was still no improvement to our situation. The ice stayed between 440 and 550 yards deep. It was clearly diminishing, but was nevertheless an immense barrier between the ocean’s surface and our ship. It was 20:00. The air inside the Nautilus should have been renewed 4 hours before, had it been a normal day, but I didn’t suffer terribly. Captain Nemo had not yet made any inroads into the supplementary oxygen in his air tanks. That night, my sleep was besieged by hope mingled with fear and I got up several times. The Nautilus continued groping. At 03:20, I observed that we encountered the Ice Bank’s underbelly at a depth of only 55 yards. Only 150 feet separated us from the surface of the water. The Ice Bank was gradually becoming an ice field. The mountains were changing back into plains. My eyes didn’t leave the pressure gauge. We kept rising on a diagonal, following the shiny surface that sparkled beneath our electric rays. Above and below, the Ice Bank was subsiding in long gradients. We watched it grow thinner, mile after mile. Finally, at 06:05 in the morning on that memorable day of 19th March, the drawing room door opened. Captain Nemo appeared. “Open sea,” was all he said.

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14. The South Pole I rushed up onto the platform and there was the open sea. It stretched far into the distance, scattered with sparse floes and floating icebergs. There were hosts of birds in the air and myriads of fish in the waters, which varied in colour from an intense blue to an olive green, depending on its depth. The thermometer showed that it was 3˚ centigrade above zero. It was as if springtime had been stowed away behind that Ice Bank, whose outline could now only be seen far away along the northern horizon. My heart was pounding. “Are we at the pole?” I asked the Captain. “I’ve no idea,” was his response. “I’ll take our bearings at noon.” Examining the grey skies, I wondered if the sun would show itself through this thick fog. “No matter how weak the rays are, it will be enough for me,” he replied. About 10 miles south from us was a solitary island, rising up to about 220 yards. We headed towards it, but with great caution, as the sea could well have been strewn with reefs. We reached it in about an hour and, after 2, had managed to circle it. Its circumference was about 4 or 5 miles. A narrow canal separated it from a great stretch of land, which could well have been a continent. It was impossible to gauge its full extent. The existence of this land mass seemed to prove Commander Maury’s hypotheses. This astute American has noted that, between the South Pole and the 60th parallel, the sea is covered with great slabs of floating ice, much larger than those to be found in the northern Atlantic. As icebergs can only be formed along shores, he deduced that there must be a considerable landmass in the Antarctic Circle. His calculations suggest that this frozen continent containing the southernmost pole forms a vast ice cap of about 2,500 miles in circumference. The Nautilus, afraid of running aground in these unchartered waters, had stopped. We were about 3 cable lengths from a beach crowned with a superb pile of rocks. The boat was launched with the Captain and 2 of his men, alongside Milou and myself inside. It was then 10:30. I had not seen Ned Drake and presumed he was probably still in his room, in denial of the fact that we had reached the South Pole. A few strokes of the oars brought us to the land, where it ran into the sand. Milou was about to leap ashore, but I held him back. I told Captain Nemo, “Sir, the honour of being the first to set foot on this land belongs to you.” “Yes,” he said. “And if I have no reservations about setting foot on this land, it is because no human being has ever done so before. He jumped out with a light movement. His heart must have been bursting with the intensity of that moment. We watched him proceed to climb an overhanging rock that ended in a small 288

peninsula. He surveyed the territory from that vantage point. Arms crossed and eyes blazing, he gave every impression of laying claim to the region. This trance lasted for about 5 full minutes before he turned to us, saying: “When you’re ready.” I got out of the boat, with Milou close on my heels. The 2 crew members stayed in the skiff. The volcanic origin of the landscape was unmistakable. A large portion of the ground was made up of a reddish soil known as “tuff ”, which had the appearance of crushed bricks. This was topped with slag, lava fills and pumice stones. Some areas still gave off a whiff of sulphur, suggesting that the power of the underground fires was not too far away. However, when I scaled a high slope, I could see no signs of a volcano in the vicinity. It is widely known that Sir James Clark Ross found the craters of Mount Erebus and Mount Terror still very much active on the 167th meridian, latitude 77˚ 32’. It struck me that the vegetation in this region was rather bleak. It was the air that teemed with life. Birds flew and fluttered overhead by the thousands, deafening us with their calls. Crowding the rocks, other fowl watched without fear as we passed and pressed against our feet in a familiar manner. These were auks, as agile and supple in water, where they are sometimes mistaken for fast bonito, as they are clumsy and heavy on land. The birds uttered outlandish calls and participated in numerous public assemblies that featured a great deal of noise but very little action. Half a mile further, we found the ground was completely riddled with penguin nests. Hundreds of the birds emerged from their egg laying. As their black flesh is quite delicious, Captain Nemo had hundreds of them hunted later in the day. They brayed like donkeys. Each adult was roughly the size of a goose, with a slate-coloured body, white undersides and lemon-coloured neckbands. They made absolutely no attempt to escape when they were stoned to death. In the meantime, the mists still had not cleared. By 11:00, the sun still refused to show her face. It was a disturbing absence as, without it, no sights were possible and there was no way of telling whether we had reached the pole or not. When I went to find Captain Nemo, he was leaning silently against a piece of rock and staring at the sky. He seemed impatient, even anxious, but there was nothing to be done. Not even Captain Nemo could control the sun. When midday came, the orb refused to appear for a single instant. I couldn’t even make out where it was through the mist. In a short space of time, the mist became snow and we had to get back to the ship. “Until tomorrow,” the captain said to the white flurries. When we got back to the Nautilus, I was delighted to see that some local specimens of fish had already been hauled aboard. I tried some of it, but found that fish tasteless. Milou’s Flemish palate, however, was approving. The snow became a storm, which did not abate until the next day. There was no possibility of remaining on the platform. I repaired to 289

the saloon to write up the events of the day. In the background, I could still hear the calls of petrels and albatross cavorting through the blizzard. The Nautilus too refused to remain idle. She cruised along the coast, moving about 10 miles further south, using up the half light left by the sun as it skimmed the edge of the globe. By the next day, 20th March, the snow had stopped and the cold was more intense. The thermometer showed a reading of -3˚ centigrade. As the mists had cleared, I hoped that today we would be able to obtain a noon sighting. There was no sign of Captain Nemo, so Milou and I asked to be taken ashore in the boat. Myriads of birds continued to enliven the polar scene, with its basalt rock and petrified lava. I knew that they shared their dominion with huge herds of marine mammals that were present today, looking at us with gentle eyes. These were seals of various species, some stretched out on the ground, others lying on drifting ice floes or diving and emerging from the water. They had never encountered men before, so did not disperse at our approach. I counted enough of them thereabouts to supply provisions for a couple of hundred ships. “Dear gods,” Milou said, “it’s a good thing that Ned Drake didn’t come with us.” “Why is that, Milou?” “Because that crazed hunter would kill every animal here.” “He would certainly make the attempt. But I doubt we’re going to be able to keep our Canadian friend from harpooning some of these magnificent cetaceans. And it’s going to be a great affront to Captain Nemo as he hates to slay harmless beasts needlessly.” “I agree with him.” “So do I, Milou. But, tell me, haven’t you finished classifying these superb specimens of marine fauna?” “Master is well aware,” Milou replied, “that I’m not schooled in practical application. If you could be so kind as to tell me these animals’ names . . .” “They’re seals and walruses.” “Two genera,” our scholarly Milou hastened to say, “that belong to the family Pinnipedia, order Carnivora, group Unguiculata, subclass Monodelphia, class Mammalia, and branch Vertebrata.” “Good work, Milou,” I replied, “but these 2 genera of seals and walruses are each divided into species, and if I’m not mistaken, we now have a chance to actually inspect them. Let’s.” It was 8:00, so we had 4 pleasurable hours to ourselves before attempting another sighting. I led the way toward a huge bay that formed a crescent in the granite cliffs along the beach. Here, the shore and slabs of ice were crowded with marine creatures, as far as the eye could see. Involuntarily, I looked around for old Proteus, the shepherd of mythology who guarded King Neptune’s flocks. The seals formed distinct male and female groups. The fathers watched over their families, while the mothers suckled the young. The stronger youngsters played together a short distance away. They moved clumsily on land, in little jumps made by contracting their bodies. In doing 290

so, they were supported by their flippers (which in their manatee cousins, have evolved into forearms). In their natural element, these creatures are graceful swimmers, aided by their flexible backbones, narrow pelvises, short hair and webbed feet. When resting on shore, they assumed very elegant positions. Their gentle expressions and soft, sensitive eyes, equal to those of the loveliest of women, led the ancients to glorify the men as gods and the women as mermaids. No mammal besides man has as much brain matter. As a result, seals are quite capable of being trained and can make good pets. I am of an opinion shared by many of my colleagues that they could be educated to perform useful services, becoming the hunting dogs of fishermen. I showed Milou the considerable growth of the cerebral lobes of these intelligent cetaceans. Most of the seals were sleeping on the rocks or the sand. Among them were those who are properly named seals that have no external ears, unlike sea lions whose ears protrude, as well as several varieties of the species stenorhynchus. These are 10 feet long, with white hair, bulldog heads and armed with 10 teeth in each jaw: 4 incisors in both the upper and lower, plus 2 big canines shaped like the fleur-de-lys. Among them were some sea elephants, a type of seal with a short, flexible trunk. These are the giants of the species, with a circumference of 20 feet and a length of 11 yards. They didn’t move as we approached. “Are these animals dangerous?” Milou asked me. “Only if they’re attacked,” I replied. “When a giant seal defends its little ones, their fury is dreadful. It isn’t unusual for them to smash a fisherman’s longboat to bits.” “They’re well within their rights,” Milou answered. “I don’t disagree.” About 2 miles farther on was a promontory that screened the bay from southerly winds. It ended our path by dropping straight down to the sea. The surf foamed against it. From beyond the ridge was the sound of fearsome bellowing, much like that of a herd of frightened cattle. Milou asked me if we were approaching a herd of bulls and I explained that they were walruses, either fighting or playing. Milou insisted that we go see them. And so we proceeded, climbing up blackish rocks, amid sudden landslides and over stones slippery with ice. I took a tumble several times, at the expense of my backside. Milou, being more cautious, barely faltered. He helped me up each time, saying: “If Master’s legs would adopt a wider stance, he will keep his balance better.” We arrived at the topmost ridge of this promontory to see vast white plains covered with walruses. They were playing amongst themselves, howling with mirth rather than anger. Walruses resemble seals in the shape of their bodies and the arrangement of their limbs, but their lower jaws lack canines and incisors and their upper canines consist of 2 tusks, 31 inches long with a circumference of 13 inches at the socket. Being made of solid ivory, without striations, harder than elephant tusks and less prone to yellowing, these teeth are in great demand. Walruses are thus the 291

victims of mindless hunting that, without question, will one day destroy them all. Hunters indiscriminately slaughter pregnant females and youngsters and over 4,000 of these unusual animals are destroyed annually. Passing near the walrusses, we were able to examine them at leisure as they were relatively stationary. Their reddish hides were rough and heavy with short fur. Some were up to 13 feet long. Calmer and less threatened than their northern relatives, they did not find it necessary to post sentinels on guard duty at the entrances to their campsite, as is normally the case. After examining this community of walruses, I decided it was time to return. It was 11:00 and, if Captain Nemo found conditions favourable for taking his sights, I wanted to be present. But I held no hopes that the sun would make an appearance that day. It was hidden from our eyes by clouds squeezed together on the horizon. Apparently, the jealous orb didn’t want to reveal this inaccessible spot on the globe to any human being. We followed a steep, narrow path that led over the cliff ’s peak and, by 11:30, we had reached the landing spot. The captain had been brought ashore and was standing on a basalt rock with his instruments. His eyes were intently focussed on where the sun should have been, along the northern horizon. I found a place as near to him as was polite and waited. The clock struck 12, but the sun did not show itself. It was simply bad luck. If the disappointment was repeated the next day we would have to abandon any hopes of ever fixing our position. It was 20th March, so the following day would be the equinox. The sun would then disappear below the horizon for 6 whole months and the long polar night would begin. After the September equinox, the sun had risen from the northern horizon in long spiral arcs until 21st December. At the summer solstice, the sun had started to travel back down and was now about to cast its last rays. I ventured to share these thoughts with Captain Nemo. “You’re right, Professor Jeanneret,” he said. “If I can’t take the altitude of the sun tomorrow, I won’t be able to do so for 6 months. But, because of our sailor’s luck of being here on 21st March, it will be easy to take our bearings tomorrow, if we still can’t see the sun at noon.” “Why, Captain?” “Because, when the sun takes sweeps in such long spirals, it’s difficult to measure its exact altitude above the horizon and our instruments are actually liable to be inaccurate.” “Then what do you plan on doing?” “I will use only the chronometer. If the sun’s disc in solstice is cut exactly by the northern horizon, while allowing for refraction, it should prove that we are at the South Pole.” “All right,” I said, “but it isn’t an exact calculation as the equinox doesn’t fall precisely at noon.” “Indeed, sir, but the margin of error is a mere 110 yards and that’s close enough for me. Until tomorrow, then.” Captain Nemo went back on board while Milou and I stayed on the beach till evening, observing and studying. The only remarkable find was an auk’s egg of extreme proportions. A collector would 292

have paid more than a 1,000 Francs for it. It was cream coloured and decorated with streaks and markings not unlike hieroglyphics. I gave it to Milou who treated it like rare China. The sure-footed lad got it back to the Nautilus in one piece. I put the rare object inside one of the smaller glass cases in the museum, next to a display of other extraordinary eggs. The delicate oval framework of exquisite marquetry that framed the case was the perfect offset to those fragile specimens. The dinner that followed consisted of an excellent cut of seal liver, very similar to pork. Then I retired to bed, but not without first appealing to the radiant orb to shower us with blessings in the morning, as if I were a diligent Hindu. I rose the next day at 5:00 and went to the platform, only to find Captain Nemo already there. “The weather is clearing somewhat,” he announced. “I have high hopes for today. We shall go ashore after breakfast and find a suitable observation post.” With this issue summarily settled, I went to rouse Ned Drake. I wanted him to join us, but he obstinately refused. It was obvious that his bad mood was increasing by the day. On realising this was the state of affairs, I was quite relieved when he insisted on remaining on board. It would never do to expose such a depressed and impulsive hunter to the situation outside. With breakfast in my stomach, I made my way to the skiff. During the night, the Nautilus had travelled a few miles further along the coast. She was now a good league away from the coast near a jagged peak measuring about 500 yards. In the boat with me were Captain Nemo, 2 crewmen and all of the necessary instruments, including a chronometer, spyglass and barometer, all exquisitely calibrated in bronze. During our crossing, I saw a lot of baleen whales belonging to the 3 species unique to these southernmost seas: the bowhead whale, or “right whale,” according to the English, which has no dorsal fin; the humpback whale from the genus Balaenoptera, meaning “winged whales”, creatures with wrinkled bellies and huge whitish fins that, genus name regardless, do not have any wings; and the finback whale, yellowish brown, the swiftest of all cetaceans. This powerful animal is audible from far away when it sends up towering spouts of air and steam that resemble swirls of smoke. Herds of these different mammals were playing about in the tranquil waters. I could easily see that this Antarctic polar basin now served as a refuge for those cetaceans that were relentlessly pursued by hunters to the point of extinction. I also noted long, whitish strings of salps, a type of mollusc found in clusters, and some jellyfish of large size that swayed in the eddies of the billows. We landed at 09:20. The sky was beginning to brighten and the clouds were skidding southwards. Fog seemed to be rising from the cold surface of the waters. Captain Nemo headed towards a peak, which he had no doubt spotted when cruising southwards. It was a gruelling climb up to his chosen vantage point. The sharp lava and pumice stones cut into the skin and the air reeked of the 293

