Captain Nemo Page 2

  Nemo adjusted the breathing reed and the exhale flap. When he tried to speak, the bladder muffled his words, so he turned to meet Verne’s eyes through the viewing plate. Verne clasped his friend’s hand and wished him good luck, as if he were a businessman about to embark on a journey.

  Verne uncovered a pot of sun-warmed pitch and arranged the hollow reeds on the ground beside him. With quick hands, he dipped one end into the pitch and inserted it into the tube protruding from Nemo’s helmet, thereby extending the air line.

  Nemo stepped into the water, moving slowly so as not to break the connection. Verne picked up a third reed, smeared the seam with pitch, and sealed it to the second segment. Nemo sank waist-deep and kept going until his shoulders disappeared beneath the greenish-brown river.

  Just as his covered head entered the water, he took a careful breath, then exhaled through the exhaust valve. Everything seemed to be working. With one more step, he was submerged, walking along the silty riverbottom.

  Verne attached reed after reed, careful to keep the pipes clear, feeling a tremendous responsibility. The line of joined reeds disappeared under the water like a long straw. He could see Nemo making his way toward the Cynthia ’s construction quay, and envied him—but only in a theoretical sense. He was glad to be safe and dry on shore.

  Taking a break now that he was several reeds ahead of Nemo, Verne looked around to see if anyone had noticed what they were doing. Steep terraced gardens made a splash of green and wildflower colors by the facade of the Church of St. Martin. Seagulls spun overhead, dove down to snatch garbage from the water, and splattered bridges and rooftops with gray-white runnels. He kept an eye cocked to make sure the vindictive birds didn’t target him.

  Then he saw a straight-backed young woman with strawberry-blonde hair tucked under a wide-brimmed hat. She walked along the cobblestone path above the riverbank, coming toward him. Her afternoon dress was blue moiré silk with a high-waisted bodice, trimmed with row upon row of white fringe, bows, and roses to conceal the restrictive stays beneath. Her leg-o’-mutton sleeves looked long and hot in the bright river sunshine. She wore the dress as if it were an unpleasant uniform.

  Startled to see her, Verne dropped the sticky end of a reed into the dirt, then spluttered at the clumsy mess he had made. When Caroline Aronnax approached, he wanted to look impressive and dashing, not like a clod.

  But he had already caught her eye, and he blushed crimson. Caroline shaded her eyes and called, “Jules Verne, what are you doing down there?”

  With a glance to ensure that no one of sufficient social station was watching her, she hopped off the cobblestone path, lifted her ankle-length skirt, and hurried across the mud to join him by the dock pilings. Even fine clothes could not disguise her tomboy nature or her fascination with all manner of things that her exasperated mother considered “unseemly for a young lady.”

  “Up to something interesting, I hope? It is not often I see you without André. Where is he?”

  Verne swallowed hard. As always, Caroline caused the words to catch in his throat. In her presence, his sharp wit and intelligence faded into a confusion of stutters. “He . . . I . . . André’s there.” He pointed to the line of reeds. “He’s exploring under the water. I’m in charge of keeping his airline clear. It’s a very important job.”

  Caroline bent down, careful not to muddy her dress, and looked into the Loire in amazement. Verne focused his attention on her pointed nose and her slender neck. In an impassioned love letter he’d once written, Verne had described her hair as “honey caught on fire,” but, as with so many things, he’d never found the nerve to send her the letter—though she could not be blind to his attraction. Or Nemo’s.

  Caroline’s eyes were cornflower blue, and her skin, though fair, was vibrant instead of the pale and translucent valued by French high society. Mme. Aronnax constantly scolded her daughter and tried to rein in her outgoing ways.

  Caroline’s father was a wealthy merchant, one of the last to make a fortune in the sugar cane trade of the West Indies. Of late, he had become an importer of rum and North American rice, as well as exotic cargoes from Asia and the East Indies. M. Aronnax adored his daughter and had taught her how to read maps and charts, told her about places visited by his shipping fleet, and discussed how the tea crop in Ceylon might affect the prices of cow hides from California. Her mother, though, could not understand what Caroline would ever do with such useless knowledge, and hired a music tutor for her instead.

