Captain Nemo: The Fantastic History of a Dark Genius (13 page)

From his high vantage, Nemo looked overboard into the foaming waves -- and wondered how quiet it must be just a fathom beneath the surface.
 
He recalled da Vinci’s speculative drawings of the boat that could travel under the water, out of the reach of bad weather.
 

Then the storm took all his attention again. . . .

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When the weather died down, the crew worked through the day to put the
Coralie
back in order.
 
Exhausted and dripping, Nemo changed into his second set of dry clothes so he wouldn’t catch cold . . . or get waterspots on any of the scientist captain’s precious notebooks.

At the captain’s table they ate cold meat and boiled eggs.
 
“I prefer my food solid and immobile,” Grant said as the ship continued to rock and sway.
 
“‘Tis not weather for soup, lad, not if ye want to keep any in your bowl.”

Nemo ate in silence, wrestling with the question in his mind.
 
Finally, he asked, “The notebooks of da Vinci, the drawings you showed me.
 
I keep thinking of that underwater vessel.
 
Do you really think it could be built someday?”

The captain smiled at him, brushing down his trim mustache.
 
During the voyage he had let his brown hair grow longer.
 
“Aye, lad, I’ve heard of schemes to use sealed boats under water.
 
In Year of Our Lord 1620, the court engineer for King James I -- a man named Cornelius Drebbel -- constructed a ‘sub-marine boat’ and demonstrated it in the Thames River.
 
To maneuver he used oars sealed at the locks with leather gaskets.
 
Alas, it did not prove practical.”

Nemo tried to picture the spectacle in his mind, with the English King and his court dressed in finery, waiting on stands at the river bank.
 
The court engineer submerged his awkward boat by admitting water into the hull, and rose to the surface again by pumping it out, using a contraption like a blacksmith’s bellows.

“Then, lad, during the American rebellion in 1776, a Yankee named Bushnell built a sealed ship he called the
Turtle
, barely large enough to hold one occupant.
 
‘Twas driven by two hand-cranked screw propellers, one for vertical movement, one to go forward.
 
Sergeant Ezra Lee took the
Turtle
underwater toward the loyal British flagship
Eagle
anchored in New York harbor.
 
He carried an explosive charge to attach to the hull plate.
 
Fortunately for the British, he couldn’t maneuver at all, and got lost.
 
He never did manage to sink our ship.”

Nemo peeled a cold egg.
 
“So no one has made a functional sub-marine boat?”

Captain Grant dipped his knife into a small pot and smeared mustard onto a slice of gray-brown salt beef.
 
“Robert Fulton, the American who invented the steamboat, came close to succeeding at the turn of this century.
 
He journeyed to France in 1797 and your Napoleon Bonaparte granted him funding to build a functional vessel 25 feet long.
 
‘Twas metal and streamlined like a fish, could hold three or four men in its belly, and used inclined diving planes to submerge.
 
Compressed-air tanks augmented the oxygen supply.
 
In theory, the vessel could stay underwater for six hours.”

“Six hours?”
 
Nemo remembered his experiment with the bladder helmet and reed-breathing tubes in the Loire.
 
“And did it work?”

“Aye, but Napoleon never saw any military potential in underwater ships.
 
Fulton rallied no support from the British or American governments, either, so he abandoned his lovely sub-marine in 1806.”

Nemo, his imagination captivated now, met his mentor’s eyes.
 
“Did Fulton’s sub-marine boat have a name?”

Grant rummaged through his notebooks, confident that he could lay his hands on any bit of information.
 
“Aye, he christened it the
Nautilus
.”

iv

The Straits of Malacca, a narrow trench between Malaysia on the north and Sumatra on the south, were known to be haunted by seafaring bandits.
 
As the
Coralie
navigated the narrows, Captain Grant maintained full crews at the cannon, powder magazines, and crow’s nests.

“We stop at Borneo, perhaps Java, then continue to the Philippines before we strike across the Pacific to the Sandwich Islands.”
 
Grant indicated the specific islands on the large nautical chart mounted under glass in the navigation room.
 
“I warrant we’ll see San Francisco before Christmas next.”

Days after the three-masted brig emerged into the island-cluttered waters of Indonesia, Nemo sat at the bow, cradling in his lap one of the books Verne had left for him, a worn copy of DeFoe’s
Robinson Crusoe
.
 
He and his friend had sat at the edge of the Loire, imagining what they might do if ever marooned on a deserted island.

Engrossed in the story, Nemo did not hear the captain’s footfalls above the groan of the rigging ropes and the whisper of tight sails.
 
Captain Grant saw what his cabin boy was reading.
 
“Crusoe, eh?
 
You know the account DeFoe used for his inspiration, lad?”

Nemo looked up at the captain.
 
“Robinson Crusoe is a true tale, sir?”

“Not exactly,” Captain Grant replied with a smile.
 
“‘Twas told by the pirate William Dampier, who was also a naturalist and meticulous observer.
 
One of his men, a Scottish sailor named Alexander Selkirk, demanded to be put ashore after a disastrous raid against the Spaniards.
 