sulphurous fumes emitting from smoke holes. For a man who had sworn off any interaction with land, Captain Nemo scaled the rocks with enviable agility. He would have put Pyrenees mountain goats to shame. It took 2 long hours to claw our way to the summit of this halfcrystal, half-basalt peak. From its zenith, we could survey the vast ocean, whose boundary line was clearly scrawled against the backdrop of the northern sky. Dazzling tracts of whiteness were arrayed at our feet, while above were azure mists. To the north, the sun’s disc was a ball of fire already cutting into the mountain. The sea burst with jets of liquid below us, like hundreds of magnificent bouquets. The Nautilus could be seen in the distance, looking like nothing so much as a sleeping cetacean. To the south and east was an immense shore of chaotic rocks and ice. On arriving at the summit, Captain Nemo carefully worked out its height, using his barometer. He would have to take this into account when making his noon sighting. At 11:45, the sun was only visible through refraction. The golden disc dispersed its last rays across the deserted continent and down to the unsailed seas. Captain Nemo had brought a spyglass with a reticular eyepiece. This was able to correct the sun’s refraction through means of a mirror. He used this to watch the orb sinking, following an extreme extended diagonal that reached beyond the horizon. I held the chronometer while my heart thundered. If the lower half of the sun disappeared at the same time as the chronometer said noon, it would mean that we were at the South Pole. “Noon!” I called. “The South Pole,” was the Captain’s solemn response. He handed me the spyglass through which I could see the glowing orb cut in 2 equal halves by the horizon. I stared at the last rays embracing the peak on which we stood, while deep shadows advanced up its slopes. Resting his hand on my shoulder, Captain Nemo recited the following in sonorous tones: “In 1600, the Dutchman Gheritk was swept by storms and currents to latitude 64° south and thereby discovered the South Shetland Islands. On 17th January, 1773, the famous Captain Cook went along the 38th meridian, arriving at latitude 67° 30’; and on 30th January, 1774, along the 109th meridian, he reached latitude 71° 15’. In 1819, it was the Russian Bellinghausen who lay on the 69th parallel, and in 1821 on the 66th at longitude 111° west. In 1820, the Englishman Bransfield stopped at 65°. It was in that same year that the American Morrel, whose reports are dubious, went along the 42nd meridian, to find an open sea at latitude 70° 14’. In 1825, the Englishman Powell was unable to get beyond 62°. That same year, a humble English seal fisherman named Weddell went as far as latitude 72° 14’ on the 35th meridian, and as far as 74° 15’ on the 36th. In 1829, the Englishman Forster, commander of the Chanticleer, laid claim to the Antarctic continent in latitude 63° 26’ and longitude 66° 26’. On 1st February, 1831, the Englishman Biscoe discovered Enderby Land at latitude 68° 50’, Adelaide Land 294

at latitude 67° on 5th February, 1832, and Graham Land at latitude 64° 45’ on 21st February. In 1838, the Frenchman Dumont d’Urville stopped at the Ice Bank in latitude 62° 57’, sighting the LouisPhilippe Peninsula; on 21st January, at a new southerly position of 66° 30’, he named the Adélie Coast, and 8 days later, the Clarie Coast at 64° 40’. In 1838, the American Wilkes advanced as far as the 69th parallel on the 100th meridian. In 1839, the Englishman Balleny discovered the Sabrina Coast at the edge of the polar circle. Lastly, on 12th January , 1842, with his ships, the Erebus and the Terror, the Englishman Sir James Clark Ross found Victoria Land in latitude 70° 56’ and longitude 171° 7’ east; on the 23rd of that same month, he reached the 74th parallel, a position denoting the Farthest South attained until then; on the 27th he lay at 76° 8’; on the 28th at 77° 32’; on 2nd February at 78° 4’; and late in 1842 he returned to 71° but couldn’t get beyond it. “Now, in 1868, on this 21st day of March, I, Captain Nemo, have reached the South Pole at 90°. I hereby claim this entire part of the globe, equal to one-sixth of the known continents.” “In the name of which sovereign, Captain?” “In my own name.” So saying, Captain Nemo unfurled a black flag bearing a gold “N” on its quartered bunting. Then he turned towards the orb of day whose last rays were licking at the sea’s horizon: “Farewell, sun,” he called imperiously. “Disappear, radiant orb! Retire beneath this open sea, and let 6 months of night spread their shadows over my new domains!”

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15. Accident or Incident The next day, at 6 in the morning of 22nd March, preparations for departure began. Around us, the last glimmer of twilight was disappearing into night. The cold was now extreme. In the night sky, the stars had started to glitter with disarming intensity. The Southern Cross, the Polar Star of the Antarctic region, was at its zenith. The thermometer registered -12Â° centigrade and a fresh breeze left a sharp nip in the air. Ice floes multiplied over a sea that was starting to congeal everywhere we looked. Numerous blackish patches were spreading over its surface, announcing the imminent formation of fresh ice. This southernmost basin in which we found ourselves obviously froze over during its 6-month winter. I had to wonder what happened to the whales during this period. I assumed that they were forced to travel beneath the Ice Bank to find more temperate seas. The seals and walruses were acclimatized to the harsh environment and remained in the icy waterways. These animals know by instinct how to gouge holes in the ice and keep them continually open, so that they have breathing holes. Once all the birds have migrated northward, the marine mammals remain as sole lords of the polar continent. The Nautilusâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ballast tanks filled with water and took leave of the frozen shores. It stopped sinking at a depth of 1,000 feet. The propeller churned the waves and we set of northwards at a speed of 15 miles per hour. By afternoon, it was already under the immense frozen carapace of the Ice Bank. In case the Nautilus ran afoul of a submerged block of ice, the saloon panels remained closed. I spent my day with my notes, putting them in order. My mind remained completely immersed in memories of the South Pole. We had reached that inaccessible point without encountering any overt danger, as if we had been in a sea-going carriage, which simply glided along the tracks. And now we were on our return journey. Fate alone knew what it had in store for us. In the 5 and a half months since she had brought us on board the Nautilus, we had cleared 14,000 leagues, a track that is longer than the earthâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s equator. At 02:35 in the morning, I woke up to a violent collision. I sat up in bed, trying to hear what was happening in the darkness. I was suddenly hurled to the middle of my room. The Nautilus must have run aground and then sharply keeled over. I followed the walls and furniture with my fingers to grope my way to the saloon. The swirling metallic and wooden growths felt misplaced beneath my touch, as if they should have been in another position. In the drawing room, some of the lower lights were on. In the dim gloom, I could see what had happened. The ship was no longer vertical, but on her side. We were completely still. 298

The starboard pictures and masks now seemed glued to the tapestries, while those to port had their lower sides hanging a foot away from the wall. They cast long, jagged shadows in the gloom. Luckily, most of the glass cases and cabinets and Captain Nemo’s precious exhibits within had been firmly secured, in case of just such an exigency. But not even the most careful hand could have ensured that no damage was done in such a situation. Pieces of delicate furniture that had not been sufficiently secured were splintered apart on what was now the floor. There were also scatterings of broken shells, ceramic shards and splinters of different-coloured glass. I shuddered to think what precious marine finds and works of art had been ruined. I knew that I had taken no precautions when placing my own precious discoveries, in particular that marvellous auk shell I had just procured. It would now be smashed to bits, its yolk and possibly those of the eggs next to it would be smeared all over the cabinet’s velvet lining. From the dark interior, I could hear footsteps and muffled voices, but Captain Nemo did not make an appearance. It was Milou and Ned Drake who entered. “What is going on?” I asked them at once. “That’s what we came to ask Master,” said Milou. “Confound it!” raged the Canadian. “I know full well what has happened. The Nautilus has run aground! And judging from the way she’s listing, I don’t think we stand as much chance as we did at the Torres Strait.” “But, does that at least mean that we’re back at the surface of the sea?” I said, moving across to the instruments. I consulted the manometer and, to my great surprise, it showed us to be 197 fathoms deep. “What can this mean?” I wondered. “We must ask Captain Nemo,” said Milou. Lighting an oil lamp, we made some attempt to find the Captain along the central companionway and gloomy library, littered with fallen books, but made no progress. The kitchen, more cavern-like than usual, was deserted and the door to the crew’s quarters locked. It was most likely that Captain Nemo was in the pilot’s cage. The most prudent thing to do was therefore to sit and wait for him. We all returned to the drawing room. The next 20 minutes seemed like hours, thanks to the Canadian’s complaints. I granted that this time he had good grounds for such an outburst, but I was disinclined to respond. I was concentrating on trying to ascertain the lightest sounds outside the submarine, when Captain Nemo entered. His face, usually completely inscrutable betrayed signs of stress. He studied the pressure gauge and compass in silence. Then he went to place his finger on a point on the map in the southernmost seas. I was loath to interrupt him, but when he finally turned to me, I utilized a phrase he had thrown at me during the Torres Strait affair: “An incident, Captain?” “No, sir, this time an accident,” he replied, grimly. 299

“Is it serious?” “Perhaps.” “Is there any immediate danger?” “No.” “Has the Nautilus run aground?” “Yes.” “And this came about, how?” “Through natures unpredictability rather than human error. There have not been any miscalculations in our navigation, but we can’t stop this loss of balance from taking its toll. The Nautilus is able to defy the laws of mankind, not those of nature.” I thought this was an inappropriate time to start philosophizing. He had not yet given me a proper answer. “Could you please tell me what caused the accident?” I asked. “An enormous block of ice, a mountain, has toppled over,” was his answer. “When the base of an iceberg is eroded away by warmer waters or repeated collisions, its centre of gravity rises. Then it somersaults, turning upside down. That’s what has happened here. As it overturned, one of these blocks hit the Nautilus mid journey. This ice then slid under our hull, raising the vessel into a less congested strata where we now lie on our side.” “But can’t we float the Nautilus clear by emptying its ballast tanks and regaining our balance?” “That, sir, is being done as we speak. You can hear the pumps working and if you look at the needle on the pressure gauge, it shows that the Nautilus is rising. But the mass of ice is rising with us. Until some obstacle stops its upward movement, our position isn’t going to change.” Indeed, the Nautilus kept the same heel to starboard. No doubt, it would straighten up once the block came to a halt. But before that happened, we may well hit the underbelly of the Ice Bank and be painstakingly squeezed between 2 frozen surfaces. I reflected on all the possible outcomes of the situation. Captain Nemo only extended his interest towards the pressure gauge. Since the iceberg had toppled, the Nautilus had risen about 150 feet. But it remained at the same angle to the perpendicular. Suddenly, a slight movement could be felt over the hull. We seemed to be straightening a bit. The hanging artworks in the drawing room were visibly returning to their normal positions, the debris from the fall skidded towards the rightful floor and the walls were approaching the vertical. Nobody said a word. Hearts pounding, we could feel the ship righting itself. The floor was becoming horizontal beneath our feet. 10 full minutes went by. “Finally, we’re upright!” I exclaimed. “Yes,” Captain Nemo said, heading to the saloon door. “But will we float off ?” I asked him. “Certainly,” he replied, “since the ballast tanks aren’t yet empty, and when they are, the Nautilus has to rise to the surface of the sea.” The captain went out, and soon I saw that, at his orders, our ship had halted its upward movement. If this had not been done, the Nautilus would soon have hit the underbelly of the Ice Bank. 300

But we had stopped in the nick of time and were now floating in midwater. “That was a close call,” Milou then said, without emotion. “Yes. We could have been crushed inside the ice or at least imprisoned. And then, with no way to renew our air supply … yes, that was a close call, indeed.” “If it really is over with,” Ned Drake muttered. I had no desire to get involved in a pointless argument with the Canadian and did not reply. Moreover, the panels opened just then, and the outside light burst through the uncovered windows. It was evident that we were now fully afloat. Through the glass, we could see dazzling walls of ice, only about 10 yards away. The walls surrounded us from all angles. Above, was the immense ceiling of the Ice Bank’s underbelly and below, the shifting ice block had found resting points on both sides of the wall and had gotten jammed between them. The Nautilus was imprisoned in a veritable tunnel of ice, about 20 yards wide, filled with quiet water. I reckoned that the ship could easily exit by going either forwards or backwards, sinking a few 100 yards deep and then following the open passage that was under the Ice Bank. The ceiling lights were now off, but the room was brightly lit, nevertheless. Walls of ice reflected the light of our beacon back at us. Words cannot describe the effect that our galvanized rays had on those huge, whimsically sculpted blocks. Every angle, ridge and facet of those frozen walls projected a different kind of glow, depending on the nature of the veins that interlaced beneath the ice. All around us was a dazzling mine of various gems, particularly sapphires and emeralds that shot forth criss-crossing jets of blue and green. An infinite variety of subtle opaline hues twinkled amongst fiery diamonds of sparkling light. The lantern’s intensity had been increased by a hundredfold, like a lamp shone through the biconvex of a lighthouse. “How beautiful,” Milou enthused. “It’s a wonderful sight, isn’t it, Ned?” I joined in. “Damnation, yes!” he shot back. “I’m furious to admit it, but it’s superb. Nobody has ever seen the like. And that’s going to cost us dearly. In all honesty, I think we’re viewing sights that God never intended for the eyes of man.” Ned was right. It was actually too beautiful. A cry from Milou made me turn around swiftly. “Master must close his eyes immediately! Master mustn’t look!” he shouted. He had clapped his hands over his own eyes. “But, what’s wrong, my boy?” “I’ve been dazzled, struck blind.” I couldn’t stop my eyes from flying towards the window, but they couldn’t take the fire that soon devoured them. I knew what had happened. The Nautilus had taken off at great speed and all the glimmering reflections had transformed into blazing streaks. The sparkles all merged so that the ship was now travelling through a sheath of flashing light. 301

I could hear that the panels had been closed. We instinctively kept our hands over our eyes, which were saturated with the concentric gleams that swirl in the retina after over exposure to too much light. It took some time before our troubled vision had been calmed. I was eventually able to lower my hands. “When we return to dry land,” Milou mused, “we are going to be jaded by all these natural wonders. Think how we’re going to look down on man’s puny achievements. I fear the civilized world won’t be good enough for us anymore.” Such a statement from the lips of the dispassionate Flemish boy is surely enough evidence of how our excitement was nearing boiling point. But the Canadian still managed to say: “The civilized world? Don’t worry, Milou, we’re never going back there.” By then, it was 05:00. There was another collision, this time in the Nautilus’s bow. I reasoned that its spur had bumped into a block of ice. This underwater tunnel was frequently punctuated by such blocks, which didn’t allow for easy navigating. I assumed that Captain Nemo would adjust his course to circumvent each obstacle and hug the walls in order to follow the windings of the tunnel. But, despite my expectations, we started to move backwards. I reasoned that there must have been no way out on that end. We would now have to retrace our steps and leave through the southern opening. I explained this to Milou, who was curious to know what was going on. “This will mean a delay,” commented the Canadian. “What are a few hours, so long as we can get out?” “So long as we can get out,” he repeated, ominously. To calm my nerves, I strolled up and down between the saloon and the library. My companions did not move from their seats. At some point, I picked a book from a library shelf at random and threw myself on a couch. My eyes mechanically skimmed the pages, without processing any of its content. After some time had passed, Milou came up to me, saying: “Is it deeply fascinating, the book that Master is reading?” “Tremendously,” I replied, putting it down. “Master is reading his own book.” Indeed, when I looked at my hands, they were holding Mysteries of the Great Submarine Grounds. I had not even noticed. I resumed my pacing, more energetically this time. Ned Drake stood up and made to leave and Milou followed. I stopped them, saying: “Stay here, my friends. We should remain together until we’re out of this blind alley.” “As Master wishes,” said Milou. The hours passed. I often studied the instruments hanging on the walls. The manometer indicated that the Nautilus stayed at a constant depth of 300 yards, the compass that it kept heading south and the log that it was travelling at a speed of 20 miles per hour. This was an excessive speed in such a cramped area. But Captain Nemo knew that, at this stage, there was no such thing as 302

too fast. Minutes had become worth centuries. At 8:25, there was a third collision. This time it was astern. I grew pale. My companions came to me and I clutched Milou’s hand. Our eyes questioned each other more directly than if our thoughts had been translated into words. The Captain then entered the drawing room. I went to him. “Our path is barred to the south?” I asked. “Yes, sir. When it overturned, that iceberg closed off every exit.” “So we’re boxed in?” “Yes.”

