Captain Nemo: The Fantastic History of a Dark Genius (11 page)

The driver whipped his horses.
 
People on the docks scattered, much as the sheep had scattered on the highland road.
 
The carriage rattled across the boardwalk, iron-shod wheels thundering like drumbeats.
 
At last, Pierre caught sight of a three-masted ship with her sails furled to catch the wind and the outgoing tide.
 
He saw the markings, the name
Coralie
, and -- with horror -- realized that sailors were already working to untie the brig from the pier.

With a rattling clangor, the heavy chains were drawn up into the hawse holes.
 
The sailors raised the anchor.

xiii

Because Verne and Nemo were both good with figures and arithmetic, Captain Grant had sent them down into the cargo hold with ledger sheets.
 
After their brief respite that afternoon, the two young men spent hours tediously marking the inventory of everything the
Coralie
would take along to circumnavigate the globe.

The larder was filled with 45 fresh hams, 60 slabs of bacon, 71 wax-covered cheeses, and sacks and sacks of flour, cornmeal, coffee beans, sugar, and potatoes.
 
The diet of salt meats and ship’s biscuit would be relieved by fresh eggs from caged chickens, as well as milk (so long as the cow didn’t go dry from seasickness).
 
Pigs and goats -- which would eat all sorts of refuse including wood shavings, dirty straw, and even old newspapers -- also provided occasional fresh meat.

Experienced sailors worked hard with the ropes, lashing crates into spaces and storing barrels of water, beer, and black powder.
 
Heavy cannon barrels were tied in the lowest decks for ballast, spares in case a cannon should explode during firing.
 

Some of the crew had already noticed that the two cabin boys were favorites of the captain.
 
Verne hoped the special treatment wouldn’t cause problems later, since he expected to put in his share of hard work.
 
In theory at least.
 
He already dreaded the uncomfortable conditions he would have to endure from storm-churned seas or long hot passages in the tropic doldrums.

At sunset and the outflowing tide, the crew prepared to set off from Paimboeuf and head out to sea at last.
 
A full moon would light their way, laying a path like molten silver across the calm Atlantic.
 
Verne had seen the big wall chart in Captain Grant’s quarters.
 
How many places had the captain seen?
 
How many did he intend to visit during this voyage?
 
Verne wanted to do it all.
 
He just hoped there weren’t too many storms.

Just as he and Nemo finished their last check, the ship’s bell sounded, signaling departure.
 
With heavy thumping steps, the ship’s quartermaster climbed down the ladder into the cargo hold.

The quartermaster was a broad-shouldered Upper Canadian named Ned Land, who had sailed with the English captain on other journeys.
 
His chest was as broad and as hard as one of the kegs in the larder, and his curly blond hair looked disheveled no matter how often he wetted or greased it down.
 
His striped shirt had been painstakingly mended with Ned’s own sewing skills during long hours aboard ship.

In his rough and salty accent, Ned Land had claimed he could bring down seagulls with his rifle when they were only black specks in the sky.
 
Verne didn’t ask why Ned would want to shoot at seagulls, but he and Nemo expressed appropriate appreciation for the man’s marksmanship.
 

In addition to his duties as quartermaster, Ned also served as the boatswain, sailing master, and Captain Grant’s first lieutenant.
 
The big Canadian had a blustery good humor and the uncomfortable habit of clapping both Nemo and Verne on the back hard enough to make them think one of the cargo chests had dropped on them.

“Hark, Jules!
 
Boy, yer wanted up to the bridge,” Ned bellowed.
 
“Come too, André Nemo.”

Puzzled, Verne hoped the captain meant to let them watch as the local pilot guided the
Coralie
out of the harbor and into the open Atlantic.
 
They scrambled up the ladders into the last rays of the sunset.
 
The anchors had been drawn up, but the ropes were still tied to the quay and the gangplank remained in place.
 
A few seamen stood by the sail ropes and looked oddly at the two, but Verne didn’t pause.
 
He and Nemo trotted up the wooden stairs to the quarterdeck and the captain’s cabin.
 

Inside, Captain Grant sat in the large chair, staring across his tiny bureau at Pierre Verne.
 
Seeing his father, Verne’s heart turned to stone and sank to his stomach.
 
Nemo stopped beside him at the doorway, but didn’t say a word.
 

Pierre Verne gazed at his son, and his peppery sideburns bristled.
 
Verne could read behind the man’s gray eyes that a terrible storm brewed inside.

Captain Grant looked at Jules with a sad smile and pulled out the single sheet of paper both recruits had signed.
 
“It is my sad duty to rescind your contract, sir.”
 
With a flourish, he tore the paper in half.
 
“In normal times, ‘twould not be this easy for a cabin boy to get out of his term of service, but your father and I have reached an agreement.”
 

He offered the scraps of the contract to the redhead, but Pierre Verne snatched them away and stuffed them into the pocket of his jacket.
 
Tears of shame filled Verne’s eyes, and he looked over at Nemo.
 
