Captain Nemo: The Fantastic History of a Dark Genius (10 page)

“And his son.
 
Do you know his son André, as well?
 
André Nemo?”

The sailor turned his head, scratching tangled gray hair on a sunburned scalp, then he reached into his belt to withdraw a long dagger with which he trimmed the rope’s frayed end.
 
“O’ course.
 
I was there when André climbed his first ratlines, right to the top o’ the mast.
 
Boy has spunk and a good head about ‘im.
 
Even with the world against him, he’ll still make his way, that one.
 
I wish ‘im all the best, now that he’s gone.”

“Gone?”
 
The elder Verne stiffened.
 
“Where did he go?”

Surprised, the sailor set the rope in his lap.
 
“Why, he set sail this mornin’, sir.
 
Off to sea.
 
Cabin boy for Captain Grant’s explorin’ ship, the
Coralie
.”

Pierre frowned.
 
He didn’t recall the ship, but then so many came and went in the port.
 
“What about my son Jules?”
 
He frowned at the sailor as he tugged on his own grayish sideburns, trying not to show his growing uneasiness.
 
“A redheaded young man who often plays with the Nemo boy?
 
They’re also frequently seen with the daughter of that merchant, Aronnax.”

The sailor blinked at him in perplexity.
 
“Ye mean ye don’t know, sir?”

“Know?
 
Know what?”

“Shipped out together, as mates, they did.
 
The two lads sailed off at dawn.”

Pierre Verne gave a strangled cry.
 
The sailor bent back to work on the rope to hide a smug grin over this supercilious man’s look of horror.

#

Madame Aronnax could not understand why Monsieur Verne, a local lawyer, would be pounding on their door at noon, or why he would insist on speaking with her daughter.
 
But Caroline answered the summons herself, straight-backed, her mouth a firm line, dressed in the daily finery her mother demanded.

“My son Jules is gone,” Pierre said, looking into the girl’s blue eyes, shattering the porcelain composure of her expression.
 
“Did you know that he boarded an English ship, the
Coralie
?”

Caroline drew a deep breath.
 
“It is possible, Monsieur.
 
My father arranged for André Nemo to take passage aboard Captain Grant’s ship, and I believe your son joined him.
 
They told me their intentions last night.”

“And you didn’t think to inform
me
, the boy’s own father?
 
You could have written a message, sent out one of your servants --”

“It is not my place to tell you, Monsieur.”
 
She used all the hauteur her mother had taught her.
 
“It was a matter given to me in confidence.”
 

An appalled Madame Aronnax looked on, but Caroline held her ground.
 
“Your son and André Nemo talk a great deal and have big ideas.
 
Jules Verne is known for the stories he likes to tell.”
 
She sniffed.
 
“Should I come running to you each time they make up a wild scheme, Monsieur?
 
I would be at your doorstep every afternoon.”

Pierre seethed, but he could not take out his anger on the daughter of a wealthy and politically powerful merchant in Nantes.
 
“Do you know where this ship is going?
 
When does it come back?”

Madame Aronnax gave a stern glance to her daughter, and Caroline’s lips trembled.
 
“The
Coralie
is sailing around the world to a hundred exotic places.
 
She is not expected back for three years, perhaps.”
 
Her voice cracked.

“Three years . . . around the world?”
 
Pierre shot up from the chair that Madame Aronnax had politely offered him.

“The ship went down the river to Paimboeuf.”
 
Caroline remembered the schedules she had studied in her father’s shipping offices.
 
“She will tie up for the day, making final preparations, and will set off again at dusk with the tide.”

“Paimboeuf,” Pierre said, suddenly intent.
 
“Thirty miles from here.”
 
Then he marched to the door of the Aronnax home.
 
“I must find a carriage.”

xi

While the three-masted ship traveled downriver into the wide estuary, Verne and Nemo stood on the scrubbed deck in exhilaration.
 
They whistled to people on shore; some waved back, but most had seen so many ships go along the Loire that they found nothing special about it anymore.

The night before, in the deep darkness before dawn, the two had caught a few hours sleep on the
Coralie
’s deck, and they awoke feeling stiff and sore.
 
But their excitement at setting out from Nantes filled them with energy.
 
Verne couldn’t believe they were underway, plying the winds and currents.
 
Each moment, he grew farther from his family and home as the breeze freshened and the sails strained like the belly of a gluttonous man.

After the bustle of early morning duties, Captain Grant came to introduce himself, shaking Verne’s hand and giving him an assessing look.
 
The English captain had close-cropped brown hair, broad shoulders, and thin and wiry arms.
 
His wide-set eyes were surrounded by a deep set of crow’s feet, as if he had spent too many years gazing into sunrises and sunsets.
 
He wore a mustache in the English style and spoke stilted French with a strong accent, though Verne and Nemo could understand him well enough.
 

“I warrant we’ll spend plenty of time together while we sail.
 
‘Tisn’t often I’m called upon to educate such fine young men as cabin boys.”
 