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16. Want of Air And so it had come to pass that walls of ice, above and below, trapped the Nautilus. We were prisoners of the Ice Bank. The Canadian banged on an exquisitely carved table with his fearsome fist. Milou remained absolutely still. The Captain’s face had resumed its state of calm inaccessibility. He crossed his arms and seemed to ponder. The Nautilus did not stir. The Captain broke the silence: “Gentlemen, there are 2 ways of dying in the circumstances in which we now find ourselves.” He spoke with as much expression as a mathematics professor working out a sum. He continued: “The first way is death by crushing. The second is death by asphyxiation. I don’t bother to mention death by starvation because our food reserves will easily last longer than we are likely to.” “Captain, surely the air tanks are full? Isn’t asphyxiation far off ” I said. “True, but they’ll only last for another 2 days,” he pointed out. “We’ve been underwater for 36 hours and the atmosphere already needs renewing. It will only take 48 hours before all our reserves are used up.” “Well then, we must endeavour to escape within that time,” I declared. “We are going to attempt to do so by cutting through one of the surrounding walls,” said the Captain. “Which one?” I asked. “We’ll have to decide that according to what the soundings tell us. I’m going to bring the ship to rest on the lower shelf and then my men can don their diving suits and attack the thinnest of these walls.” “Is it possible for the panels in the drawing room to be left open?” “There can be no harm done if they are. We’re no longer in motion.” Captain Nemo left us. Hissing sounds soon told me that water was being let into the ballast tanks. The Nautilus slowly settled, resting on the icy bottom at a depth of 383 yards, where the lower shelf of ice lay submerged. “My friends,” I said, “we’re in a serious predicament, but I know I can count on your courage and energy.” “Sir,” the Canadian replied, “even I realise that this is no time to inflict my personal opinions on you. I’m ready to do anything I can for the common good.” “Excellent, Ned,” I said, extending my hand to the Canadian. “I might add,” he went on, “that I’m as handy with a pick as a harpoon. If I can be helpful to the Captain, he can use me any way he wants.” “He won’t turn down your assistance, Ned. Come along” 306

I led him to the room where the ship’s crew were putting on their diving apparatus. I informed the Captain of the harpooner’s proposition, which was promptly accepted. The Canadian donned his underwater costume and was soon ready to join his fellow workers. They each took with them the Rouquayrol device to supply them with fresh oxygen from the reserves. This would prove to be a considerable but unavoidable drain on the breathable air inside the Nautilus. The Ruhmkorff lamps were unnecessary in these waters, illuminated by the ship’s brilliant light. I left Ned and returned to the saloon to be with Milou. Together, we stared through the window at the strata that now surrounded and supported the Nautilus. We watched as about a dozen members of the crew set off to along the ice shelf. Among them, I could easily make out Ned Drake from his distinctive gait. Captain Nemo was also with them. The Captain had to obtain borings before making any attacks on the ice to make certain of choosing best direction. Long bores were driven into the sidewalls. After 16.5 yards, the instruments were impeded by the thickness of those walls. It was pointless to attack the ceiling, which was the very Ice Bank itself, so Captain Nemo took soundings from the lower surface. Here, an 11-yard barrier separated us from the water. From that point on, our mission was to hack out a hole through this ice, equal in surface area to the Nautilus’s waterline, through which the ship could escape. This meant removing about 7,000 cubic yards. Work began immediately. Throughout that terrible time, it continued with admirable tenacity. Captain Nemo did not dig around the Nautilus, which would have increased our difficulties, but rather set out by outlining an immense trench on the surface of the ice, about 8 yards from our port quarter. His men simultaneously staked it off at several points and their picks were soon vigorously attacking the frozen floor. Huge chunks were loosened from its mass. These weighed less than the water and, by an unusual effect of specific gravity, each part of the floor that was removed was thrown up to the roof of the tunnel, where it stuck. As we progressed, the ceiling thickened according to how deep the trench was dug. But the latter was our only concern. After 2 hours of energetic work, Ned Drake re-entered, exhausted. The first group of workers were then relieved by a new one, which included Milou and myself. We were supervised by the Nautilus’s chief officer. I found the water to be colder than usual, but soon warmed up as I worked with the pick. I still managed to marvel at my freedom of movement despite being under a pressure of 30 atmospheres. We returned to the interior of the ship after 2 hours of work, to snatch some food and rest. Dread filled me when I found a noticeable difference between the clean elastic oxygen supplied by the Rouquayrol device and the Nautilus’s atmosphere. It was already charged with carbon dioxide. The air had not been renewed in 48 hours and was stale and weak. After 12 hours had passed in this manner, we had removed a slice of ice of one yard thick, hence about 711 cubic yards. Judging by this result, it was still going to take 5 nights and 4 days to see the 307

undertaking through to completion. We only had enough oxygen for 2. And that did not take into account that once freed of our icy prison we would still need to clear the Ice Bank. There was no way of telling how long we would need to get out from under the Ice Bank once we had reached the waters. We could well all be doomed to suffocate in this tomb of ice. It was a dreadful state of affairs but each man faced it head-on, determined to do his duty to the end. During the next 12 hours, the next yard-slice was removed. But the morning brought only more bad news. I was in my diving suit, walking to the digging site. The water was a temperature of -6° to -7° centigrade at that point. I noted that the walls on either side of us were slowly beginning to close in on each other. The liquid strata farthest from the trench, which was not warmed by the movements of workmen and tools, were showing a tendency to solidify. This new, imminent danger further complicated our chances of survival. I could not see how we could prevent the waters from solidifying and then cracking the Nautilus’s hull like glass. On looking back at the ship, it seemed that she too could have been made of melting ice, if not for her dark green colour. Her flowing lines were beginning to look congealed and sickly, capable of dissipating into the environment. On returning to the interior, I did not have the heart to share my new discovery with my companions whose spirits needed no further dampening. I went straight to Captain Nemo when I got back on board. “I have seen it too,” he said, his voice still calm. “It’s an additional danger, but I can’t see any way of warding it off, except to work faster than the water solidifies. We just have to get there first, that’s all.” I think, by that point, I should have been used to such talk. On that day, I wielded my pick like a maniac for several hours. The work was the only thing that could keep me going. Besides anything else, the air from the tanks was far superior to the thin, foul atmosphere of the Nautilus. By the evening, another full yard had been removed. When I got back on board, I was almost asphyxiated by the levels of carbon monoxide in the air. I wished we had the apparatus and chemicals that would enable us to drive the poison out. There was hardly a lack of oxygen all around us. The ocean water contained such a large amount that, if sufficiently decomposed by the ship’s batteries, would be able to provide us with that life-giving substance. I had thought it all through, but there was no chance of putting my plan into action. The carbon dioxide that our breathing produced had permeated every part of the ship by that point. In order to absorb it, we would need to fill containers with potassium hydroxide and shake them continually. We had no such substance on board and there was no possibility of obtaining it. That evening, Captain Nemo was forced to let a few spouts of fresh oxygen out of the reserves, while those not on digging duty slept. If he had not done so, we would never have woken up again. 308

The next day, 26th March, I returned to my mining duties. The Ice Bank’s walls and underbelly had visibly thickened. It was clear to me that they would join together before we were free. I was gripped with an instant of despair and nearly dropped my pickaxe. For that moment, I did not even see the point of digging if I was doomed to die by being slowly crushed to death by ice, a torture even the most despicable barbarian had never dreamed of. It was like lying in the jaws of a fearsome monster whose jaws were slowly closing. But Captain Nemo passed by me just then. I touched him and pointed to our prison walls. The starboard wall had moved forward to a point less than 4.3 yards from the Nautilus’s hull. He understood and motioned for me to follow him back to the ship. When our suits were removed, we went to the saloon. “Professor Jeanneret,” he said, “the time has come for heroic measures, or we’ll be sealed up in this solidified water as if it were cement.” “Yes, but what can we do?” “Oh, if only my Nautilus were strong enough to stand that much pressure without being crushed,” he said. “Well?” I asked, not understanding the Captain’s meaning. “Don’t you understand,” he went on, “that the congealing of this water could come to our rescue? Through the process of solidifying, it could burst these tracts of ice that imprison us, in the same way that freezing can burst the hardest stones. Can’t you see that this force could be the instrument of our salvation rather than our destruction?” “Yes, Captain, maybe so. But whatever resistance to crushing the Nautilus may have, it still couldn’t stand such dreadful pressures. It would be squashed as flat as a piece of sheet iron.” Bizarrely, the first thing that came into my mind when I said this was that the Nautilus’s design would be as effective in 2 dimensions as it was in 3, as drawings of it had proved. But this rule certainly did not apply to the human beings within the ship, so I put my mind to the task at hand. “We can’t rely on nature to rescue us,” Captain Nemo was saying, “So we must counteract this solidification through our own efforts. Not only are the sidewalls closing in, but there aren’t 10 feet of water ahead or astern of the Nautilus. This freeze is gaining fast on us from every side.” “How long will the oxygen in the air tanks enable us to breathe on board?” I asked. The captain looked me straight in the eye and said: “After tomorrow the air tanks will be empty!” I broke out in a cold sweat. But there was no reason to have been surprised by his answer. We had dived under the open waters at the pole on 22nd March. It was now the 26th, so we had lived off the ship’s stores for 5 days. And all remaining breathable air had to be saved for the workmen. Even today, as I write these lines, my sensations are so intense that an involuntary terror sweeps over me and my lungs still seem short of air. The silent and inscrutable Captain Nemo stood lost in thought. He 309

clearly had already formulated an idea, but he then visibly seemed to brush it aside. At last these words escaped his lips: “Boiling water,” he said softly. “Boiling water?” I exclaimed. “Yes, sir,” he was finally looking at me. “We’re shut up in a relatively confined area. If the Nautilus’s pumps continually injected streams of boiling water into this space, wouldn’t that raise the temperature and delay freezing?” “It’s worth trying,” I said resolutely. “Then let’s try it, Professor.” By then, the thermometer told us that it was -7˚ centigrade outside. Captain Nemo led the way to the galley, where a vast distillery machine was hard at work creating our drinking water through evaporation. Even in my reduced state, I was able to recognise that its design was very much like that of the renowned British company Alexander Chaplin & Co. who supplied these machines to only the finest steamships. There were a couple of large cast iron cylindrical cases, containing the coiled copper pipes and brass apparatus that draws in the air and steam and passes it directly under the condenser. The conglomeration of pistons, crankshafts and looped pipes that were attached to the outside of the cylinders, looked like nothing so much as the bits of sea tangle and organic debris that attach themselves to the outer openings of giant bivalve shells. The room’s domed ceilings, moulded to suggest organic matter, and the murky atmosphere created by the machine’s steam all added to my fancy that giant and grotesque pet molluscs were kept here. But we were there to work. The distilling apparatus was loaded with water and a full blast of electricity was sent through its coiled element. It did not take too long before the load of water had reached 100˚ centigrade. The machine’s electrical heat was so intense that, as fresh cold seawater was pumped in, it reached boiling point almost immediately. Steaming water was pumped out into the ice outside. After 3 hours of this, the thermometer gave the exterior temperature as -6˚ centigrade. We had only gained one degree. 2 hours later, the instrument read -4˚ centigrade. I had monitored the operation’s progress carefully and was confident it was working, which I communicated to the Captain. “I think we’ve escaped the crush,” he said. “Now there’s only suffocation to fear.” The temperature during the night rose to -1˚ centigrade. Our injections of boiling water could not bring the temperature up any further. But seawater only freezes at -2˚ centigrade, so I could finally rest easy about new ice formations bearing down on us. By the next day, 27th March, 7 yards of ice had been cleared from the trench. There were only 13 feet left to go. That equated to 48 hours of work. The air could no longer be renewed inside the Nautilus. All day, it continued to get worse. The heaviness that ensued was unbearable. By 15:00 in the afternoon, the agonizing sensation affected me intensely. My yawns were so wide, I thought 310

my jaw would dislocate. My mind was a complete daze. With all my strength gone, I could do nothing but lie down, only semiconscious. My gallant Milou suffered the same trials, but never left my side. He held my hand all the way through, offering small words of encouragement. I am sure at some point I heard him mutter, “If only I did not have to breathe to leave more air for the Master.” When I staggered through the Nautilus’s rooms, where I had been at completely home for so many weeks, they had become sinister and moribund. The asymmetrical Moorish arches of the doorframes flickered in the corners of my vision with lurid menace. Fissures in the gelatinous gangway lights throbbed like veins, as if they had been torn from the bodies of some living substratum. In the saloon, the great glass domes appeared to warp and bend obscenely, to the point of shattering. The white light reflected in the panes screamed through my head with a searing, incapacitating pain. Beneath the domes, the disembodied fragments of furniture damaged in the collision resembled the bloated, dismembered corpses of the shipwrecks we had seen. The fragments of shells that had been flung across the floor glowed in the shadows like sinister eyes. I now cursed the Captain for bringing those terrible tribal objects on board that now leered at me from their cages, mockingly revealing that they had been nothing more than the harbingers of a dark underworld all along. With conditions inside so utterly harrowing, it was a welcome relief to work on the digging and escape the nightmare the Nautilus had become. We put on our diving suits and scooped up our axes with something resembling glee. Picks rang out, arms grew weary and skin was rubbed raw, but nobody cared a jot as long as there was air to breathe. Having said this, nobody worked over his allotted time period. Once his shift was over, each man promptly handed over the precious equipment and returned to the poisonous ship. Captain Nemo set this example with the strictest discipline. He was unflinching, never once complaining about the state of affairs inside the ship. On the day when only 6 and a half feet remained between the open sea and us, the work was finished with even greater energy. But the ship’s air tanks were nearly empty. The little air that remained had to be saved for the workmen. There was not an atom for the Nautilus. When I went back on board, the horror returned and I was aware of being half suffocated. That night was unspeakable. My dementia only increased and I am unable to relate the sufferings it entailed. I was short-winded the next day, with crushing headaches and terrible visions branded into my retinas. The dizziness made me stagger and reel like a drunk. I assumed we were all experiencing the same symptoms, but could barely communicate. It looked like some of the crew were reeling and bending, also at their last gasp. It was the 6th day of our imprisonment. Captain Nemo realized that picks and mattocks were too slow to deal with this last ice layer and set out to crush it. The man was superhuman in being able to maintain his energy and composure. While the rest of us 311

writhed like worms, he could still think, plan, and act. He gave orders for the miners to cease. The Nautilus was raised from its icy bed by a change in its specific gravity. When it was afloat, the crew towed it to the immense trench outlined to match the ship’s waterline. The ballast tanks were filled with water and the boat sank. It fitted into the icy socket designed for the craft. The men returned on board and the outside double door was sealed. The Nautilus was now resting on a bed of ice only a yard thick and drilled by bores in a thousand places. The stopcocks of the ballast tanks were opened wide and 100 cubic yards of water rushed in, increasing the Nautilus’s weight by 1,800 tons. We waited, listened and forgot our sufferings, daring to hope once more. This was our last chance at survival. Somewhere underneath the buzzing in my head, I could still make out the vibrations of the ship’s hull. We tilted. The ice cracked with a terrible ripping sound, like paper tearing. We continued downward. “We’re through,” I heard Milou say, far in the distance. I was unable to answer him, but squeezed his hand with an involuntary convulsion. The excess load then became too much for the Nautilus and she sank like a cannonball. Captain Nemo stepped into action, putting the full electrical force into play in pumping the water in the ballast tanks out. It was only a matter of minutes before the fall was checked. We were heading upwards. The propeller was revved up to its full speed and the Nautilus hurtled forwards, with sheet iron rattling down to its rivets. But there was no way of telling how far northwards we would have to go under the Ice Bank to get back to fresh air. If it were an entire day, I was not confident about my chances of making it. I was suffocating. I half lay on the bed in my room, with a purple face and blue lips. I could no longer see or hear and my muscles had no more power. The curvature of the metal walls and furniture had become the embodiment of my hallucinations of dementia. I soon lost all sense of time. I cannot work out how many hours passed in that way, but I know that I was aware when my death throes began because I regained consciousness very suddenly. A few whiffs of air had entered my lungs. My first thought was that we had risen to the surface, but I was mistaken. Ned and Milou, my 2 brave friends, were going to great lengths to save me, sacrificing their own oxygen. They had found a few atoms of air still remaining in the depths of one Rouquayrol devices and, instead of breathing it themselves, had brought it for me. I tried to push the mouthpiece away, but they held my hands and nose and, for a few glorious moments, I could breathe. My eyes flew toward the clock. It was 11:15 in the morning on what had to be 28th March. The Nautilus was travelling at the frightful speed of 40 miles per hour. She was positively writhing in the waters. I wondered if Captain Nemo was still alive and what had become of the crew. The manometer that my companions had brought to me then indicated that we were no more than 20 feet 312

from the surface. Only a tract of ice kept us apart from the open air. I knew the Nautilus would try breaking through before I could feel it assuming an oblique position, lowering its stern and raising its spur. Additional water was admitted to shift its balance. Then, driven by its powerful propeller, she attacked the ice field from below. The fearsome battering ram split the barrier bit by bit, backing up each time and then putting on full speed again. Finally, carried by its extreme momentum, she lunged through the frozen surface, crushing the ice beneath her weight. The hatches were almost torn open and waves of clean air wafted through the Nautilus.

