Captain Nemo: The Fantastic History of a Dark Genius (17 page)

The old owner scratched his bulging belly, in no hurry for Verne to make a decision.
 
Flies buzzed by, and the water smelled of fish and drying weeds.
 
Some might have found the smells unpleasant, but Verne had lived on the riverfront all his life.
 
To him, the Loire carried the scents of distant countries, treasures and trinkets, rich spices and unusual cuisine.

Right now, he supposed Nemo was having a fine time sailing the seven seas.
 
Had he already gone around the world?
 
Both Verne and Caroline had received a few dated letters from Nemo, but the last one had arrived some time ago.
 
However, messages sent across such great distances were often delayed or lost.
 
He was anxious to hear news, and it did not occur to him to worry.

Verne looked again at the small, forlorn boat.
 
Though his friend lived a life of excitement, he would have to content himself with drifting downriver in a leaky sailboat.
 
He looked at the questionable craft, then at the potbellied man, and yanked the coin out of his pocket.
 
“I’ll take it for the day.”

With agonizing slowness the old man extended his hand to take the money.
 
“Ride out with the descending tide, and then come back with the flood tide a few hours later.
 
You can’t get lost.
 
Just follow the river.”

Verne worked at the damp knots of the frayed tether rope.
 
“I’m not worried, Monsieur.
 
I have faced danger before.”
 

#

Earlier, when Nemo’s silence had stretched for eighteen months, Verne had screwed up his courage and gone to see Caroline Aronnax.
 
He met her in the outdoor café where they stole a bit of conversation over cups of chocolat chaud and gooseberry pastries.

Looking at Caroline, Verne still felt the confusion of youthful love.
 
Stranded here in Nantes while Nemo went around the world, Verne felt as if he had let her down.
 
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to take care of André, as I promised to do.”

She dismissed his concern.
 
“I’m sure he can take care of himself.”

Verne shared his new stories and poems with her, glowing every time she laughed at one of his clever plot twists.
 
He needed to show her that the son of a dull though modestly successful attorney was worthy of her love.
 
Monsieur Aronnax was a friendly enough sort, though Caroline’s mother always sniffed in disapproval when Verne came asking after her daughter. . . .

Hands trembling around the delicate porcelain cup in the outdoor café, he tried to meet Caroline’s bright blue eyes.
 
Verne noted how beautiful she looked in a lilac dress and a hat trimmed with fine lace from Chantille.
 
She kept nudging the lace aside, as if it made her itch.
 
“So, what did you want to see me about, Jules?
 
Another new adventure story?”
 
She laughed in anticipation.
 
“Pirates on the high seas?
 
Explorers in Amazon jungles?”

“Not a story this time, Caroline, though I did write you a . . . poem.
 
But I, uh, forgot to bring it with me.”
 
He flushed, remembering his heartfelt and embarrassing expressions of undying love.
 
He didn’t dare let her read them, though.
 
“I . . . you must be aware of my . . . feelings for you.”
 
He cleared his throat.
 
“I’d like you to consider --”
 
He drew a deep breath.
 

All the words drained out of his head: the beautiful speech, the lyrical love letters he had written but never sent, the passionate sonnets.
 
“I mean, would you
wait for me
?
 
I realize you miss Nemo, but he’s been gone for a long time.”

Caroline looked up, startled.
 
At least she didn’t laugh at him.
 
Instead, she clasped his hand.
 
“Oh, Jules -- you dear, sweet, optimistic boy.”
 
He felt as if his heart might catch on fire.
 
He hadn’t dared to hope that she might say
Yes
.

Then Caroline’s face clouded.
 
“You cannot think
I
have any choice in the man I marry?
 
Whether it is you, or Nemo -- or anybody else?
 
There was a time when I had hoped . . . but that no longer matters.”
 
She tried to soften the blow.
 
“Jules, my father is a wealthy merchant, already negotiating with other families to secure a proper husband for me.
 
My mother began making plans years ago.”

Caroline hadn’t said outright that he wasn’t good enough for her, hadn’t said that she still clung to a hope that André Nemo would return with chests full of gold and jewels from ports on the other side of the world.
 

She didn’t need to.
 
Verne understood it all too well.
 

He would have died for her touch at any other time, but now he withdrew his hand.
 
“I thank you for hearing me out, Mademoiselle.”
 
He sounded much too formal.

Her face fell into sadness again.
 
“Wait, Jules.
 
Will you not stay a while and tell me one of your stories?”

With a slow shake of his head, he stood, tossed a few coins on the table without even counting them, and marched off in search of a place where he could be alone with his wounded pride. . . .

#

Now, trying to find a comfortable spot on the old sailboat’s splintered seat, Verne paddled into the current and set the patched sail to catch a breeze.
 
The potbellied man, who had not lifted a finger to help, plucked a fresh stalk of grass and stood chewing, still leaning against the stone wall.
 
Verne was glad to sail out of sight so he no longer needed to pretend to know what he was doing.