Dampier left him off the coast of South America, then sailed away.”

“So he was marooned?” Nemo asked.

“By his own choice, lad.
 
Four and a half years later, when William Dampier came around Cape Horn again -- this time commissioned as the navigator on a legitimate ship, not a privateer -- the crew spotted a strange light on the coast.
 
When they stopped to investigate, they found a bedraggled Selkirk, who had built a huge fire to attract them.
 
The poor man had not seen another living soul for four long years.”
 

Seeing Nemo’s fascination, Captain Grant said, “I have Dampier’s book in my cabin, lad.
 
You can read it tonight by lamplight, if you wish.”
 
The captain then pointed a scolding finger.
 
“But first, young man, ‘tis your turn at watch.
 
Go climb the ratlines and spend your hours up in the crow’s nest.”

v

Sitting alone atop the mast for hour after hour, Nemo imagined himself in another world.
 
Far below, the
Coralie
held the smells and stains from the long voyage, despite vigorous daily scrubbings.
 
He’d grown accustomed to the crowded and unpleasant conditions, but he preferred to be up high, where the breezes danced around the topmost spire.
 
Here, his thoughts could roam.

The rigging hummed, and the sails laughed with each gust.
 
In the South China Sea, islands, reefs, and peninsulas dotted the charts in Captain Grant’s stateroom.
 
At the moment, all Nemo could see was the hazy, curved plane of metal-blue water, a calm sea with just enough wind to keep the sails filled and the ship moving on course.

Sunlight glinted across the stippled waves, fragmenting and reflecting back at him, though he no longer felt the baking heat upon his bronzed skin.
 
Nemo stared, looking for any interruption in the quiet sea that would indicate an island, an approaching storm, or another ship.
 
The world was so vast, so full of possibilities.
 
No birds were visible, which meant the ship must be far from land.
 
He took a moment to retie the faded red hair ribbon Caroline had given him, which sparked a wash of memories of Nantes.
 
With the chance Caroline had offered, the opportunity arranged through Monsieur Aronnax, Nemo had indeed made something of himself.
 

In the crow’s nest he had carried the thick leather-bound journal Jules had given him.
 
Now he wrote with a lead pencil, scratching out thoughts and recollections, adding details of the previous few days.
 
Verne, who had been forbidden to take this journey himself, would want to know everything.

Nemo glanced up again and scanned the sea, startled to see a black speck on the horizon riding the wind toward the
Coralie.
 
He took out his spyglass and placed the warm brass eyepiece against his face.
 
Through the lens he could make out a sailing ship, though he could determine no specifics.
 
“Ship ahoy!
 
East by northeast.”

The other sailors on the
Coralie
looked up at him, then out to sea.
 
From his place at the wheel, the helmsman signaled that he had heard.
 
Nemo glanced again at the distant craft, then returned to his writing.
 

Over the next hour or so, the other ship came closer while the
Coralie
tacked at an angle to the wind.
 
The stranger -- a large, sturdy sloop -- chose a course bound to intercept them, moving with the breezes.
 
As the distance between the two vessels closed, Nemo periodically checked with the spyglass.

Captain Grant’s sailors continued to adjust the rigging, pulling the
Coralie’
s sails to snatch every breath of wind.
 
Some gathered at the rail to look at the oncoming ship.
 
It had been some time since the crew had encountered another vessel, but this was a high traffic sailing lane; finding another sail out in the South China Sea was not unusual.

Nemo could have finished his shift, scuttled down the shroud ropes, and asked to look at the Crusoe-inspiring books Captain Grant had promised him.
 
But with another ship coming closer, he wanted to stay up in the crows’ nest where he could be the first to see.
 

Using the spyglass, he finally made out the flag atop the foremast of the sloop.
 
“She’s British.
 
Flying the Union Jack.”

The other sailors milled about on deck, some shading their eyes and trying to see.
 
The sloop picked up speed, coming closer.
 
Nemo finished writing another page in the journal and stuffed the heavy book inside his shirt, tight against his chest.

Captain Grant stood on the raised quarterdeck, using his own spyglass to observe the approaching ship.
 
The sloop clearly intended to rendezvous with the
Coralie
.
 
The captain went into his cabin and emerged wearing a new jacket with bright brass buttons.

Nemo made out the details of the sloop, a black hull with a line of tan at the waterline, six gunports on a side, and a single tall mast with long booms that kept the gaff-rigged mainsail extended.
 
Two squaresails had also been hoisted to give her greater speed to run before the wind.
 
A well-dressed man stood at the tiller -- a British captain? -- and others strutted across the deck wearing finery.
 
Some appeared to be ladies in colorful gowns made of oriental silk.
 
They waved cordially.

Nemo knew a British ship wouldn’t be uncommon in the South China Sea.
 
Perhaps it was an opium trader; more likely, this sloop carried a group of ambassadors or colonists out on a pleasure cruise among the islands.
 

Captain Grant signaled the sloop and called all hands on deck to prepare for a meeting at sea, where they could exchange news and mail.
 
Nemo waited, breathless with anticipation, wondering what tidings the sloop might bring from the territories in Southeast Asia.