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17. From Cape Horn to the Amazon I have no idea how I made it to the platform. The Canadian may well have carried me. I breathed, inhaling that blessed sea air. Besides me, my companions were getting tipsy on so much fresh oxygen. Unlike those who undergo starvation, where it is not a good idea to consume as much of the first food as possible, we could suck it in freely and by the lungful. The very breeze poured into our bodies. “Ah,” said Milou, “what fine oxygen. And Master does not have to fear breathing it. There’s enough for everyone.” Ned Drake was silent. His jaws were open so wide, he would have scared off a shark. His breath was drawn like a furnace going at full blast. Our strength returned fairly quickly. When I looked around, I realised we were alone on the platform. There were no crew members and certainly no Captain Nemo. Those bizarre seamen on the Nautilus were happy to contend with the oxygen that was circulating inside the cabins. Not one of them had come up to enjoy the open air. The first words I managed to get out were only to express my profound gratitude to my companions for saving my life. But no expression of thanks could repay them fully for the devotion when I was on my deathbed. “Good Lord, Professor,” Ned Drake answered, “please don’t mention it. We didn’t do anything particularly praiseworthy. It was a question of simple arithmetic. Your life is worth more than ours, so we had to save it.” “No, Ned, it isn’t. There is nobody finer than a brave and generous man like yourself,” I declared. “All right, all right,” he muttered in embarrassment. “And you, my gallant Milou, you suffered a great deal.” “To be honest with Master, not too much at all. I was in need of a few throatfuls of air, but I would have gotten by. Besides, when I saw Master fainting, I lost all desire to breathe. It took my breath away, in a manner of . . .” Confounded by his own lapse into banality, Milou did not bother to finish his sentence. I was deeply moved and felt obliged to say, “My friends, we’re bound to each other forever, and I’m deeply indebted to you … ” “Which I’ll take advantage of,” the Canadian shot back, quickly. “Eh?” I was nonplussed at his abrupt return to form. “Yes,” the Canadian went on. “You can repay your debt by coming with me when I finally escape this infernal Nautilus.” “By the way,” Milou said, “are we going in a favourable direction?” “I guess we are,” I replied. “We’re heading towards the sun and the sun in this region is due north.” “All right then,” Ned Drake continued, “it remains to be seen 316

whether we’ll make for the Atlantic or the Pacific. So there’s a choice of well-travelled or deserted seas.” I had no reply to this, but was fairly certain that Captain Nemo would prefer to take us into that huge ocean washing the shores of both Asia and America. He had wished to complete his underwater world tour and, presumably, would continue to do so. The question of direction was soon answered. The Nautilus travelled swiftly and had soon cleared the Antarctic Circle and the promontory of Cape Horn. We were level with the tip of South America by 31st March, at 19:20. Setting out again put all our sufferings behind us. The memory of imprisonment faded and we only had thoughts for the future. I no longer had any contact with Captain Nemo whatsoever, not even in passing. I also stopped paying great attention to the Nautilus’s museum. While some crew members cleaned up the debris caused by the collision, there had been no attempt to take stock and restore the collection to its former glory. Broken furniture was simply removed and not repaired. The content of the cabinets were overlooked in the cleanup and it was depressing to glance into a case to see a sickly mess of broken matter that had not been seen to. Chipped corners and scratches went unmended, even on the most valuable of exhibits. Hundreds of little deformities now invaded an installation whose design relied heavily on a smooth unity of line. The resulting effect was one of gloomy, degenerating grandeur through which the grotesque faces of Captain Nemo’s tribal paraphernalia continued to grin horribly. At that point I was struggling to contemplate any aspect of my surroundings for too long. Even in rooms like the library, which were relatively unaffected by the accident, every exaggerated curve or gleaming inlay that might catch my eye for too long reminded of the hideous hallucinations that had gripped me during our entrapment. I was beginning to associate the Nautilus’s unique stylistic eccentricities with my own hysterical dementia. I kept my eyes in check and forced myself to concentrate solely on the written pages of my research. I was terrified of the nightmares returning. Happily, the panels largely remained open for this part of the journey and my companions stayed close. The positions recorded on the world map were done by the first officer and allowed me to predict our movements. To my great satisfaction, it became obvious that we were returning north via the Atlantic. I was able to give Milou and Ned Drake this positive information. “That’s good news, indeed,” the Canadian replied, “but what’s the Nautilus’s final destination?” “I can’t tell you that, Ned.” “Perhaps, after our South Pole expedition, our Captain wants to tackle the North Pole. Then we might go back to the Pacific via the notorious Northwest Passage?” he continued, sarcastically. “I don’t recommend that you double dare him,” was Milou’s dry response. “Oh well,” the Canadian said, “we’re going to give him the slip long before then.” 317

“Whatever happens,” said Milou, “he’s a superhuman, that Captain Nemo. We’ll never regret having known him.” “All the more so once we’ve left him,” Ned said, cheerfully. The next day was 1st April. When the Nautilus rose to the surface of the waves a few minutes before noon, we could see land to the west. It was Tierra del Fuego, the Land of Fire. It got its name from early Spanish explorers after they saw numerous curls of smoke rising from the natives’ huts. They then knew that the Indians would ambush them if they tried to land. This “land of fire” forms a huge cluster of islands over 30 leagues long and 80 wide. At first, its coastline appeared to be flat but I knew it had high mountain ranges further inland. I fancied I caught a glimpse of Mt. Sarmiento, whose elevation is 2,260 yards above sea level. Ned Drake told me that this pyramid-shaped block of shale has a very sharp summit, from which one can deduce if the weather will be fair or foul, depending on whether it’s clear or veiled in mist. “A first-class barometer, then, my friend,” I said. “Yes, Sir, a natural barometer that didn’t let me down when I navigated the narrows of the Strait of Magellan.” And then the peak really did appear before us. It stood out against clear skies and its forecast of fair weather proved to be correct. The Nautilus returned underwater and went closer to the coast, following it for a few miles. Through the saloon windows, I observed long creepers and gigantic fucus plants, bulb-bearing seaweed with smooth, viscous filaments, which we had also seen in the open sea at the pole. Here, they measured as much as 300 yards long, producing tough vegetable cables of more than an inch thick, which are often used as mooring lines for ships. Another weed, known by the name of “vela” and boasting 4 foot leaves, was crammed into the coral concretions and carpeted the ocean floor, serving as both nest and nourishment for myriads of crustaceans, molluscs, crabs and cuttlefish. Seals and otters indulged in sumptuous meals in these waters, mixing fish with sea vegetables, like the English with their Irish stews. The Nautilus passed through these luxuriant depths with great speed. Near evening, it approached the Falkland Islands. It was only the next day that I recognized its rocky mountains. I saw that the sea was of moderate depth. I therefore assumed that these 2 islands and all of the smaller islets surrounding them were once part of the Magellan coastline. The Falkland Islands were more than likely first encountered by the famous navigator John Davis, who gave them the name of “Davis Southern Islands”. It was later on that Sir Richard Hawkins called them the “Maidenland”, after the Blessed Virgin. At the beginning of the 18th century, they were named the “Malouines” by fishermen from Saint-Malo in Brittany and then, most recently, they have been dubbed the “Falklands” by the English, to whom they now belong. When the last peaks of the Falklands were no longer visible, we sank to a depth of between 20 to 25 yards and followed the South American coast. Captain Nemo had still not put in a 318

single appearance. We took our leave of the Patagonian waterways on 3rd April, cruising both above and below the waves. The Nautilus made its way past the wide estuary at the mouth of the Rio de la Plata and, on 4th April, was in line with Uruguay, about 50 miles out. Sticking to its northerly course, it set to travelling along the lengthy windings of the South American continent. We had now traversed 16,000 leagues since leaving the seas of Japan. We cut the Tropic of Capricorn on the 37th meridian at 10:40 in the morning. To Ned Drake’s great displeasure, we passed by well away from Cape Frio, founded by the Portuguese in 1615. Captain Nemo clearly had little liking for the well-populated shores of Brazil as he shot through them at a speed that made me dizzy. Not even the fastest fish or birds managed to keep up with us, so I have no record of the natural curiosities of this area. The extreme speed continued for several days so that, on the evening of 9th April, we had reached the continent’s most easterly tip, São Roque. The Nautilus then veered away from the coast again, and started going through the lowest depths of a vast underwater valley that lay between that South American cape and Sierra Leone on the coast of Africa. This basin is abreast of the West Indies and forks into 2 paths. To the north, it ends in a 9,000-yard depression. From this area, until the Lesser Antilles, there is a steep cliff that cuts into the ocean bed at a height of about 4 miles and there is another great wall, equally imposing, in line with the Cape Verde Islands. I now know that, together, these great barriers enclose the lost continent of Atlantis. My description is based on the charts I found in the Nautilus’s library, marked by Captain Nemo’s hand. I found the floor of this valley, complete with mountains and scenic views, to be quite picturesque. We visited these deep and empty waters for 2 days, diving in long, diagonal sweeps that allowed us to observe every level of the Ocean. It was on 11th April that we rose, quite abruptly, to find that we were near the shore again. This time, we could see the mouth of the Amazon River. The outflow of this vast estuary is so great that it desalts the sea for several leagues. We crossed the Equator. Guiana, which is French territory, lay a tantalising 20 miles to the west. Early efforts in the last century to colonize the wild place had proved unsuccessful, but France now had the colony in a firm grip. I was reminded that some of the native’s grotesque wooden figurines made up part of the Captain’s collection of artefacts and wondered if he had ever set foot there himself, in the time when he still tolerated land-dwelling people. There was no chance of our being able to make any such excursions. The wind had suddenly whipped up a gale and it would have been suicide to try and brave it in a light skiff. Ned Drake must have understood this because he did not speak up at that point. I made a point of never bringing up the subject of his escape. I now dreaded the consequences of a failed attempt. However, I was amply compensated by progress on my research. During the 11th and 12th April, the Nautilus remained on the 319

surface of the sea and its nets brought up a haul of zoophytes, fish and reptiles that was simply astounding. I will now mention one particular fish that Milou will remember for a long time. One of the nets had caught a very flat ray that weighed about 44 pounds. If one removed its tail, it would have formed a perfect circle. The creature was tan on top and reddish underneath, with big round blue spots decorating its back. This colourful skin was quite smooth and punctuated in a double-lobed fin. It kept struggling with great violence, even when it was laid out on the platform. The creature almost managed to flip itself back in the sea with a final convulsive lunge, but Milou rushed forwards and seized it with both hands before I could stop him. He was instantly thrown on his back, legs in the air. When I went to him, his body was half-paralyzed. For the first time in the years we had known each other he actually addressed me directly, crying: “Oh, Sir! Will you please help me!” Ned Drake was with us. Together, we got him into an upright sitting position and massaged his contracted arms. As he slowly regained his senses, he mumbled in a broken voice: “Class of cartilaginous fish, order Chondropterygia with fixed gills, suborder Selacia, family Rajiiforma, genus Torpedo …” “Yes, my friend,” I agreed. “It is an electric ray, also known as a crampfish or a torpedo ray. And it has put you in quite a state.” “Master can be my witness,” Milou said, “I’ll be revenged on that animal.” “How, Milou?” “I’m going to eat it.” And he did so that evening. It was purely an act of retaliation, as the ray tasted like leather. Poor Milou had tried to interfere with the most deadly species of electric ray, the cumana. It resides in the conducting medium of water and is able to electrocute other fish from several yards away. The organ that carries its electricity is so powerful that it surface measures at least 27 square feet. During the course of the next day, 13th April, the Nautilus drew near the coast of Dutch Guiana, by the mouth of the Maroni River. Here we found several groups of sea cows, once again in family units. These were manatees, of the order Sirenia, like the dugong and Steller’s sea cow. These fine animals are harmless and unaggressive. With these thoughts in mind, we watched some of the Nautilus’s crew capture half a dozen manatees. This was necessary in order to keep the larder stocked with good red meat, which was even better than beef or veal. Watching them being hunted is hardly a pleasant spectator sport. The manatees let themselves be struck down without offering any resistance. Several thousand pounds of meat were hauled below to be dried and stored. On the same day the Nautilus’s stores were further replenished by an unusual form of fishing. Our trawl brought up a number of fish whose heads were topped by little oval slabs with fleshy edges. These were suckerfish from the third family of the subbrachian 320

Malacopterygia. The flat disks on their heads consist of crosswise plates of movable cartilage, between which the animals can create a vacuum so that they have the ability to stick to objects like suction cups. The remoras I had observed in the Mediterranean were related to this species. But the creature we found here was an Echeneis osteochara, which is unique to this sea. Directly after catching them, the seamen dropped them in buckets of water. The Nautilus then drew nearer to the coast. There were a number of sea turtles in this locality. They were sleeping on the surface of the waves. It is extremely tricky to capture these valuable reptiles as they are light sleepers and have harpoon-proof shells. But the suckerfish can be used as a living fishhook with great precision. The Nautilusâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s men attached a ring to each fishâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s tail that was big enough not to hamper its movements. Long ropes were tied to the rings, which were moored to the ship. When thrown into the sea, the suckerfish immediately acted according to character by fastening themselves onto the breastplates of the turtles. Their tenacity was so great that they would rip the flesh apart rather than let go. It was a simple matter to then haul them in, along with the turtles that were attached to them. We caught several loggerheads with this method. The reptiles were up to just under a yard wide, weighing 400 pounds. They are extremely valuable because of their solid carapaces, which are covered with big slabs of horn with white and yellow markings. From the point of view of a dinner, they were excellent. Their exquisite flavour was comparable to that of the green turtle. This fishing ended our stay in the waterways of the Amazon and that evening the Nautilus took to the high seas once more.

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18. The Devilfish The Nautilus kept away from the American coast for several days. Captain Nemo clearly wanted to avoid the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean Sea. This could be explained by the relative shallowness of the waters closer to land, strewn with islands and well ploughed by steamers, compared to the average depth of the sea where he chose to travel, which is about 1,900 yards. On 16th April, we could just make out the lofty peaks of Martinique and Guadalupe, at a distance of about 30 miles away. Once again, we were near territory occupied by France and unable to reach it. Ned Drake had counted on carrying out his ever-present plans in the Gulf and was quite disheartened. He had reckoned we had a good chance of making for the coast with the skiff, or by getting in contact with one of the merchant ships that traded between the different islands. This was all very well, assuming that it was possible to steal the boat from under the Captainâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s nose, but absolutely impossible in the open sea. The Canadian, Milou and I had the necessary lengthy conversation on the topic. We had been prisoners on board the Nautilus for 6 months. So far, we had traversed 17,000 leagues under the seas, with no sign of abating. The harpooner then made an unexpected proposition. He suggested that I challenge Captain Nemo directly and ask him if his intentions were to keep us on board for the rest of our lives. This move was a distasteful one to me. Moreover, I knew it would not achieve anything, other than raise the Captainâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ire and suspicions. If anything was to be done about leaving, it had to be executed by us alone. On top of this, Captain Nemo was even more withdrawn than usual these days. On the extremely rare occasions I saw him he seemed morbid and anti-social. I missed the times when he used to instruct me on the wonders of the ocean and test his scientific theories. He no longer came into the drawing room or the library when I was there and certainly did not visit my stateroom. It was impossible to say what caused this extreme mood swing and I sincerely hoped it was nothing we had done. I got the feeling we were an additional burden to him. And yet, I was positive that a request for freedom would be refused. I asked Ned Drake to let me think things over before approaching the Captain. It should be pointed out that it was impossible to use our health as an argument for being set ashore. Except for that unfortunate ordeal when leaving the South Pole, we had never been healthier. The nutritious food, regular routine and vigorous sea air all kept illness at bay. I could well understand such a life for a Captain Nemo, who had no need for a home on land but we were not superhuman men who could travel to the end of or days exploring, claiming new territory, collecting treasure and going about mysterious interventions. Our ties to ordinary human life were 324

stronger. Furthermore, I did not want all the fantastic research I had undergone to be buried beneath the waves. It was now the definitive publication on the ocean and it needed to see the light of day. And speaking of my book, the Caribbean waters were providing further fascinating specimens for study through the open panels. By 20th April, we had risen again to a depth of about 1,600 yards. The nearest land was the Bahamas Islands, scattered like cobblestones over the water, according to the map. Underwater, we were able to observe the tall cliffs that rose up beneath the waves. These sheer walls were made of up great crag-filled hunks of rock, laid like foundation stones. They were filled with yawning caverns so deep that even the Nautilus’s electric rays could not penetrate their far ends. These stone surfaces were hung with huge weeds, immense sea tangle, gigantic fucus, a genuine trellis of water plants fit for a world of giants. When Milou, Ned Drake and I set to discussing these colossal plants, the conversation, naturally, led to mentioning the sea’s gigantic animals. The former were obviously meant to feed the latter. But when I surveyed the water through the windows of the now almost motionless Nautilus, I could see nothing among these long vegetable arms other than the appendages of the division Brachyura: long-legged spider crabs, violet crabs, and sponge crabs unique to the waters of the Caribbean. It was 11:15 and we sat in front of the open panels in the saloon. Ned Drake drew out attention to a commotion outside in the giant seaweed. “Well,” I said, “we are in devilfish territory and they reside in caverns like these. I wouldn’t be surprised if we saw some of those monsters soon.” “What?” said Milou. “Squid, or cuttlefish, as they are also known? Ordinary squid from the class Cephalopoda?” “Not exactly,” I explained, “these are devilfish of large dimensions. But friend Ned must be mistaken. I can’t see a thing.” “That’s a shame,” was Milou’s response. “I’d like to come face to face with one of those devilfish I’ve heard so much about. They can drag whole ships down to the depths. Those beasts go by the name of Krake … ” “Fake is more like it,” said the Canadian, cheerfully. “Krakens,” Milou insisted, without showing the slightest sign of noticing the Canadian’s bad pun. “Nobody will ever make me believe that those monsters exist,” Ned Drake said, emphatically. “Why not? We sincerely believed in Master’s narwhal,” said Milou. “I didn’t, Milou. And Professor Jeanneret was wrong on that count.” “I have no doubt that there are others who still believe it to this day,” Milou said, firmly. “More than likely, Milou. For myself, I don’t believe in any such thing until I have had the opportunity to take it apart with my own hands.” Milou then turned to me, saying, “Does Master believe in 325

gigantic devilfish?” “Who in Hades ever believed in them?” the Canadian asked. “Many people, Ned, my friend,” I said. “No fishermen did. Maybe scientists did. They’ll support the wildest theories.” “Pardon me, Ned, but I know of both fishermen and scientists who support the likelihood of their existence quite vehemently.” With a completely expressionless face, Milou said, “I can remember seeing a large boat dragged under the waves by the arms of a cephalopod, perfectly clearly.” “You saw that?” the Canadian asked. “Yes, Ned.” “With your own eyes?” “With my own eyes.” “Where, may I ask?” “In Saint-Malo,” Milou returned “In the harbour?” asked Ned Drake. “No, in a church,” Milou replied. “In a church?” “Yes, Ned. It had a frieze that portrayed the devilfish in question.” “Oh!” the Canadian exclaimed, with a burst of laughter. “Mr. Milou put one over on me.” “I’ve heard about that picture,” I said. “But the subject it portrays is taken from a legend. And Milou, you of all people know how to rate legends in relation to matters of natural history. On the topic of monsters, the human imagination always tends to run wild. People not only claimed these devilfish could drag ships under, but a certain Olaus Magnus tells of a cephalopod a mile long that looked more like an island than an animal. There’s also the story of how the Bishop of Trondheim set up an altar one day on an immense rock. After he finished saying mass, the rock started moving and went back into the sea. Needless to say, the rock was a devilfish.” “And that’s all that is known?” the Canadian asked. “No,” I replied, “there was another bishop, Pontoppidan of Bergen, who told of a devilfish so large that a whole cavalry regiment could manoeuvre on it.” “Those old-time bishops were certainly great story-tellers.” Ned Drake remarked. “Finally, the naturalists of antiquity mention some monsters with mouths as big as a gulf, which were too huge to get through the Strait of Gibraltar.” “But, in all these stories, is there any truth?” Milou asked. “None at all, my friends. Well, certainly not in those tales that go beyond the bounds of credibility and take flights of fancy into fable or legend. But there had to be some basis for all these fantasies. It can’t be denied that some species of cuttlefish and other devilfish are extremely large, although still smaller than whales. Aristotle put the dimensions of one squid at 10 feet. Our fishermen frequently see specimens over 6 feet long. The museums in Trieste and Montpellier have preserved some devilfish carcasses that measure 326