“You’ll have to go alone after all.
 
But I would have come this time.
 
I really meant to.”

“I know, Jules,” Nemo said.
 

“We will go home now,” Pierre Verne said, his voice as gritty and cold as the last block of ice stored in sawdust after winter.
 
“Your mother is waiting.”

Verne turned to Nemo, remembering the possessions beside his assigned hammock belowdecks.
 
“Keep my books, André.
 
Think of me when you read them.
 
And the journal -- write what happens, so that when we see each other again I can read everything you did, since I can’t be there with you.”

“I’ll write everything down,” Nemo said.
 
“I promise.”

Pierre Verne placed a strong hand like a vice on his son’s shoulder, but Verne broke away and embraced his friend.
 
“I’ll see you in two years, three at the most.”

In truth, it would be a great many more years before they set eyes on each other again. . . .

xiv

When Jules Verne returned home to his concerned siblings and a tearful mother, Pierre Verne gave him the worst caning in his life.
 
He was exiled to his room and locked inside, as if he might attempt to escape.

For three days Jules received only bread and water.
 
Worse, his father did not even lecture him.
 
The silence was far harder to endure.
 
The young man had no opportunity to explain himself, could not say what he was feeling.
 
No one gave him a chance.
 

At times he sensed his mother outside the closed door, but she refused to comfort him.
 
Then the stairs would creak softly as she went back down to the lower levels of the house.
 
Instead, he sat alone staring at Caroline’s colorful green hair ribbon tied around his wrist.

After an interminable time, his father opened the door and stood there, looking deathly solemn.
 
He stared at his son while Verne sat on his bed in terror, still bruised and aching from the whipping he’d endured days before.

“I want your vow, your solemn vow, and then I’ll let you out of this room,” Monsieur Verne said.

Verne swallowed hard, but he could endure his imprisonment no longer.
 
He knew what the older man was asking of him.
 

As if he were ripping his own soul out of his chest and handing it to his father, Jules Verne said, “From now on, I promise to travel only in my imagination.”

Part II

CAPTAIN GRANT

i

Brig
Coralie

October, 1841

The winch creaked as sailors raised a dripping net out of the water.
 
A hoarse-voiced man chanted a work tune, and Ned Land stood on the quarterdeck, directing operations with his brawny arms.
 
With a shout, the men released the catch and the bulging net spilled open.
 
Strange fish rained flopping onto the deck.

“‘Tis a big haul, aye!” Ned bellowed.
 
“These waters be filled with fish.”

With long-practiced ease, a barefoot Nemo ran forward with the other crew members to grab the slippery prizes.
 
His hands and clothes already smelled like old fish and fresh tar.
 
After more than a year aboard the brig, he knew every knot in every rope, every splinter on the topdeck boards.

Like the rest of the crew, he wore a checked shirt and a black-varnished tarpaulin hat, even in the heat.
 
Duck trousers fit snug around the hips and loose about the feet in wide bell-bottoms that could be rolled up in a flash.
 
Seasoned sailors walked the deck with their hands half-open and fingers curled, ready to grasp a rope in an instant at a rigger’s barked command.

The cook already had his pots and barrels ready for the fresh haul of fish, while Captain Grant -- not afraid to get dirty and slimy -- stood in the midst of the mess and calling for Nemo to grab any unusual fish to be preserved in his alcohol bottles.

The English captain, a naturalist and explorer, kept a library of specimens in his cabin and maintained careful records in a massive scientific logbook.
 
He had taken the young man under his wing, instructing Nemo in mathematics, the English language, as well as the nautical arts and sciences.
 
On calm evenings, Nemo helped the captain sketch some of the stranger species they had caught.
 
Drawing reminded him of Caroline Aronnax and her artistic aspirations, and he toyed with the now-frayed hair ribbon on his wrist, thinking thoughts of Ile Feydeau and Jules Verne. . . .

After Captain Grant made his selections from the wriggling catch, the cook grabbed what he wanted for the stewpot, and the remaining fish were dumped back overboard.
 
Then, under the beating sun, Nemo and his crewmates set to work swabbing the deck, cleaning fish guts and scales from the boards.
 
He looked toward the horizon to see a haze hinting at the southwestern coast of Africa.

Fourteen months at sea had made his olive skin brown and his muscles as strong as capstan knots.
 
For Nemo, this ship already felt like home.

#

When the
Coralie
had first set sail, every seaman seemed to know what to do -- except Nemo.
 
Unintelligible orders were barked and followed without question.
 
Nemo tried to help, but found himself more often in the way.
 
He did his best to stand clear as the sailors intuitively worked the ropes and sails.

“I warrant there’s no more helpless and pitiable an object as a landsman beginning a sailor’s life,” Captain Grant had said from the quarterdeck, his voice warm and understanding.
 
“Don’t fret, lad -- within a month, ye’ll be scurrying about to follow the same orders without a second thought.
 
Best enjoy these first days on deck, because there’ll be little enough time for sentiment once we get under way.”