He patted the two on their bony shoulders.
 
“I’ve got no children of mine own -- so you two must substitute on this voyage.”
 
Grant’s voice was gentle and intelligent, but when he barked orders at his sailors, the long-practiced tone of command invited no questions.
 

When the ship tied up at Paimboeuf just past noon, some sailors went ashore to procure last-minute supplies, while another part of the crew worked on board.
 
Here on the Atlantic coast of France, the ships were larger.
 
Some of the huge four-masters boasted spacious cargo holds larger than the
Cynthia
and the
Coralie
combined.

Captain Grant pointed to the new cabin boys.
 
“You two better go ashore while you’re still able -- and mark the feel of solid ground under your feet.
 
I warrant it’ll be some time before you do it again.”
 
He marched down the creaking gangplank.
 
“See that you return in an hour, lads, and be ready to sail.”
 
The captain tipped his hat at two young ladies strolling by, then headed for the harbormaster’s offices to fill out final paperwork and enter his logs.

As they departed from the ship, Verne thought of his mother’s cooking and the well-guarded secret recipe of her special omelet.
 
He smiled at the memory of how his sisters played the pianoforte, how he often recited poetry or made up impromptu verses after dinner.
 

Then he thought of exotic countries, strange animals, and mysterious cultures.
 
He wanted see them all.
 
In time, his family would get over their shock at his departure, and he would become a man, more rounded than he could ever be if he spent his life on Ile Feydeau.

Verne vowed never to regret his decision.
 
Even though Nemo’s father had been killed, and Verne was leaving his own father behind, the two young men could now become surrogate sons, children of Captain Grant.
 

He followed Nemo through the dockside markets, wandering down the rows of carts where women sold fresh shellfish.
 
Merchants tallied colorful bolts of silk from China, tusks of ivory from Africa, jaguar pelts from Central America, monkeys in cages, parrots with brilliant plumage, dried shark fins, drinking cups made of rhinoceros horn (guaranteed to shatter at the touch of poison).
 
Though they had little money, he and Nemo moved from stall to stall, eyeing the wares with fascination.
 
Verne kept his eyes open for something special to bring back for Caroline.

He fingered the green ribbon tied at his wrist, which only last night had held back the lush hair of Caroline Aronnax.
 
Then Verne remembered the tinkling melodies she composed in secret; by the time he returned, perhaps Caroline could compose an entire symphony to celebrate their triumphs. . . .

xii

Though the driver was not a man to hurry his horses, he cracked his whip when Pierre Verne promised him a gold-piece bonus if they made it to Paimboeuf before the
Coralie
sailed.
 
The brougham rattled down the river road, bouncing on rocks and splashing through mud.
 

Any other time, Monsieur Verne would have complained about the rough ride and the lack of padding on the carriage seats.
 
But today, he didn’t care.

Up ahead, a lad no older than Jules, wearing a floppy hat and carrying a willow frond three feet taller than himself, shooed seven sheep along the road.
 
The driver hollered while urging his horses ahead, and the lad scattered his sheep out of the way before they were run down.

Six miles farther along, the path drove into steep highlands above the river estuary where the road was blocked by a cart whose wheel had broken.
 
An old farmer sat next to the sagging wagon, watching his mule munch on a sack of grain.
 
He seemed unconcerned that he had stalled all travel while waiting for someone to help him replace the wheel.

The carriage driver leaned back and called to Monsieur Verne, “If you want to move ahead, we’ll have to help him change his wheel.”

“All right.
 
Be quick about it,” Pierre said impatiently.

The wagon owner and his mule appeared to be in no hurry, but Pierre scolded both drivers until they set to the task.
 
So great was Pierre’s urgency that even he, dressed in fine business clothes, knelt in the mud and helped use a lever and boulders to lift the cart and replace the wheel.
 
Then, before the farmer could casually pull in front of the brougham, Pierre shouted for the driver to hurry.
 
The horses got up to a gallop again, and the carriage thundered past the rickety cart.
 

The sun lowered toward the horizon, spilling golden rays in a spectacular Atlantic sunset.
 
Other carts and horses and wagons began to fill the road as they approached Paimboeuf.
 
Monsieur Verne saw dozens of ships on the docks.
 
He didn’t know how he would ever find the
Coralie.
 
It might take an hour to talk to the harbormasters and study docking records -- and by that time the ship would have sailed with the outgoing tide.
 

Instead, he instructed the driver to take the brougham down to the quays.
 
The impatient attorney leaned out the window, questioning sailors.
 
“Where’s the
Coralie
?”
 
He asked seven times until finally he said, “She’s about to sail.
 
Which one is the
Coralie
?”

A young seaman with tanned skin and a wispy beard sat on a crate munching an apple.
 
He looked up, unconcerned with Monsieur Verne’s urgency, and gestured down the docks.
 
“Fourth one.
 
You’d better hurry.
 
They’re casting off.”