6,5 feet. So, if you factor in the animal’s tentacles, we have a fearsome creature. Even one devilfish of only 6 feet long would have tentacles as long as 27.” “Are they hunted?” the Canadian asked. “If they don’t fish for them, sailors at least sight them. A friend of mine, Captain Samuel Bing has sworn to me on many occasions that he encountered one of these monsters of colossal size in the seas of the East Indies. But the most astonishing event, which proves that these gigantic animals undeniably exist, took place a few years ago in 1861.” I went on to explain: “In 1861, to the northeast of Tenerife and quite close to the latitude where we are right now, the crew of the gunboat Alecto spotted a monstrous squid swimming nearby. Commander Bouguer approached the animal and attacked it with harpoons and rifles. But the creature’s flesh was like semi-liquid jelly, so those weapons had little success. After those useless attempts, the crew succeeded in slipping a noose around the mollusc’s body. The rope slid as far as the caudal fins and then could go no further. When they tried to haul the monster on board, its body was so heavy that they only pulled its tail off. The creature swam off without it.” “Finally, something that really happened,” Ned Drake said. “Without any doubt, friend Ned. As a result, there have been proposals that this giant devilfish be named Bouguer’s Squid.” “And exactly how big was it?” the Canadian asked. “Did it measure a bit more than 7,5 yards?” said Milou. “Yes,” I replied. “And was its head crowned by 8 tentacles that quivered in the water like a nest of snakes?” Milou continued. “Precisely, Milou.” “Were its eyes prominently placed and very large?” “Yes again, Milou.” “And did its mouth resemble an enormous parrot’s beak?” “Quite correct, Milou.” “Well, then if that isn’t Bouguer’s Squid over there, it’s certainly one of his close relatives,” he said, quietly pointing to the window. I was dumbstruck. Ned Drake rushed to the window. “What a dreadful beast,” was all he could say. It was my turn to stare. I could not help but being overcome with revulsion at the creature, well deserving of its place in the most far-fetched legends. The squid was of colossal proportions, a full 8 yards long. It was travelling backwards at great speed, easily keeping pace with the Nautilus. Enormous sea green eyes protruded from its head. Its 8 arms or, more accurately, feet, also stemmed from its head. These arms, which have earned the creatures the categorization of cephalopod, stretched a distance twice the length of its body. They writhed like the hair of a Fury. One could see its 250 suckers quite clearly, arranged over the inner sides of its tentacles and shaped like semispheric capsules. Sometimes these suckers fastened onto the drawing room windows by creating vacuums against it. The monster’s beak, made of horn, opened and 327

closed vertically. Its tongue, also of horn substance was armed with several rows of sharp teeth and would flicker out from between those terrifying shears. It was a complete freak of nature to put a bird’s beak on a mollusc. Its body was spindle-shaped and swollen in the middle, a fleshy mass that must have weighed 44,000 to 55,000 pounds. Its colour could change very quickly, according to its level of irritation, passing from bluish gray to an angry, reddish brown. The monstrous creature grew increasingly irate as it tried and failed to get a hold of the Nautilus with both its suckers and its mandibles. I could not help but to admire the powerful features our Creator has bestowed on these monsters, not least of which being their triple hearts. Sheer chance had brought this devilfish across our path and I had to seize the opportunity to study such a specimen. I took control of my horror, picked up a pencil and began to sketch it. “Perhaps this is the same as the Alecto’s,” said the Canadian. “That’s not possible because this one’s complete while the other one lost its tail,” Milou pointed out. “Actually, the arms and tails of these animals grow back through regeneration,” I said. “In the 7 years that have passed, the tail on Bouguer’s Squid has had ample time to sprout again.” “Well, then,” said Ned, “if it isn’t this fellow, maybe it’s one of those.” He gestured to other devilfish that were now appearing at the starboard window. I counted 7 of them. They provided the Nautilus with an appallingly devoted escort. I could hear their beaks gnashing on the sheet-iron hull. I continued sketching. The monsters kept abreast of us so well that they seemed to be standing still. I could have traced their outlines in miniature on the window and, had Captain Nemo been less sombre, would have requested the use of his photographic machine. We were moving at a moderate speed, when our ship suddenly stopped, with a jolt. A shudder passed through the whole framework. “Did we strike bottom?” I asked. “If we did, we’re clear now,” said the Canadian. “We’re still afloat.” The Nautilus was certainly afloat, but it was no longer in motion. The propeller was still. A minute passed in silence. Captain Nemo and his chief officer entered the drawing room. It had been a good while since I had seen him. He looked gloomy. He went to the glass without speaking to us. To tell the truth, I was not even sure he had noticed us. Staring at the devilfish, he said a few soft words to his chief officer. The latter went out and the panels soon closed. The ceiling lights beamed on. I decided to make friendly overtones. “An unusual assortment of devilfish,” I told started, as if I were a collector in front of an aquarium. “Correct,” he answered me, “and we’re going to encounter them at close quarters.” I was confused and said so. The Captain curtly explained that the 328

Nautilus’s propeller was jammed. Presumably, one of the abominable creatures had entangled its horn mandibles in the blades. His plan was to rise to the surface and slaughter the vermin. It was to be a difficult undertaking. Our electric bullets were of no use against such soft flesh. We would have to attack with axes. The Canadian offered his services with the harpoon, which was accepted. Milou and I said we would join the grim party. We followed Captain Nemo out of the saloon, heading to the central stairwell. About 10 of Captain Nemo’s men were standing ready with sturdy boarding axes and a supply of extra weapons. Milou and I picked up axes and Ned Drake grabbed a harpoon. By that time, the ship was on the surface of the water. One of the seamen at the top of the stairs undid the hatch. It flew open violently, obviously wrenched by one of the monsters’ suckers, which had been pulling at it. Instantly, one of those long arms glided like a snake into the opening, with 20 others waiting, quivering, behind it. Captain Nemo thrust forward and, with a sweep of his axe, dispensed with the tentacle. It slid, still writhing down the stairs. As we moved together to the top of the stairs, 2 more arms reached down and scooped up the seaman who went in front of the Captain. He was carried away. Captain Nemo gave a shout and leaped outside. We rushed after him. When we came out, it was a terrible scene. The unfortunate man was swinging in the air, glued to the monster’s suckers. “Help! Help!” He cried — in French. I was stunned to the core. There had been a fellow countryman on board all along. I will hear his harrowing cries for the rest of my life. There was no way of escaping that grip and the poor man did not stand a chance. A terrible battle ensued. Even though Captain Nemo and his chief officer put up a fearsome fight, they were unable to prevent the creature from dragging the ill-fated Frenchman under the water. We all rather lost control in our anger after that. Our offensives became more furious, finally driving away those creatures who we had not killed or seriously mutilated. During the ghastly fight, Ned Drake was toppled by a tentacle that took him unawares. It was Captain Nemo who saved him. “And now we are even, Mr Drake,” he told the Canadian. “I owed it to myself.” Ned bowed without answering him. The struggle had lasted 15 minutes. We surveyed the scene. Around us lay the mutilated remains of the monsters. Lumps of bloodied jelly and slimy, dislocated mollusc innards littered the curvilinear sprouting of the ship’s dark green surface. Her rippling patterns of metal were now etched in outlines of fresh pink blood. Defeated, if not all battered to death, the monsters had finally yielded and 329

left us in peace. Captain Nemo stood by the beacon, covered in blood. He stared at the sea that had taken one of his companions. Large tears welled in his eyes.

330

19. The Gulf Stream That terrible battle of 20th April will be one that none of us will ever forget. I recorded it in a nervous state and have tried to revise it since then. I showed it to Ned Drake and Milou. They said that it gave all the right facts, but was unable to convey the full emotional impact of the event. Only our greatest poets and writers would be able to achieve this. Somebody like Victor Hugo, for example, who managed to charge The Toilers of the Sea with appropriate passion and energy. Captain Nemo’s grief was overwhelming. He wept openly after the battle, even in front of us. This was the second companion he had lost since we had boarded the Nautilus and it had been a horrific death. The poor man had been crushed and strangled before being dragged underwater where, presumably, he had been ground between the devilfish’s iron mandibles. The poor crew member would never join his companions in the coral cemetery. For my part, it was his use of the French language that still haunted me. He had resorted to his mother tongue with his last dying breath. I had to wonder if there were more of my fellow countrymen on board and if they too had completely abandoned life on land. There was also the question of what other nationalities made up Captain Nemo’s team to think about. The Captain repaired to his room and did not come out again, as far as I could tell. I wondered how he could contemplate the sinuous curves of his walls, which so often took on forms reminiscent of the creature that had carried off his beloved crew member. His great sorrow was reflected in the movements of the Nautilus, he being the soul of that tragic vessel. We no longer travelled towards a fixed destination, drifting back and forth without purpose like a floating corpse. Even though the propeller had long been disentangled and cleaned, it was barely used. The ship was navigating at random around the scene where one of its crew had been so violently taken from it. We continued in this way for 10 days. It was already 1st May when we resumed our northbound course, subsequent to raising the Bahamas at the mouth of the Old Bahama Channel. We then followed the current of the sea’s greatest river, which has its own unique temperature and fish. We were in the midst of the Gulf Stream. This is a watercourse that runs independently through the middle of the Atlantic, its waters never mixing with that of the ocean. It is made up of salty water, saltier than the sea around it, with an average depth of 500 fathoms and mean width of 60 miles. In certain localities, it has been recorded that the Gulf Stream’s current moves at a speed of 2 and a half miles per hour. The volume of its waters never changes and is greater than that of all the world’s rivers combined. 331

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Commander Maury discovered the source of the Gulf Stream in the Bay of Biscay. Its waters, still weak in temperature and colour, start there and go south, skirting equatorial Africa, warming its waves in the rays of the Torrid Zone, crossing the Atlantic and reaching Cape São Roque on the coast of Brazil. From that point, it forks into 2 branches: The first goes to the Caribbean Sea, for further exposure to heat, while the second heads north, up the American Coast. The role of the Gulf Stream is to maintain the balance between hot and cold temperatures, mixing tropical and northern waters. Once attaining a white heat in the Gulf of Mexico, it advances as far as Newfoundland, before swerving away under the thrust of a cold current from the Davis Strait. It then resumes its ocean course by following a great circle of the earth on a rhumb line. Near the 43rd parallel, it then splits once more: The northeasterly branch returns to the Bay of Biscay and the Azores, with aid of trade winds, while the rest of the current washes the shores of Ireland and Norway with lukewarm water, going beyond Spitzbergen, where its temperature falls to 4° centigrade and affects the open sea at the pole. The Nautilus followed this river, finally leaving the Old Bahama Channel, which is 14 leagues wide by 380 yards deep, behind. The Gulf Stream moves at the rate of 5 miles per hour. The current’s speed steadily decreases as it advances northward, and we must pray that this continues. All experts agree that if its speed and direction were to change, the climates of Europe would undergo incalculable disturbances. At about noon on the day we embarked, I sat on the platform with Milou, relating all the relevant information about our surrounding waters. Once my explanation was over, I invited him to dip his hands into the water. When he did so, he was surprised to find that the water was neither hot nor cold. I explained that the water temperature of the Gulf Stream leaves the Gulf of Mexico at a temperature very similar to that of one’s blood. This current is a huge generator of heat that enables the European coasts to be decked in eternal greenery. According to Commander Maury, if we were to harness the full warmth of this current, it would supply enough heat to keep a river of molten iron solder as big as the Amazon or the Missouri flowing. We were then travelling at a speed of 7.38 feet per second. Looking about, it was clear that the Gulf Stream is visibly distinct from the surrounding sea. Its confined waters stand out against the ocean, operating on a different level to the colder waters. Murky and rich in salines, the pure indigo of the river contrasts with the green waves surrounding them. Abreast of the Carolinas, the line of demarcation was so clear that the Nautilus’s spur cut the waves of the Gulf Stream while its propeller continued to churn those belonging to the ocean. During the night, the Gulf Stream’s phosphorescent waters rivalled the electric glow of our beacon, especially in the stormy weather that frequently threatened us. On 8th May, we were in line with North Carolina, across from 334

Cape Hatteras once more. At that point, the Gulf Stream is 75 miles wide and 230 yards deep. It appeared that all supervision on board had been abandoned and the Nautilus continued to wander at random. With conditions so lax, even I admitted that we could easily have gotten away. Actually, there was ample opportunity for refuge in this region. The sea was well frequented by steamers that serviced the passage between the Gulf of Mexico, New York and Boston. It was also crossed daily by smaller schooners engaged in less ambitious trade all along the American coast. If we set out in the skiff, there was more than a good chance that we would be picked up. It looked promising, except for one crucial factor: The weather was utterly foul. That waterway is a breeding ground for tornadoes and cyclones were more than common. It was beyond our capabilities to face a raging sea in a light boat. Ned Drake himself conceded this point. He was forced to champ at the bit and wallow in his extreme homesickness. There was no cure for him, save escape. “Sir,” he told me, “it’s got to stop. Your Nemo’s veering away from shore and heading up north. You must believe me that I had my fill at the South Pole. I will not go with him to the North Pole.” “What can we do, Ned? There’s no chance of escaping right now.” “I keep coming back to the idea that someone must talk to the Captain. When we were in your own country’s seas, you didn’t say a word. Now that we’re in mine and I intend to speak up. In a few days’ time the Nautilus will probably lie abreast of Nova Scotia. From there, stretching all the way to Newfoundland, is the mouth of a large gulf and the St. Lawrence empties into that gulf and the St. Lawrence is my own river, the river that runs through my hometown Quebec … and when I think about all this, my gorge rises and my hair stands on end. Honestly, Sir, I’d rather jump overboard than stay here any longer. This time, I’m truly suffocating.” The Canadian was obviously at the end of his patience. A good mood had flared up in him after our escape from the Ice Bank, but it had not lasted. Since our battle with the devilfish, his face had grown darker by the day and his mood only worsened. I had some sense of what he was going through because I was not immune to my own pangs of longing for my beloved Paris. Nearly 7 months had gone by without our having any news from shore. From my point of view, my enthusiasm for life aboard the Nautilus had waned since Captain Nemo had begun to spurn my company. His almost total silence since the incident at the South Pole made me see life on board the Nautilus differently. Without any hospitality, we were living more like captured cetaceans than human beings. One had to have Milou’s Flemish blood to accept such circumstances. On reflection, I am of the opinion that if my gallant lad had gills instead of lungs, he would have made an outstanding fish. Ned Drake gave me no other option but to approach the Captain and ask after his intentions concerning us. He refused to take the fact that the anti-social man now shunned my presence into 335

