Captain Nemo: The Fantastic History of a Dark Genius (2 page)

Growing up near one of
France
’s largest shipyards, both of them had an abiding love for the sea.
 
Sailors from Batz unloaded a cargo of salt onto the quay.
 
The fish market, its air thick with the stench of day-old catch, sweltered under the humid July sun.
 
The fishwives teased each other in loud voices, using colorful language that would have brought a blush to the cheeks of Verne’s strict father, a local lawyer.

Even forty miles inland, the broad Loire was sluggish as it drained toward the
Atlantic
.
 
A century earlier, through dredgings and diversions, engineers had created an artificial island, Ile Feydeau, separated by a shallow canal on one side and the deep river channel on the other.
 
The swollen waters of annual spring floods still found the first floors of the row houses, and many families kept small boats tied up in the courtyards.

Ile Feydeau was shaped like a boat, and Verne and Nemo often pretended the entire island would detach and float down the river -- village and all -- to the coast.
 
From there, they could drift across the
Atlantic
and explore the world. . . .

Now, they made their way past the barrels, crates, and lumber piles to where they had stowed their equipment.
 
Walking underwater.
 
Verne found Nemo’s plan incredible -- but his fiery-eyed and determined friend might succeed where no one else could.
 
The dark-haired young man did not believe in the impossible.

Preparing for the underwater experiment, Nemo carried his equipment over one shoulder.
 
Verne hurried after him with the remaining items.
 
Soon they’d find out whether the invention would work.
 
Verne planned to write a chronicle of their underwater adventures, provided the two of them ever went anyplace more interesting than the
Loire
River
.

Half a century before,
Nantes
had built up an enviable prosperity from the “ebony trade,” shipping slaves from Africa to the
West Indies
.
 
Merchants used the money raised in the Caribbean to buy sugar cane, which they brought back to
France
and resold at a high profit.
 
Since the decline of the slave trade,
Nantes
had faded as a major port.
 
When local sugar beets replaced expensive imported cane, the city became dependent on its shipbuilding industry.
 
The shipyard forest held frameworks and drydocks for packet ships, clippers, schooners.

A nearly completed vessel floated in the deep channel just ahead of them, a ship named the
Cynthia.
 
In the hot afternoon, men chanted as they swung heavy mallets, pounding deckboards together, hammering iron eyes.
 
Pulleys rattled as thick ropes were hauled up to the tops of the three masts.
 
On deck, cauldrons of bubbling tar gave off a harsh chemical stench that drove back the aroma of old fish.
 
Painters covered the outer hull with traditional black, then added a sleek white stripe from bow to stern.

Nemo shaded his eyes, trying to make out a familiar silhouette among the workers.
 
His father Jacques worked as a carpenter and finisher aboard the
Cynthia
.
 
The wiry, good-natured man had been a seaman in his early years and now used his expertise in constructing the tall ships.
 
Verne and Nemo often listened to Jacques telling tales of his glorious days at sea.

It seemed strange that the son of a conservative lawyer would be good friends with the child of a widowed shipbuilder, but the two shared a fascination for far-off lands and the mysteries of the Earth.
 
They had the same favorite books: Defoe’s
Robinson Crusoe
and Wyss’s
Swiss Family Robinson
, which they collectively called their “Robinsons.”

Though both were dreamers, the young men were different in appearance and temperament.
 
Verne had blue eyes and tousled reddish hair, freckles on his pale skin, and a plodding sort of persistence; Nemo had deep brown eyes that held an undeniable spark of optimism.
 
Corsican blood from his long-dead mother had given him an olive complexion, straight dark hair, and an independent spirit.

Reaching the selected docks, they dropped their bundles in the mud beside the thick pilings.
 
Nemo removed a flexible bladder that had once been a wine skin.
 
He had altered it by inserting a wide reed through a hole and sewing a narrow rectangle of thick glass fashioned from a broken pane.
 
Near the mouth area he had added a one-way flap valve so he could exhale his used air.
 
After the modifications, he had closed the skin with tight little stitches covered in gutta percha for a watertight seal.

Helping him, Verne fiddled with the tube that protruded from the bladder hood.
 
Taking reeds, he and Nemo had dunked their heads under the
Loire
, wading around like the clever American Indians in the adventures by James Fenimore Cooper.
 
But this experiment was much more complex.

Nemo paused in his preparations and extended the modified bladder helmet toward Verne.
 
“We are in this together, my friend.
 
You have as much right to be first as I do.
 
Here.”

Verne backed away, shaking his head.
 
“I wouldn’t dream of it, André.
 
I’ll just stay here and help feed the tubes.
 
You . . . you try it first.”
 

Not surprised, Nemo strapped a belt of heavy stones around his waist, then thrust a dagger into the sheath at his hip.
 
In an emergency he could cut the weights free and rise to the surface.

Nemo tugged the bladder over his dark hair until he could see through the rectangle of glass.
 
The flexible sides fit tight against his ears and temples, and it smelled of sour wine.
 
He slathered his neck and the edge of the bladder with thick grease, then cinched a leather belt to seal the helmet against his skin to prevent air loss, though not so tight that it would strangle him.
 
He knew this was risky -- but he refused to hold back with such an opportunity at hand.

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 air-line 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.
 
Madame Aronnax constantly scolded her daughter and tried to reign 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
.
 
Monsieur 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 18th 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).