  She learned to play the harpsichord and the pianoforte, and became proficient in the works of Bach, Handel, and Mozart. But when she was alone, Caroline composed her own fugues and concertos, delighting in the creative process. When asked, she credited the original compositions to a mythical eighteenth-century French composer named “ Passepartout,” since Mme. Aronnax would have been horrified to learn of her daughter’s ambitions.

  Caroline also dabbled in art to keep her mother happy, sketching the shipyards or still lifes of fruit and flowers (as well as secret drawings of distant ports and strange creatures described by men from her father’s merchant ships).

  Both Verne and Nemo were infatuated with Caroline, and both did everything possible to impress her. André Nemo was the free-spirited son of a widowed shipbuilder, and Jules Verne was the oldest child of an established but dull country lawyer. Neither had a chance to win her hand, if Mme. Aronnax had any say in the matter.

  “How long has André been down there?” Caroline shaded her eyes against the sunlight and looked ready to wade in after Nemo. Verne realized that he’d better add another reed, or his friend would drag the end of the breathing tube underwater.

  “I don’t know, my—my lovely lady.” Verne stumbled over his words even as he tried to be as debonair as the heroes in dramas he had seen in the Nantes playhouse. “When you come near me, all time seems to stop.”

  Caroline endured the flattery with patient grace. “Then perhaps you had better consult your pocket watch.” She raised her eyebrows and indicated the end of the breathing reed, which tottered close to being submerged. Embarrassed, Verne splashed into the water to seal on the next tube, getting sticky gum on his fingers.

  Caroline knew full well that she’d captivated the hearts of both young men. As she stood beside Verne, watching the breathing tubes disappear beneath the river, a smile emerged at the corners of her graceful mouth. Understanding Nemo’s preposterous scheme of walking beneath the water, she said, “It is wonderful to see impossible dreams come to fruition.”

  Verne nodded as he stood up to his ankles in the water. “André never believes it when people tell him about difficulties. He makes up his own mind and does things as he sees fit.”

  “And I admire him for it.”

  While he chattered about plans he and Nemo had made for exploring the hidden undersea world, Verne couldn’t help but see that she was more interested in what Nemo was doing than in the fictional stories he made up.

  Looking across the water, Caroline said, “I doubt this is the last impossible task he will undertake for himself.”

  II

  Underwater, Nemo felt the river current around him like a thick wind. His feet sank into the bottom, meeting smooth rocks, slick mud, and loose sand. The shimmering surface high above him filtered the sunlight as if it came through stained glass.

  Each breath required all the strength of his diaphragm to fill his lungs. He had to exhale as well, pushing the used air back through the exhaust valve. Though the wine-sour helmet became stifling, he continued through the murky Loire. Sweat ran like tears down his temples and cheeks. In front of him, he could discern shadowy, barnacle-encrusted pilings. River weeds curled like peacock feathers around boulders that floods had tossed downstream.

  As he strode ahead, Nemo thought of Captain Cook journeying to uncharted islands, Lewis and Clark forging their way across North America, Willem Barents trapped all winter long in a wooden hut high in the Arctic.

  And here he was, André
Nemo, treading another new realm . . . a place where visitors to drowned Atlantis might have felt at home. He wished Verne could have joined him. It would have been simple enough to make two sets of the breathing apparatus, though he suspected his friend would find some excuse. Verne’s imagination had always been greater than his desire for true adventure.

  Determined, Nemo pushed on and fought to take breaths as the hollow tube stretched farther from fresh air. The current turned colder and darker, but he pressed on. Overhead, the curved gray shapes of hulls were like the shadows of floating whales. Booming vibrations—the pounding sounds of heavy work above—echoed through the water.

  He saw what must have been the underbelly of the Cynthia, flat-bottomed to increase the size of her hold. Nemo’s father claimed the vessel boasted a cargo capacity of 1500 tons. Her timbers were well caulked, the exterior waxed to deter barnacles and weeds. Above the waterline, the bow was rounded and the stern squared for added stability on the stormy Atlantic; but underneath, the bow had a sharp edge to cut through the water with great speed. By dropping two of the stones at his waist, Nemo could have floated up to the bottom keel—where only a few hull planks would separate him from his father at work.