account. There was simply no reasoning with the Canadian and I finally agreed to go and find the captain, if only to stop the Canadian from doing so himself. The results would have been too terrible to contemplate. Once left to myself, I resolved to tackle the issue immediately. I went back to my room and listened intently. Through the adjoining wall, I could hear movements inside Captain Nemo’s quarters. I knocked on his door quickly, before I had a chance to change my mind. There was no reply. I knocked again, then tried the knob. The door opened and I entered. The captain was there. He was so engrossed with the work on his desk that he had not heard me. I drew closer, determined not to leave without having my say. He looked up, sharply, with a frown, and said in stern tones: “What do you want?” “To speak with you, Captain.” “I’m busy, sir. I give you the freedom to enjoy your privacy, can’t you have the decency to do the same for me?” While this reception was less than encouraging, I had not gotten this far to be repudiated immediately. “Sir,” I said, with some gravity, “I need to speak with you about a matter that simply can’t wait.” “Whatever could that be?” he replied with sarcasm. “Have you made some discovery that has escaped me? Has the sea yielded up some novel secret to you alone that you must come and share it?” He shook his head and then seemed to relent. He showed me a manuscript open on the table and, in a more serious tone, told me: “Here, Professor Jeanneret, is a manuscript written in several languages. It contains a summary of my research under the sea. God willing, it will survive long after I am gone. It is signed with my name and carries in it the story of my life. This manuscript will be enclosed in a small, unsinkable contrivance. The last surviving man on the Nautilus will throw it into the sea and it will go wherever the waves carry it.” This meant that the man’s secret may one day be revealed. My heart leapt at the thought. I then saw that this announcement could be a good lead-in to my topic. “Captain,” I replied, “I’m sincerely full of praise for this plan you’re putting into effect. The fruits of your research should not be lost. But the methods you’re using strike me as being primitive. Who knows where the winds will take that contrivance and into whose boorish hands it might fall? Surely you or one of your men … ” “Never, sir,” the Captain said, without letting me finish. “Then my companions and I would be more than willing to safeguard your manuscript. If you give us back our freedom.” “Your freedom?” Captain Nemo’s voice had adopted a tone that chilled me to the bone. I now had his full attention and he was livid. I was forced to continue under his fixed stare: “Yes, Captain. That was the subject which I wanted to discuss with you. We’ve been on board your vessel for 7 months now and I wish to ask you today, in the name of my companions as well as myself, 336

if you intend to keep us here forever.” “Professor Jeanneret,” Captain Nemo said, slowly and emphatically, “what made you think my answer today would be any different from 7 months ago? My law does not change with the wind. Whoever boards the Nautilus may not leave it.” “Then what you’re inflicting on us is outright slavery.” “Call it anything you like.” “But every slave has the right to recover his freedom. By any worthwhile, available means.” “Who has denied you that right?” Captain Nemo replied. “Did I ever try to bind you with your word of honour?” He crossed his arms and continued to stare at me. “Sir,” I told him, “I think that to take up this subject a second time would be distasteful to both of us. Allow me to repeat that it isn’t for selfish reasons alone that I raise this issue. For me, this research has been an all-consuming diversion that could make me forget everything else. We’re not so different, you and I. We’ve both been neglected, living in the faint hope that someday we could pass on to future generations the fruits of our labours. In short, I can admire you and comfortably go with you while playing a role I only partly understand. But I still catch glimpses of other aspects of your life surrounded by clandestine activities that my companions and I are unable to share with you. Even when we’ve all worked together as a team and our hearts were moved by some of your griefs or stirred by your deeds of courage and genius, we’re still not sure if our position is that of friend or enemy. It’s this feeling of being alien to your deepest concerns that makes our situation unacceptable, impossible, even. And while I am able to comport myself with some self control, it is quite impossible for Ned Drake. Every man, by virtue of his very humanity, deserves fair treatment. Have you ever considered how a love of freedom and hatred of being imprisoned could lead to plans of vengeance in a temperament like that of the Canadian’s? What he might think, or attempt ... ” I fell silent. Captain Nemo had raised his eyebrows, daring me to continue. He did not blink. Mollified, I remained silent. He almost hissed as he said: “Ned Drake can think, or attempt, anything he wants. I didn’t go looking for him and I certainly don’t keep him on board for my entertainment. As for you, Professor Jeanneret, you are fairly capable of understanding a limited amount of information. From now on, you’re going to have silence to interpret freely. I have nothing more to say to you.” I withdrew under his icy gaze. From that day forward, every minute on board was a strain. When I reported the conversation to my 2 companions, we all agreed it was time to act. Ned Drake pointed out that the Nautilus was nearing Long Island. We agreed to try and escape there, regardless of the weather conditions.” Almost immediately after this was said, the clouds grew increasingly threatening. It became obvious that a hurricane was on the way. The air turned white and milky. Slender sheaves of 337

cirrus clouds were chased along the horizon by layered nimbocumulus, while other low clouds simply fled. The sea became inflated by long swells and I observed that the barometer had fallen significantly, indicating a tremendous tension in the surrounding haze. The mixture in our stormglass was rapidly decomposing under the influence of the electricity charging the air. Even the birds disappeared, except a few petrels, a species that is on good terms with storms. A struggle of the elements was approaching. The tempest burst during the day of 13th May, just as the Nautilus was cruising abreast of Long Island, a few miles from the narrows to Upper New York Bay. I am confident of being able to describe it adequately because Captain Nemo did not make for the ocean depths, as any sensible person would. Instead, we braved it out on the surface. The wind was blowing from the southwest, starting out as a stiff breeze, with a speed of about 16 yards per second that built up to 27 yards per second, which is the figure for major storms by 15:00. Captain Nemo proceeded to plant himself on the platform. He ordered his crew members to lash him to the railings so that the monstrous breakers foaming over the deck would not carry him away. I followed suit, attaching myself nearby him. Needless to say, Milou tried to follow, but, being deeply concerned about what Ned Drake was capable of doing, I begged him to stay with the Canadian. Companionless, I was left to divide my awe between the tempest and the extraordinary man who chose to face it thus. The raging sea was swept with huge, tattered cloud-drifts, so saturated with water that they seemed to have been drenched by the waves. There were no more of the small intervening billows that form in the troughs of the big crests to be seen, only long sootcoloured undulations with compact crowns. They kept growing taller, spurring each other on without frothing. The Nautilus, sometimes lying on its side, at others standing perpendicular, like a bizarre mast, rolled and pitched frightfully. It must have been near 17:00 when a torrential rain started to fall, but it failed to have a soothing effect on either wind or sea. The hurricane was unleashed at a speed of nearly 40 leagues per hour. Under these conditions, houses topple, iron railings snap and 24-pound cannons become relocated. But the Nautilus remained intact, living up to the saying of an expert engineer that, â&#x20AC;&#x153;a wellconstructed hull can defy any seaâ&#x20AC;?. The submersible could resist what a rock could not. It was a steel spindle without rigging or masting and was able survive the crashing waves. I was quite engrossed in being able to examine those unleashed breakers at such close quarters. They measured up to 50 feet in height, over a length of 165 to 190 yards and the speed of their propagation, half that of the wind, must have been about 3.5 yards per second. Their volume and power only increased. I then understood the role played by these waves, which trap air in their flanks, only to release it in the depths of the sea, where its oxygen brings life. It has been calculated that their utmost pressure can build to 6,600 pounds on every square foot of surface they strike. 338

Similar waves in the Hebrides are known to have once picked up a stone block weighing 84,000 pounds. Relatives of these waves, which toppled part of the Japanese city of Yeddo on 23rd December, 1854, went on that same day to break on the beaches of America. After, nightfall the storm only grew in intensity. Milou reported to me that, as had happened with the 1860 cyclone on Réunion Island, the pressure gauge fell by 70%. When the end of the day was near, I made out a big ship passing on the horizon, struggling painfully. She lay at half steam in an effort to hold steady on the waves. I thought she must have been a steamer on one of those lines out of New York to Liverpool or Le Havre. She soon vanished into the shadows. At 22:20, the skies caught fire. The air was streaked with violent flashes of lightning. I couldn’t take the brightness and had to look away, but Captain Nemo stared straight at it, like a man possessed by the spirit of the storm. A dreadful noise filled the air. It was a complicated sound, composed of the roar of crashing breakers, the howl of the wind and claps of thunder. The wind whirled from every direction. The cyclone made a great clockwise whirlpool in the sky, moving in the opposite direction of revolving storms in the southern hemisphere. Looking down at the deck, the swirling chaos of the skies were given order in the forms of the ship’s metal surface, proving to me how those whorls embedded in the simplest forms of plant and animal life echo the patterns of the greatest of nature’s forces. The Gulf Stream truly lived up to its nickname of the “Lord of Storms” on that day. Such formidable cyclones are created through the difference in temperature between its currents and the superimposed layers of air. After the rain, came a downpour of fire. Droplets of water morphed into small explosions. One could readily have assumed that Captain Nemo was now courting a death worthy of himself in seeking to be struck by lightning. Then, with a hideous pitching movement, the Nautilus reared its steel spur into the air. Long sparks shot down its length, as if it were a lightning rod. This left me completely shattered. I used the last of my strength to undo the ropes that bound me and sink to the deck. I slithered, flat on my belly, to the hatch. I managed to get it open and crawl inside. The storm had then reached its maximum intensity. It was no longer possible to stand upright inside the Nautilus. It was around midnight when Captain Nemo must have reentered because the ballast tanks filled and our ship sank beneath the surface of the waves. Through the open windows, I saw large, frightened fish passing like phantoms through the fiery waters. Some were struck by lightning right before my eyes. The Nautilus kept descending. I thought it would find calm again at 16 yards down, but this was not the case. The entirety of the upper strata was violently agitated. It was only once we had sunk to 55 yards that all was calm. We found a resting place in the bowels of the sea and, from that silent haven, it was impossible to tell what havoc was being raged on the surface. 339

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20. In Latitude 47° 24’ and Longitude 17° 28’ We had been thrown eastwards once more, thanks to the storm. Our hopes of escaping to New York or St Lawrence were dashed yet again. Ned Drake retracted into as deep a depression and Captain Nemo and did not leave his room. Milou and I now refused to be parted, even for a second. To be accurate, the Nautilus’s direction was more northeast than east. We were travelling through mists deeply feared by sailors, alternatively cruising on top of and beneath the waves. The perilous fogs, caused largely by melted ice, have been the cause of many a seafarer’s death. While the great noise of the wind disguises the sound of waves breaking on solid mass, these opaque wafts render dangerous reefs invisible. And if another ship is in the vicinity, no pipes or alarm bells can rescue you from collision. As a result, the floor of this sea resembled a battleground. Every kind of ship, across various dates, littered the ocean bed in shattered parts. Some were old and encrusted and others quite new, shedding the terrible reflection of our beacon’s light on their still-shiny ironwork and copper undersides. The number of these vessels that must have gone down with all hands on deck was too horrific to contemplate. Not least because many aboard were poor immigrants trying to escape troubled spots, who now haunt the seas around Cape Race, Paul Island as well as the Strait of Belle Isle and the St. Lawrence Estuary. A harrowing number of victims have been listed in the obituary notices of the Royal Mail, Inman and Montreal lines by vessels named Equateur, Orientale, Abidjan, Peruvian, Niger, Senegal and Mississippi. They all ran aground. So too did the Samoa and Antarctique, sunk in collisions; and the Hanoi, St Louis and Caribbean Queen, lost for reasons unknown. In the midst of their gloomy rubble, the Nautilus navigated. By 15th May, we were situated off the extreme south of the Grand Banks of Newfoundland. The massive banks of this Englishowned land are the result of marine sedimentation, an extensive accumulation of organic waste brought either from the equator by the Gulf Stream’s current, or from the North Pole by the countercurrent of cold water that skirts the American coast. There are also frozen chunks of ice, collected from the ice breakup that drift about erratically. Sometimes we saw huge boneyards formed by fish, molluscs and zoophytes, dying by the billions. The sea is relatively shallow around the Grand Banks, a few 100 fathoms at best. But to the south there is a deep and sudden depression, a 1,640-fathom pit. The Gulf Stream widens here, its waters coming to full bloom. Shedding its speed and temperature, it transforms into a sea. Amongst an array of local specimens, our nets hauled in a real scorpion; a bold, muscular fish armed with prickles on its head and stings on its fins, measuring 2 to 3 yards and the ruthless enemy 342

of cod, blennies and salmon. This was the bullhead of the northerly seas, a fish with red fins and a brown body covered with nodules. The Nautilus’s fishermen had some trouble getting a grip on the creature, which, thanks to the formation of its gill covers, can protect its respiratory organs from any parching contact with the air and can live out of water for a good while. While the Nautilus was clearing a path through tight ranks of cod, carp, blennies and scorpionfish, Milou couldn’t refrain from saying: “Take a look at these cod. I thought they were all flat, like dab or sole.” “My innocent boy,” I replied, “cod are only flat in the grocery store, where they’re cut open and spread out on display. In the water they’re like mullet, spindle-shaped and streamlined.” “Of course, I believe Master. But there really are swarms of them here,” he answered. “This is nothing compared to what we would see if not for scorpionfish and human beings. Do you know how many eggs have been counted in a single female?” “My greatest estimate would be 500 thousand.” “Eleven million, my friend.” “Eleven million? I refuse to accept that until I count them myself.” “Go ahead, my good Milou. But it would be considerably less work to believe me. Besides, Frenchmen, Englishmen, Americans, Danes and Norwegians catch these cod by the thousands. They’re eaten in prodigious quantities. If they weren’t so impressively fertile, the seas would have already been depopulated of them. In England and America alone, 5 thousand ships manned by 75 thousand seamen go after cod. Each ship brings back an average catch of 4,400 fish, making 22 million. Off the coast of Norway, the total is the same.” “All right,” Milou replied, “I’ll take Master’s word for it and I won’t count them.” “Count what?” “Those 11 million eggs. But, with Master’s permission, I’ll make one comment.” “What’s that?” “If all their eggs hatched, just 4 codfish could feed England, America, and Norway.” As we skimmed the depths of the Grand Banks, I could see the long fishing lines that every boat dangled by the dozen, each armed with 200 hooks. The lower end of each line dragged the seabed by means of a small grappling iron. At the surface, it was secured to the buoy-rope of a cork float. The Nautilus had to manoeuvre carefully through this underwater spider web. But the ship did not stay in those heavily trawled waterways for long. It went north to around latitude 42˚, bringing us abreast of St John’s in Newfoundland and Heart’s Content, where the Atlantic Cable ends. The Nautilus then headed east, as if aiming for the plateau on which the great telegraph cable rests. The layout of this terrain has been mapped out with perfect accuracy through soundings. On the 17th May, I spotted the cable lying on the seafloor, about 500 miles from Heart’s Content at a depth of more 343

than 1,500 fathoms. Milou was on the brink of classifying it amongst the class of gigantic sea snakes, when I pointed out his error. To keep his embarrassment at bay, I launched into some history of the underwater telegraph line. The first cable was laid between the years 1857 and 1858. But it went dead after transmitting about 400 telegrams. Engineers built a new cable in 1863 that was shipped aboard the Great Eastern. But this attempt also failed. The fault occurred 638 miles away from the coast of Ireland. It was clear that something was wrong when, at around 14:00 in the afternoon, all contact with Europe broke off. Captain Nemo had told me that, as it so happened, the Nautilus had come to rest in the same spot where this second cable suffered the rupture on 25th May, while submerged at a depth of 4,195 yards. The electricians on board decided to cut the cable before fishing it up and, by 23:00 that evening, they had retrieved the damaged part. They repaired the joint and its splice and returned the cable to where they had found it. But their efforts were in vain and it snapped again a few days later and remains lying on the ocean floor to this day. However, the Americans refused to admit defeat. A daring entrepreneur called Cyrus Field had risked his whole fortune to promote this undertaking and now called for a new bond issue. It sold out immediately and another cable was put down, this time under more favourable conditions. Its sheaves of conducting wire were properly insulated inside a gutta-percha covering, which in turn was protected by a padding of textile material enclosed in a metal sheath. The Great Eastern took this cargo with it on 13th July 1866 and the operation went ahead with only one setback: As the cable was unfolded, the electricians saw that somebody had driven nails through it, thus sabotaging the project. Captain Anderson then posted a warning that, if the culprit were detected, he would be summarily thrown overboard without trial. After that, there were no more incidents. On 23rd July, the Great Eastern had progressed to a location about 500 miles from Newfoundland when it received news, via telegraph from Ireland, that an armistice between Prussia and Austria had been signed after the Battle of Sadova. It managed to sight the port of Heart’s Content through the heavy mists on the 28th and were able to declare that the undertaking had ended happily. In its inaugural dispatch, the youthful America addressed old Europe with the following wise words, which are often misconstrued: “Glory to God in the highest and peace on earth to men of good will.” By that point, Milou had quite gotten over his error and we surveyed what could be seen of that historic giant snake of communication. It was covered with seashell rubble and bristling with foraminifera, which is a crust of gravel that serves to protect it from any molluscs that might have plans of tunnelling into it. The cable rested quite serenely, sheltered from the sea’s motions under a suitable pressure allowing it to transmit an electric spark that travels from America to Europe in 0.32 seconds. I have no doubt that this cable will stand the test of time as its gutta-percha casing is only improved 344