Several times Verne nearly capsized, from either a misguided shove at the helm, a botched maneuver, or an ill-advised tug on the sail rope when a swell ruffled the Loire.
 
It was truly dangerous.

He was having the time of his life.

In the doldrums of summer, the low water was treacherous because of occasional sandbars.
 
The sailboat handled sluggishly, catching a breeze in its threadbare sail and lumbering about like a blinded ox.
 
He shaded his eyes against the bright sun, hugging the shore as he enviously watched pleasure yachts skim past him.
 
Someday, he wanted to purchase a boat like that.
 

The outgoing tide was strong and the current swift, and many miles of riverbank passed by.
 
Two years ago, while leaving home on the
Coralie
, he had felt himself a brave sailor on a tall ship cruising toward distant adventures.
 
I really would have gone along!
 
This was much different, of course.
 
Verne navigated around sandbars and islands covered with willows and reeds despite periodic dunkings from seasonal high waters.
 
He would never get far in this old hulk.
 

But still, it was something.

Engrossed in this journey, he didn’t notice the seeping water at his feet until it sloshed around his ankles.
 
He scowled at the rising puddle, wondering if the old owner had duped him, or if the man had just overestimated the seaworthiness of his boat.

By now, Verne was many miles from home.
 
Using his heel, he pushed down on the sideboard to determine the extent of the leak.
 
With an alarming crack, one of the planks split.
 
He placed his hands over his mouth in horror, then bent down, trying to hold the rotted wood together.
 
But water gushed through the broken hull like wet fingers, prying the weakened boards apart.

Verne grabbed the sail as if he could turn the skiff around and flit homeward.
 
The old boat, however, began to break apart, riding lower in the water, splitting at the sides.
 
He waved and called for help, but saw no one to assist him, not even any pleasure yachts.
 
His collapsing vessel sank deeper, until the water was up to his knees in the little boat.
 
Not much better than being in the river itself.

He tugged the sail again, trying to angle the waterlogged craft toward a low, wooded island that protruded from the Loire.
 
When the skiff broke apart completely, Verne abandoned ship and plunged into the warm, waist-deep water.
 
He slogged through mud to the solid ground of the islet.
 
He had no supplies, no resources -- and he was stranded.
 

On shore, he trudged through clawing willow branches to find a sunny spot where he could dry himself.
 
“Hello, is anyone else here?”
 
He raised his voice again, but already he knew this would be a deserted island, a small refuge in the middle of the wide estuary.
 

No one lived here.
 
He was alone . . . on an uninhabited island.

Verne sat down on a fallen tree, wondering what he should do, indignant that the rented sailboat had fallen into pieces on him.
 
He certainly didn’t intend to pay the old man for the damages.
 
His father was a lawyer, after all -- in fact, the potbellied owner’s blatant disregard for a young man’s safety would look very bad in a court of law.
 

But Verne didn’t want to think what his father would say about the whole misadventure.
 
How would he get rescued?
 
Would he ever see his home again?
 
His loving mother, his sisters, his young brother Paul?

Around him, he found an unexplored world of trees and grass.
 
This was the closest he’d ever been to reenacting his beloved “Robinson” stories.
 
He allowed himself a wan smile . . . and then his imagination took over.

In clothes still wet and uncomfortable, Verne pushed his way through the clumps of willows, knocking aside gnarled branches that scratched his face.
 
As his soggy shoes sank into the river grass that covered the ground, he thought that perhaps he might be the first person ever to walk here.
 
These footprints -- like the footprints the man Friday had left on Crusoe’s beach -- might be the first mark a human soul had ever made on this untamed land.

He studied the loose rocks piled by spring floodwaters and imagined firepits with blackened bones from cannibal feasts.
 
But he found nothing more than a rat’s nest and a worm-eaten plank washed up from some old ship.
 

His heart thumped, and a foolish grin crossed his face.
 
This might be similar to some of the ordeals Nemo was enduring on his world-wide explorations.
 
He couldn’t wait to tell his friend about it.

Before long, Verne was sweaty, sunburned, and miserable.
 
As any true castaway would have done, he salvaged the sail from his sunken boat where it had caught on shore weeds.
 
Then he raised a lean-to shelter of weathered sticks to protect him from wind and storms, hurricanes or snow.
 
Curled on the prickly ground, he imagined he could live here for a while, isolated from the world.
 
Perhaps he’d even keep a journal of his daily struggles, scratch words on smooth bark.
 
There was no telling how long he might remain lost on his little island. . . .

Exhausted in the afternoon and at a loss for what else to do, he tried to nap, troubled by thoughts of tropical storms or pirate ships on the prowl.
 
The ground was uncomfortable, and his shelter let in the biting flies so prevalent during summer along the sluggish river.
 

Within an hour, Verne began to consider how he might signal for help.
 
He thought of piling dry branches and lighting a bonfire so that passing ships could see the smoke and send rowboats to investigate.
 
But as Verne gathered sticks from the shore, he realized he had no matches and no other way of lighting the blaze.
 
Glum, he sat with his chin in his hands.