  It had become too difficult to breathe, though. Over the distance, the air line had begun to kink, and some of his seals had developed slow leaks. Droplets of water spat into his helmet with each heavy breath.

  Before he could turn back toward shore, the stifling air in his helmet forced him to drop his belt stones. Nemo rose to the surface, fumbling to undo the seal at his neck. Steam fogged the window glass.

  As his head and shoulders bobbed above the water, Nemo tore off the bladder helmet, drew in a huge gulp of air, and blinked in the dazzling sunlight. Since he hadn’t used his knife to cut it off, he could use the apparatus again.

  Today he had accomplished an amazing thing. He would return, of course. But he would have to make modifications, widen the breathing hole, do something to improve air circulation. The underwater world remained a grand mystery. . . .

  He searched the shore and spotted Verne waving at him. Then he noticed the lovely Caroline Aronnax beside his redheaded friend. Grinning and feeling just a bit cocky, Nemo waved back.

  III

  The shops and merchant stalls on Ile Feydeau carried every imaginable item from every imaginable place: pearls and tropical birds from the Sandwich Islands; bananas, breadfruits, and papayas from Tahiti; wooden drums from the Congo; scrimshaw-carved walrus tusks made by esquimaux in the Arctic. Potbellied merchants strolled beside ladies carrying parasols. The smells of outdoor cooking curled like fog through the air, pungent, sweet, or savory.

  While walking with the two young men who fawned over her, Caroline admired coral necklaces brought back from South Sea islands. Both Verne and Nemo stumbled over themselves promising to obtain fabulous coral trinkets for her in the adventures they were sure to have sometime in the near future.

  She laughed at their enthusiasm. “Monsieurs, I will believe that promise as soon as I can hold it in my hand. My mother warned me not to heed the sweet words of ambitious young men.”

  “But you never listen to your mother,” Nemo said, and Caroline returned his smile. Confident and happy, she hurried off for her daily lesson on the pianoforte.

  Rue Kervegan, the main avenue in Ile Feydeau, stretched away from the bustling wharves, lined with elms and flanked by the offices of businessmen and tradesmen. Cafes and restaurants served coffee from Sumatra, chocolat-chaud from Mexico, and black tea from India.

  At the shipyards, Verne and Nemo watched workers string a cat’scradle of rigging on the new vessel. The Cynthia was a “packet” ship, designed to make good speed across the Atlantic, carrying passengers, mail, and cargo. Previously, cargo ships would depart whenever they had a full load, and not before. A packet ship, however, set sail on a specified date to New York harbor or Chesapeake Bay, regardless of whether her cargo hold was full or her passenger cabins inhabited, and she also returned on a set schedule. A trip to North America took five weeks fighting the westerly winds, while the return journey required only three to four.

  As Verne and Nemo walked down the quays, a figure on the deck of the Cynthia waved to them. Jacques Nemo rapped a quick pattern with his hammer, a little rhythm he and his son had developed to recognize each other, because it was easier than shouting across the din. André Nemo’s dark hair and Verne’s tousled red locks made them a distinctive enough pair even from a distance. Nemo waved back at his father before the man went belowdecks.

  “He’s gilding the aft passenger cabins today. Gilding!” Nemo shook his head. “Considering all the sailing stories we’ve heard, I never imagined passengers would be so pampered.”

  “Like a royal carriage,” Verne said, not that he’d ever ridden in one. Someday, he promised himself.

  Muscular sailors used a rattling block and tackle to lower cannons through the hatches. On the gun decks below, engineers rolled the cannons out to the open gunports, then chocked the wheels. Though northern Atlantic waters were civilized for the most part, pirates still roamed the Caribbean and the southeastern coast of America.

  A horse-drawn wagon brought kegs of gunpowder to the dock, where a line of workers passed the barrels down to a pallet on deck. Straining at the main capstan and winch, sailors lowered the pallet and stored the kegs below in the powder magazine.