by prolonged immersion in salt water. On top of this, the plateau on which it lies is well chosen, as its depths are unlikely to cause breakages. The Nautilus trailed it to its lowest reaches, located 2,423 fathoms down and, even there, it rested without any stress or strain. The ship then came to the spot where the 1863 accident had taken place. Here, the ocean floor forms a valley just under 100 miles wide. The entirety of Mount Blanc could fit comfortably into that gorge, without the tip of a single peak poking out of the water. The valley is blocked off to the east by a sheer wall of about 2,000 yards high. We arrived at the cliff on 28th May. At that point, our ship was no less than 93 miles from Ireland. Instead of heading towards the British Isles, as I had been sure he would, Captain Nemo headed south, returning to European seas. As we rounded the Emerald Isle, I was able to catch a quick glimpse of Cape Clear, along with the lighthouse on Fatsnet Rock that guides all those thousands of vessels that set out from Liverpool and Glasgow. I then began to wonder if the Nautilus would dare tackle the English Channel. Ned Drake, whose deterioration rapidly improved proportionately to the shortening of the distance between our persons and friendly land, never gave me a moment’s rest. He questioned me continually concerning the ship’s future movements. There was nothing I could do for the poor man. Captain Nemo had made himself invisible to me. The Nautilus continued her southward mission. On 30th May, we were in sight of Land’s End. The ship passed between the nether tip of England and the Scilly Islands, which it left behind to starboard. If we were going to enter the English Channel, we would need to head east. We did not. The entire day of 31st May was spent with the ship sweeping the sea in a series of small circles. This left me deeply puzzled. It seemed to be a search for a point that was tricky to ascertain. Captain Nemo actually made an appearance at noon, to take the bearings himself. He did not throw even a glance in my direction. I noticed that he looked even gloomier than usual. My heart ached to know what great sorrow filled his being on such a scale and mused if the problem could be our proximity to European shores. If so, was it remorse or regret he was undergoing? The Nautilus kept to the same tack on the following day. Once again, Captain Nemo emerged from the shadows to take the altitude of the sun. It was a day of smooth seas and clear skies. A big steamship was visible on the horizon. Its flag was visible, flapping from the gaff of its fore-and-aft sail, but I could not make out what its nationality might be. Once the sun had passed its zenith, Captain Nemo raised his sextant and took his sights with his characteristic precision. The complete stillness of the waters aided him. The Nautilus floated completely motionless. After determining our position, I heard the Captain saying, “It’s here.” Then he disappeared down the hatch. I was unsure of whether he had noticed that the steamer changed course and was on her way towards us. I returned to the saloon to the clang of the hatch being 345

closed. Then there was water hissing in the ballast tanks. The Nautilus began to drop down in a straight line. Her propeller had been stopped, so there was no forward motion whatsoever. We came to rest on the ocean floor at a depth of 450 fathoms. The ceiling lights in the saloon were switched off and the window panels peeled back to reveal a brightly lit seabed, for a radius of about a half-mile. I looked to port and saw nothing but the immenseness of these tranquil waters. There was a noticeable protuberance from the ground of that underwater landscape, which immediately caught my eye. It had the appearance of a ruin enshrouded in a thick blanket of snow that, in reality was a layer of bone-white shells. On careful examination, I could make out the swollen silhouette of a ship that had lost her masts. She must have sunk bow first. The vessel had obviously met her fate many years previously or she would not have been so caked in limestone. I wondered what the ship was, especially in light of the trouble that Captain Nemo had gone to pay his respects to her grave. I was startled to hear his voice beside me. He had entered the room without a sound. In a voice far slower and more weighed down than usual, he began to recite, “Originally this ship was christened La Marseillais. She carried 74 cannons and was launched in 1762. On 13th August, 1778, under the command of La Poype-Vertrieux, she fought against the Preston with great bravery. On 4th July, 1779, she assisted in the capture of the island of Grenada, as a member of the squadron under Admiral d’Estaing. It was on 5th September, 1781, under the Count de Grasse, that she joined in the Battle of Chesapeake Bay. The new Republic of France changed her name in 1794 and on 16th April of that same year, she joined the squadron at Brest under Rear Admiral Villaret de Joyeuse. He had been assigned the task of escorting a convoy of wheat from America, under the command of Admiral Van Stabel. In this second year of the French Revolutionary Calendar, on 11th and 12th days in the Month of Pasture, the squadron had a violent encounter with English ships. Professor, it is 1st June today in the year of 1868 and the 13th day in the Month of Pasture. Seventy-four years ago to the day, at this very spot in latitude 47° 24’ and longitude 17° 28’, this ship sank. After a heroic battle, she lost her 3 masts and the water filled her hold. With a full third of her lost to the battle, she opted to go to the bottom with 356 crew members in tow rather than surrender. She disappeared beneath the waves, flag nailed up on the afterdeck, to the cry of: ‘Long live the Republic!’” “This is the Avenger.” I said, awestruck. “Yes, professor,” he said, without turning his head. “The Avenger.”

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21. A Mass Execution The way that Captain Nemo had told the story of the Avenger and the strange emphasis with which he pronounced the name made me stare at him. He now stood with his arms outstretched towards the proud wreck beyond the glass, eyes blazing. Perhaps I never would be able to grasp who and what he really was. The otherworldly, menacing gleam that could now be seen in his eye reminded me that there had always been a distinction between the man and the scientist in him. It was the scientist who had earned my respect. The man was the one from whose ship I wished to escape. I thought of the extreme measures to which his misanthropy had pushed him. His hate was so inflexible that the passing years could not weaken it. A man so obsessed with inner turmoil was capable of extreme deeds and his Nautilus could prove to be a formidable weapon in the hands of such a person. As we stood, frozen to the spot, the ship started to rise. I watched the Avenger’s murky shape disappear below us. Soon a gentle rolling motion indicated that we were afloat on the surface again. There was the hollow sound of an explosion. I looked at the Captain. He did not move. “Captain?” I ventured. There was no response. I left him still staring out the glass in a trancelike state and went up to the platform. Milou and the Canadian were already there. “What was that noise?” I asked. “A cannon,” said Ned Drake. I stared in the direction of the ship I had spotted earlier. It was now about 6 miles away. “What kind of ship is it, Ned?” “From its rigging and low masts, I would bet on it being a man-ofwar. I am hoping that it will pull alongside and sink this cursed Nautilus.” “Ned, my friend,” Milou replied, “what possible harm could it do the Nautilus? It cannot attack from beneath the waves or cannonade the bottom of the sea.” I asked the harpooner if he was able to tell the nationality of the oncoming craft. He lowered his lids and puckered his brow in concentration, focusing the full power of his gaze on the ship for a short while. “I’m afraid not, Sir,” he said, finally. “It’s not flying a flag, so I can’t make out what nation it’s from. But I still swear it’s a warship, because there’s a long pennant streaming from the peak of its mainmast.” We continued to watch the ship bearing down on us for a tense quarter of an hour. I still did not think that it had spotted the Nautilus and, if it had, would have no idea of what it really was. 347

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The Canadian was soon able to relate that the craft was, indeed a large battleship, a double-decker ironclad, complete with a ram. Thick, dark smoke was pouring from her funnels. Her sails were furled together with the lines of her yardarms. There was no flag on her gaff. She was too far away for us to make out the colour of her pennant, which was fluttering wildly, as if it were made of thin ribbon. The ship kept coming forward at a great pace. If Captain Nemo allowed her to approach further, we actually had a chance of escape. Ned Drake said: “If that boat comes within a mile of us, Sir, I am jumping overboard and swimming to her. I suggest you so the same.” I did not reply. The ship loomed larger on the horizon. Whether it was French, English, American or Russian, we were certain to be welcome on board. But we would have to get to it first. Milou then said, “Master may recall that we have a history of swimming in extreme circumstances. He can rely on me to tow him to that vessel, if he’s agreeable.” Before I had a chance to reply, white smoke began to steam from the battleship’s bow. A few seconds later, a heavy object splashed the waters astern of the Nautilus with violence. “They’re firing at us!” I exclaimed. “Good, lads!” was Ned Drake’s response. “But that means they won’t see us as castaways sticking to a wreck.” “With all due respect to Master,” said Milou, calmly shaking off the water that sprayed him from another shell, “they’ve just seen the narwhal. Of course they’re shelling it.” “But it must be clear to them that they’re dealing with human beings,” I protested. “And perhaps that’s exactly why they’re attacking,” said Ned Drake, looking at me hard. It was only then that the awful truth dawned on me. By this point, people must know what the situation with the so-called monster was. When the Thomas Jefferson encountered the Nautilus, Commander Farragut had to have perceived that the Canadian’s harpoon had hit an underwater boat far more dangerous than any cetacean. In this case, Captain Nemo’s machine was probably being sought for in every sea. And then my mind went back to that night in the middle of the Indian Ocean, when we had been drugged and locked up. At the time, I had wondered if he had attacked another ship. The man now lying in the coral cemetery had been the victim of some sort of collision that the Nautilus had instigated. As the sequence of events unfolded in my mind’s eye, I now saw that this must have been the case. One aspect of Captain Nemo’s mystery was now revealed. He had sworn unconditional hatred towards the nations who were now allied against him. At least they were no longer hunting a fairy-tale monster, but a pitiless enemy. There would be no friends on board the approaching warship. The cannons continued to fire. Shells fell around us in increasing numbers, although none had managed to reach the Nautilus yet. At that point, she was only 3 miles away. Despite the obvious attack, 350

Captain Nemo still had not made an appearance. This was particularly surprising in light of the fact that, if one of those shells hit the Nautilus’s elongated hull, it could well prove to be fatal. “Sir, we’ve got to do everything we can to get out of this jam,” said the Canadian. “Let’s try signalling to them. Damnation! Maybe they’ll realize we’re decent people.” Ned Drake pulled out his handkerchief to wave it in the air. But he barely had a chance to unfold it before he was felled by an iron fist. Despite his great strength, the harpooner tumbled to the deck. “Scum!” the Captain roared. “Do you want to be nailed to the Nautilus’s spur before it charges that ship?” It was beyond dreadful to hear and even worse to see. The Captain’s face was pale from some spasm of his heart, which appeared to have stopped beating for an instant. His pupils were hideously contracted. His firm voice was now a bellow. Captain Nemo reached down to shake the Canadian by the shoulders. Then he dropped him and turned to face the battleship, whose shells showering the ocean around him. “Ship of an accursed nation, you know who I am! And I don’t need to see your colours to recognize you. Look, here are mine.” It was the first and last time I heard him shout. The Captain then unfurled a black flag in the bow of the platform. It was the same as the one he had left planted at the South Pole. Just then, a shell hit the Nautilus’s hull at an angle. Failing to puncture its surface, it ricocheted very close to the Captain and disappeared into the sea. Captain Nemo watched it impassively, then, without turning round, said to me: “Go below, professor. And take your companions with you.” “Sir,” I said, “are you going to attack this ship?” “Indeed, I’m going to sink it.” “You can’t, Captain!” “I can and I will.” Captain Nemo’s voice was icy. “You have no right to pass judgment on me. These things that you weren’t meant to see are none of your concern. The attack has come. My reply will be dreadful. Get back inside!” “From what country is that ship?” I needed to know. “You don’t know? So much the better. At least its country of origin will remain a secret to you. Go below!” We had no choice but to obey. As we left, about 15 of the Nautilus’s seamen —they had gathered on the platform while we spoke — formed a tight human band around his person. The mutual hate emanating from that group towards the ship was palpable. Each of the crew members were consumed by the same spirit of vengeance. Milou, Ned Drake and I went below as another projectile scraped the Nautilus’s hull, to which we heard the Captain responding: “Shoot, you demented vessel! Shower your silly little shells! You will never escape the Nautilus’s spur! But I won’t have you perishing on this spot. I don’t want your pitiful wreckage polluting the waters around the Avenger.” 351

We went to our mutual rooms. The Captain and his men stayed on the platform. The propeller pushed us along the waves for a short distance, presumably to get out of the cannons’ range. The chase continued, but Captain Nemo kept moving away from the fire, drawing the ship away from our previous location. By 16:00, I could sit still no longer. My extreme agitation drew me back to the central staircase and the hatch was open. I ventured up to the platform to find Captain Nemo was still there. He paced up and down with restless energy. He often stopped to gaze at the ship, which remained 6 or 7 miles off to his leeward. He was luring his prey in an easterly direction. I took some comfort in the fact that he had not yet attacked it and there might still be some time to intervene. But I had barely begun to open my mouth, when he silenced me with a kind of chant, said entirely to himself: “I am the law, I am the tribunal. I am the oppressed and before me are my oppressors. I have witnessed the destruction of everything I loved, cherished, and venerated at their hands. Homeland, wife, children, father and mother are gone. There lies all that I have a right to hate. There lies all I have the right to destroy.” I took a last look at the battleship, which was putting on steam. It was not to be spared. I went to find my companions. “We must escape.” I said, trying to keep my voice under control. “Good,” said the Canadian. “Where’s that ship from?” “I’ve no idea. But whatever it’s nationality, it will be sunk before nightfall. I would prefer to die in the act of trying to escape than being an accomplice on a merciless act of revenge, whose necessity we have no way of gauging.” “That’s my feeling too,” said Ned Drake, who had completely regained his composure, despite being a little bruised from his encounter with Captain Nemo. “Let’s wait for nightfall.” We waited till it grew dark. An eerie silence reigned throughout the ship. The compass told me that the Nautilus was still following the same course. The propeller churned the waves with a steady beat. We remained on the surface of the water, rocking gently with the waves. Our plan was to get out of the ship as soon as the battleship was within hearing distance. If it was a clear night, the moon was waxing, with a full moon on the way in 3 days’ time, so visibility should be good. Once we got aboard that ship, it was unlikely we could ward off the lethal blow it was about to receive, but we could ensure that the crew made precautions to protect themselves. I thought the Nautilus was going to attack on several occasions, but she continued to toy with her, letting her get closer and then pulling away. A portion of the night passed in this way, without incident. We waited for a chance to take action. I was too keyed up to make any attempts at conversation, except to dissuade Ned Drake from jumping overboard when it would have been foolish. I forced him to wait. I was sure that the Nautilus would do battle with the double-decker on the surface of the waves and at that point it would be much easier to escape. We sat together in the darkness, 352

the great shadows cast by the Nautilus’s curvature looming around us. It was 03:30 the next time I climbed onto the platform, filled with apprehension. Captain Nemo had not left it. He stood next to his flag, which a mild breeze had picked up so that it bellowed above his head. His eyes never left that poor vessel and that man’s power over me was so intense that his gaze alone seemed to draw the ship along. By that time, the moon had passed its zenith and Jupiter was rising in the east. Sky and ocean were tranquil, the sea offering the moon the loveliest of mirrors in which to view her reflection. The comparison between the deep calm of the surrounding elements and the seething fury on board the Nautilus was chilling. The battleship was 2 miles away. She kept drawing nearer to the Nautilus’s phosphorous glow. I could see the double-decker’s green and red running lights as well as a white lantern hanging from the large stay in her foremast. I stood watching her until 06:15 in the morning. Captain Nemo did not even notice me. The ship was now a mile and a half away. With the first break of day, she resumed her fire. The time for Captain Nemo’s attack could not be far off now. It was the hour in which I had to leave this man who I dared not judge. I was about to go below to rouse my companions when the chief officer appeared on the platform. Several men followed him. Captain Nemo did not seem to be aware of them either. They went about various duties around the platform, which were obviously a clearing of the decks for action. The wrought metal railing was lowered on its hinges to become flush with the surface and the lantern encasement was withdrawn into the hull’s metal framework. The highest protrusion was now the top of the pilothouse’s dome, rising about 3 feet high above the platform. The capsule of the Nautilus’s shell was no longer encumbered by a single extension that could potentially hamper her movements. She was a beautifully decorated bullet, with a deadly glass eye. I went back to the saloon. The Nautilus remained on the surface. Rays of morning sun shone through the windows, making a charming show of the undulating waves above and below the sea. The terrible day of 2nd June had dawned. The log reported that we had reduced speed at 07:10 in the morning. I knew that the Nautilus was letting the battleship approach. The explosions grew louder as they came closer, making an odd hissing sound as they hit. “My friends, it’s time,” I said. “Let’s shake hands and may God be with us.” Ned Drake’s demeanour was resolute, while Milou was as calm as if I had suggested a stroll on the promenade. I could barely control my emotions. We went into the library. Just as I pushed open the door leading to the well of the central companionway, the hatch closed with a sickly clang. The Canadian leaped up the steps, but I restrained him. The telltale hissing told me that water was entering the ship’s 353

ballast tanks. In a few moments, the Nautilus had sunk below the surface of the waves. I only understood what was happening at that point and it was too late to take action. The Nautilus was not going to strike the doubledecker out in the open, but below its waterline, where her metal armour was not as strong. Yet again, we were prisoners. This time we were fated to be unwilling witnesses to a gruesome drama but there was little time to think anything through. We took refuge in my room and could do nothing but stare at each other. My mind was in a state of shock. All we could do was wait for the sound of a dreadful explosion. With nerves taut to the point of breaking, we listened. In the meantime, the Nautilus had increased her speed at a rapid rate. With hull vibrating, she was gathering momentum to sting. I heard myself cry out. There had been a collision, but a mild one. I could feel the spur being inside something, and hear scratching and scraping. The Nautilus had passed through the battleshipâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s body like a sailmakerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s needle through canvas. It had been all too easy. I was unable to sit still. Now frantic and not a little crazed, I leaped up and rushed to the saloon. Captain Nemo was there. Silent and stony, he stared out through the open port panel. An enormous, dark mass was sinking through the waters. The Nautilus sank slowly alongside it, missing none of its death throes. It was about 10 yards away and I could see its hideously gaping hull. Water rushed into the vessel with a sound of thunder, then it engulfed the double rows of cannons and railings. Black, quivering shadows invaded the decks. The water was rising. The poor crewmen clambered over each other, clung to the masts and writhed under the waters. It looked like nothing so much as a human anthill that a torrent of water had caught by surprise. I was paralyzed with anguish, short of breath. My eyes were glued to the atrocity, unable to pull away from its ghastly allure. The large vessel settled slowly. The Nautilus kept a deliberate pace with her every movement. Then there was an eruption. Compressed air inside the ship sent her decks flying apart, as if blown by powder. The force of the explosion was so great that it pushed the Nautilus away. From then on, the doomed vessel sank more quickly, first its mastheads laden with corpses, then its crosstresses, bending under clusters of men and finally, the peak of her mainmast. We stood still and the dark mass slowly disappeared amongst the eddies below us, all framed by the warped metal of the Nautilusâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s windows. I turned to Captain Nemo, the executioner. He was still staring. After some more minutes he turned and went to the door of his stateroom. He opened it, slowly, and entered. I followed him with my eyes. From that angle, I could see him slide open another panel in the wall opposite the door, which was not usually visible. Even from that distance, I could see that there hung a large painting of a beautiful young woman with an olive complexion. Her arms were wrapped around 2 little children with large brown eyes. From afar, the image seemed flattened, without much depth of field. It could 354

easily have been mistaken for being the work of a European master from the Dark Ages before the Renaissance. The Captain placed himself in front of the painting, searching for something in the depths of the womanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dark gaze. Then he stretched out his arms to the painting and sank to his knees, his body racked with sobs.