  A month earlier, the Cynthia had been launched from drydock, then tied afloat so the masts could be fitted and the rigging run. The flag of the French Republic already flew high on her main mast.

  Nemo stared at the ship’s lines. “Last night when we were playing cards, my father said we’re invited to the christening ceremony. We’ll be standing close enough to watch the mayor of Nantes break a bottle of champagne across the bow.” He looked over at Verne. “Tomorrow night at sunset.”

  For the past few months, Verne and Nemo had made impromptu lunches of bread and cheese and cold meat aboard the Cynthia to listen as the shipbuilders chatted with each other. The men sweated hard and labored from dawn until dusk, but Jacques Nemo enjoyed moments of relaxation with his son. The carpenters told bawdy stories that Verne wouldn’t dare repeat to his family, though he couldn’t help enjoying the yarns.

  Verne doubted he’d ever seen his father smile. Certainly, Pierre Verne did not laugh with easy abandon the way M. Nemo did.

  “I can’t go to the christening,” he said with a sigh. “I’ve got studies to do, and my family will go to a late Mass.” Nemo did not look surprised.

  Some wagging tongues around Ile Feydeau scolded Jacques Nemo for letting his son run wild in the streets, but Verne thought his friend was better adjusted to survival in the world than most of the spoiled residents of Nantes. Once, in a surprising, angry outburst of temper, Nemo had bruised and bloodied a would-be tough who had sneered at him and insulted his father.

  Nemo’s grandfather had been a sailor, lost in a typhoon off the China Sea, and his father had also spent his youth aboard tall ships, until he’d married and settled down in Nantes to build the vessels he loved so much. Nemo’s mother, from whom he had gotten his dusky skin, was long in her grave, which forced a tighter bond between father and son.

  The two played cards, laughed and sang, they read to each other. Nemo’s father told him stories by firelight, while Nemo did the household work. Though poor, the father and son never seemed to have a moment of unhappiness together. Verne often found himself wishing that he and his own father got along half as well. Since they did not, he contented himself with sharing the warmth and comradeship of the Nemos.

  Walking down to the docks where the boats unloaded their cargo, Verne and Nemo saw toothless men with wiry muscles. The old faces were weathered from salt wind and tropical sunlight; many bore scars from badly healed cutlass slashes. The sailors loved to sit on crates and tell stories for their attentive listeners while munching on coarse loaves of bread or overripe fruit.

  In front of a weather-b
eaten barge that had come up the estuary from Paimboeuf, the seaport at the mouth of the Loire, they spotted a veteran with six tattoos on his arm, one for each time he had crossed the equator. Though most of the sailor’s scraggly gray hair had fallen out, he’d tied a few strands into a limp braid like the tail of a wharf rat. His eyes gleamed as he leaned forward, pointing at his eager listeners.

  Verne drew back, noting that two of the man’s fingers were gone. The sailor cackled and held up his hand to display the jagged stumps. “’Twere bitten off by a shark. And a shipmate o’ mine was swallowed whole. Reached down the monster’s gullet, I did, to pull ’im back out. But them jaws, they clamped shut and gobbled up me mate. Lucky I only lost this much.”

  Behind them at the barge, men hauled on hemp ropes to raise crates of animal skins, botanical specimens, and mineralogical samples.

  “We sailed down and up the Ivory Coast o’ Africa, the Gold Coast to the Bight o’ Benin, saw men there blacker ’n coal, with fangs as long as yer fingers. Aye, it’s true. Those demons’ll strike ye dead just by looking at ye—and then rush up and chew the flesh off yer bones. Cannibals!”

  “If they could strike you dead just by looking at you, then how did you see them and survive?” Nemo asked with a skeptical frown.

  “Pah! ’Tweren’t hungry that day.” The old sailor spoke in a rough but convincing voice, waving his three-fingered hand for emphasis. He told them stories about Prester John’s kingdom, with its fountain of youth and a throne cut from an enormous diamond coughed up out of the gullet of a giant whale. Isolated from the rest of Christianity, Prester John defended Europe against Poseidon’s followers, who lived in underwater cities such as sunken Atlantis.