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22. The Last Words of Captain Nemo Finally, the panels had closed on that appalling view. But the lights in the saloon had not come on again. All was silence and darkness inside the Nautilus. It left the sight of destruction at great speed, travelling 100 feet below the surface. I wondered if Captain Nemo would flee north or south after that dreadful crime in the name of revenge. I went back to my room where Ned Drake and Milou were quietly waiting. Captain Nemo now filled me with insurmountable horror. Whatever he had once suffered at the hands of other human beings, he had no right to mete out such punishment. It was intolerable that he had made me, if not quite an accomplice, then at least an eyewitness to his actions. Had that self-appointed archangel been less consumed by depression, he would surely have put us to sleep for that entire episode and we would be none the wiser. It was 11:30 when the lights came back on. I went to the saloon, but it was deserted. Looking at the various instruments, I could see that we were heading northwards at a speed of 25 miles per hour, sometimes on the surface and sometimes up to 30 feet beneath it. Once our position was marked on the chart, I saw that we were passing the mouth of the English Channel. This meant that our set course was taking us to the northernmost seas at a rapid rate. By evening, we had cleared 200 leagues up the Atlantic. Shadows gathered and the seas were gloomy until the moon came up. I went to my room, but was unable to sleep. That terrible scene of destruction kept repeating in my mindâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eye. My dementia had returned. A terrible music, which can only be described as hallucinations compressed into sounds, swelled inside the Nautilus. Discordant melodies bent the air and the coiling spirals of the ship inflamed my hysteria once more. Each clang of a metal door or loud step reverberated through my head, ricocheting until I became dizzy and nauseous. When I staggered to the saloon, I was convinced I could catch the sickly-sweet whiff of human corpses, mingled with rotting fish and salt. The ship seemed to be dismembering, her metal plates peeling apart to allow fearsome creatures of indescribable hideousness to enter. Milou found me on one of the library couches, prostrate in terror and bathed in perspiration, having mistaken its soft, slippery surface for the putrified flesh of a large mammal. After that night, my state of mind continued to deteriorate. The poor lad had to monitor my every movement. I have no idea where the Nautilus went to in the north Atlantic basin, but I was aware that she went very fast. She might have called at the capes of Spitzbergen, or the shores of Novaya Zemlya, or even have made its way through the High Arctic mists to uncharted regions like 358

unknown beaches on the Siberian coast. I am unable to say. As we were in the polar regions, night and day no longer followed their normal sequence. My sense of the passing hours dwindled and my time was suspended in the bowels of the Nautilus. I felt myself occupy that strange domain where the overwrought imagination of Edgar Allan Poe is at home. Like his fabled Arthur Gordon Pym, I expected any moment to see that “shrouded human figure, very far larger in its proportions than any dweller among men”, hulking across the cataract that protects the outskirts of the pole. I can now guess that the Nautilus’s haphazard course continued for 15 or 20 days, but I could be wrong on this count. To this day, I wonder how long the desperate meander would have continued, had we not met with the catastrophe that ended the voyage. Milou has recounted to me the conditions of those last days. Captain Nemo was no longer in the picture. Neither was his chief officer, whose crewmen seemed to have vanished. The Nautilus cruised underneath the waves almost continually, rising only briefly to renew our air supply. The hatches opened and closed as if automated. Our position on the map was no longer recorded, so there was no way of telling where we were. I do not remember being hungry or even eating, but Milou did his best to scavenge food in the seemingly deserted kitchen. The Canadian also disappeared from view. He was at the end of his strength and patience and Milou could not coax a word out of him. Milou feared that Ned Drake might kill himself in a fit of delirium. On a morning whose date I am unable to identify, I was woken from my painful, sickly slumber by something I had not heard in a long time, the voice of Ned Drake — he was talking about escape: “ … There doesn’t seem to be any supervision left on board. The Captain’s malaise has stupefied everyone. Will you be ready, Sir?” “When?” I said, very slowly, my tongue thick in my mouth. “Tonight. I sighted land through the mists this morning, just 20 miles to the east.” “And what land is it?” I croaked, aware that my mental facilities were beginning to return. “I’ve no idea and I don’t care. Whatever it is, we’ll take refuge and see what must be done from there.” “Yes, Ned. We must leave this haunted ship. Even if the sea swallows us.” “The sea’s rough and the wind’s blowing hard, but a 20-mile run in the Nautilus’s longboat doesn’t scare me. It’s a nimble craft and I’ve stowed some food and flasks of water inside, without any of the crew paying the slightest bit of attention.” “I’m with you.” “What’s more,” the Canadian said, “at this point, if they catch me, I’ll defend myself. To the death, if it’s necessary.” “Then we’ll die together, Ned my friend.” My mind was clearing. If the Canadian could rouse himself from his stupor, so could I. Once he had left me, I went out on the platform. It was barely possible to stand upright against the 359

powerful wind. The skies were threatening, but I knew there was land somewhere inside those dense mists. I returned to my room, dreading the thought of seeing Captain Nemo along the way. The thought of his person now filled me with involuntary revulsion and yet, I was aware that part of me still desired a final encounter. We had been through such a great deal together in the last months. That last day on board the Nautilus seemed never to end. Judged to be of sound mind, I was left alone. Ned Drake and Milou were afraid to speak together as a group, in case we should be overheard. Milou brought me something to eat at 18:00. I forced it down, wanting to keep my strength up. At 18:30, Ned Drake entered my stateroom. He told me that this was the last time we would see each other before our escape. The plan was to wait until 22:00, when there would not yet be a moon and we could use the cover of darkness. I was to go to the skiff where he and Milou would be waiting. The Canadian left without giving me time to answer. I decided to verify which direction the Nautilus was heading and made my way to that incomparable saloon where so much had passed. It was terrible to me now, its beauty tinged with murderous death and moral decay. We were racing north-northeast at a frightful speed, 54 yards down. The lights were dim and the panels closed. I looked around at the hulking shapes of the museum, silhouetted beneath the caves of glass. The battered display and its irreplaceable collection were doomed to perish in the depths of the seas, as was its curator. It was only clear to me then that the Nautilus was, and always had been, an exquisite coffin. And I had embraced this tomb with open arms, willingly donning a shroud and forcing my companions to do the same. Captain Nemo had entranced me since I first set eyes on him. Confident that I had fully regained control of myself, I wanted to establish one final impression of the drawing room in my mind. I stayed there an hour, basking in the waning aura of those treasures hidden in their now-unkempt cases. I wandered through the long shadows, prodding at a fallen primitive doll with conch shells for eyes here and cupping a prize pearl in my hands there. I knew that in the depths of those cases were even more astounding exhibits that would never see the light of day. Who knew how many secret panels and compartments Captain Nemo had devised for his private use along his journey to the grave? It was time to return to my stateroom to prepare. After choosing an ensemble of the sturdiest, seafaring clothes I could find, I gathered all my notes and carefully packed them about my person. My heart was pounding loudly and I was unable to quell it. Had Captain Nemo seen me then, I was sure my anxiety would arouse his suspicions. I listened at the adjoining door to his room to see if I could hear him. There were footsteps. He was inside, not yet in bed. I kept imagining that he was about to burst in, which left me in a constant state of alarm. My imagination fuelled my paranoia until the feeling became so acute that I nearly marched into the 360

captainâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s room to brave it out, face to face, just to get it over with. Fortunately, I was able to control myself on that count. I stretched out on the bed to try soothe my bodily agitation. My poor brain was so aroused that I forced myself through a fleeting review of my whole existence aboard the Nautilus, in an attempt to keep the hallucinations at bay. I methodically went through every pleasant and unpleasant incident that had crossed my path since I went overboard the Thomas Jefferson. There had been: The underwater hunting trip, the Torres Strait, our running aground, the savages of Papua, the coral cemetery, the Suez passageway, the island of Santorini, the Cretan diver, the Bay of Vigo, Atlantis, the Ice Bank, the South Pole, our imprisonment in the ice, the battle with the devilfish, the storm in the Gulf Stream, the Avenger, and that horrible scene of the vessel sinking with its crew. It all swam before my eyes like backdrops unrolling upstage in a theatre. As this strange dreamscape progressed, Captain Nemo grew fantastically distorted. His features were accentuated, taking on superhuman proportions. He was no longer my equal but the Man of the Waters, a vengeful Spirit of the Seas, manning a ship of the underworld. I squeezed my head in an effort to keep it from bursting. The clock told me there was still 30 minutes to wait. Closing my eyes, I did my best not to think at all. I tried to keep my mind a complete blank. It was then that I heard the muffled sound of chords from the organ. They were melancholy harmonies from some unearthly hymn that simply ached with sadness. At the time, they seemed to be pleadings from a soul desperately trying to sever its earthly ties. I listened in a trance, barely breathing. Then the significance of the music snapped me out of my reverie. Captain Nemo was at the organ. This meant that he had left his room and was now in the same saloon I had to cross in order to escape. I was going to be forced to encounter him and tempt the possibility of being entombed inside the Nautilus forever. But it was almost 22:00 and I had to risk it. Even if Captain Nemo had to be faced, I had to try join my friends. I opened the door and its metal hinges made a loud creak I did not remember being there before. It was entirely possible that it existed only in my imagination. I crept forward, pausing at each step to try and curb the pounding of my heart. I arrived at the corner door of the saloon and, very gently, opened it. The room was engulfed in darkness. The air was thick with the heavy reverberation of organ chords. Captain Nemo was there. He didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see me in the darkness. Even if it had been broad daylight, I am not sure he would have turned around, so completely was he immersed in his trance. I inched over the carpet, trying to avoid any kind of contact whose noise might give me away. It took a full 5 minutes to reach the door at the far end, which led into the library. I was about to open it when a gasp from Captain Nemo impaled me to the spot, shaking. I realized that he had stood up. I could make out his form as some light from the library had now filtered 361

into the saloon. He was coming toward me, arms crossed and silent. He did not seem to lift his feet and glided like a ghost. As he got closer, I saw that his chest was heaving with sobs. He was murmuring: “O almighty God! Enough! Enough!” Those were the last words of his I ever heard. Now frantic, I rushed through the library and through to the central stairwell. Racing up the stairs and going along the upper gangway, I finally arrived at the skiff. My companions were there. “Let’s go, let’s go!” I cried, quite hysterical. “Right away!” said the Canadian. First, Ned Drake closed and bolted the opening cut into the Nautilus’s sheet iron. He had brought a monkey wrench with him especially for that purpose. After closing the opening in the skiff in the same manner, he set about unscrewing the nuts still bolting us to the Nautilus. Suddenly, a noise from the ship’s interior became audible. Voices were answering each other hurriedly. The long silence was broken. Had they spotted our escape? I felt Ned Drake sliding a dagger into my hand. “Of course,” I said. “We know how to die.” The Canadian paused in his work. I realised it was the same word being repeated over and over, echoing against the metal walls. It was a dreadful word, but explained the reason for this unexpected agitation. We weren’t the cause of the crew’s concern. They were shouting: “Maelstrom!” I don’t think a more frightening phrase could have rung in my ears while traversing that dangerous sea off the Norwegian Coast. Just as we were about to escape, the Nautilus was about to be dragged down by a giant whirlpool. At the turn of the tide, the waters confined between the Faroe and Lofoten Islands rush out with irresistible violence, forming a vortex from which no ship has ever escaped. It is known by a name meaning, “the ocean’s navel”, which is apt. Monstrous waves race together at every point on the horizon to form the giant whirlpool, which sucks down everything in its path for a 12-mile radius including, not only ships, but also all animal and vegetable life. This was where the Nautilus had arrived, either by accident or on purpose. The ship had begun to sweep the ground in a spiral, the circles getting increasingly smaller, at a dizzying speed. The skiff was still attached to the submersible and the whirling soon brought on the nausea that accompanies such motion. We were now in utter dread. The blood seemed to have frozen in my veins and I was drenched in a cold sweat. Roars echoed around the frail skiff and the water crashed as it broke against sharp rocks on a sea floor where even the toughest objects were smashed and the bodies of trees are worn away into a fur, as the Norwegians say. Our predicament was extreme. We rocked frightfully. The Nautilus behaved like a human being. Her muscles cracked and she went through spasms, sometimes standing full on her end. 362

“We’ve got to hold on tight!” cried Ned Drake. “And screw the nuts down again. If we can stay attached to the Nautilus, we might still make it.” As he was speaking, a terrible cracking sound filled the air. The nuts gave way, ripped out of their sockets. The skiff was hurled like a stone from a sling into the midst of the vortex. My head struck against metal and I lost consciousness.

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23. Conclusion And so concludes my account of our voyage under the seas. I am unable to say how the skiff escaped from the Maelstrom’s fearsome eddies that night. All I know is that, when I regained consciousness, I was lying in a fisherman’s hut on the Lofoten Islands. To my intense relief, both my companions were at my bedside, clasping my hands. We embraced. We cannot even dream of returning to France at present. There is a limited amount of traffic between upper Norway and the south, so we must wait for he bi-monthly steamboat that provides a service to the North Cape. So it is here, among the gallant folk that have taken us in, that I have been able to review my narrative. It is accurate without any facts omitted or details exaggerated. Our inconceivable expedition into an element beyond human reach — but where progress will doubtless one day make its inroads — has been faithfully recorded. I do not know if anybody anybody will believe me. But, on giving it careful consideration, it matters little. I am confident that I have now earned the right to speak of the sea as I have travelled beneath it. In less than 10 months, I have cleared 20,000 leagues of the underwater world and seen umpteen wonders across the Pacific and Indian oceans, the Red Sea, the Mediterranean, the Atlantic and the southernmost and northernmost seas. We will never know the fate of the Nautilus, and whether or not Captain Nemo survived the Maelstrom. I find it highly appropriate that my last experience of that great vessel, made up of swirling forms in homage to the natural world, disappeared into the sea’s most powerful whorl of all. If Captain Nemo’s moving monument to the sea and a life lived apart from mankind perished in the Maelstrom, it was a fitting end. The violence and dynamism that was the ship’s essence would have finally fused with a most suitable force. But I cannot discount the fact that the powerful submersible may well have been able to withstand the giant whirlpool, continuing where all other ships have perished. Captain Nemo may well still be wandering the ocean floor. If this is the case, and part of me hopes it was, perhaps that last terrible mass execution turned his heart and he has abandoned his programme of revenge. Should the captain still inhabit his adopted country, the ocean, may the hate be appeased in that fierce heart. My greatest wish is that he continues a peaceful exploration of the seas. If his destiny is strange, it is also sublime. I can vouch for this, having experienced his otherworldly existence for 10 whole months. Thus, to that question asked in the Book of Ecclesiastes, written 6,000 years ago: 366

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Who can fathom the soundless depths?â&#x20AC;? Two men out of all humanity have now earned the right to reply: Captain Nemo and I.

367

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