Captain Nemo: The Fantastic History of a Dark Genius (34 page)

After the interminable seven years had passed, things might change for the two of them.
 
He and Caroline had waited for each other so long. . . .

#

One gloomy day in the Paris civil engineering offices, Baron Haussmann presented Nemo with a new assignment.
 
The short-statured man had a cherubic face, and harried, bloodshot eyes.
 
He spoke with a thick German accent.
 
“I now require of you a supreme effort, Monsieur Nemo.
 
It is my intention that you develop a plan for expanding the ancient, overburdened system of storm drains and sewers in Paris.”
 
He handed the young engineer a thick roll of oversized papers.
 
“These are the blueprints.
 
Please study them meticulously.”

Nemo found it difficult to tap into his reservoir of enthusiasm for such a dreary job.
 
But he took the blueprints, gave a formal nod to the powerful baron, and marched out of the government offices.

That evening, with the dizzying labyrinth of Parisian sewers hammering at his brain, Nemo sank into his reading chair with a cold meal of roast mutton at his side.
 
He buried himself in his scientific magazines.
 
A new issue of the proceedings from Britain’s Royal Geographic Society had arrived.
 
Since the articles were all written in English, Nemo kept up his proficiency in the language.

For more than a century, the exploration of darkest Africa had been an obsession of European explorers.
 
Nemo had read with great interest the memoirs of James Bruce, a big-shouldered and tempestuous Scotsman who had traveled through Ethiopia and discovered the source of the Blue Nile in 1771.
 
He also studied the 1799 journals of Mungo Park, who explored the interior of Africa and perished under a native attack on the Niger River.

Now, Nemo read a speech given at the Royal Geographical Society by an eccentric and vociferous -- and possibly learned -- doctor of biology named Samuel Fergusson.
 
In an uproarious lecture to the Society, Dr. Fergusson had proposed the preposterous yet intriguing scheme of taking a hydrogen balloon from the east coast of Africa across the unexplored continent all the way to its western shores.
 
Other travelers tramped through clogged jungles and fever-ridden swamps, tried to navigate crocodile-infested rivers or negotiate foaming cataracts.
 
Fergusson’s idea, on the other hand, was to drift calmly
over
the African landscape, as if taking a quiet carriage ride.
 

The Royal Society had sponsored other expeditions, with the British government adding supplemental funding.
 
Unfortunately, Fergusson’s ideas seemed just a bit too unorthodox for the conservative members of the club, and they refused to finance the doctor’s proposal.
 
They allowed quite generous grants to numerous other expeditions, making certain that the world was explored and investigated to the fullest extent possible.
 
The Society sent out veritable armies of scientists and collectors to the four corners of the globe.
 

But not Samuel Fergusson.

Not in the doctor’s favor, was the evidence that two of his other “innovative” (or “crackpot”) designs had failed to get off the ground, after the Society had funded them, and the members in control of the treasury did not want to waste further money on Fergusson’s ideas.
 
His remarkable double-balloon design would not likely progress beyond a scheme on paper.

While sitting in his room, ignoring the dull blueprints of Paris sewers and storm drains, Nemo thought the explorer’s idea had merit, despite his apparent arrogance and blustery personality.
 
As he reread the article, excitement grew within him.
 
But when he studied the diagram for Fergusson’s balloon, he realized it would never work.
 

As planned, the balloon would not have enough carrying capacity for supplies, scientific instruments, and passengers.
 
The vessel would never make it across the continent, but would instead sink into uncharted areas.
 
Nemo had no doubt that if Fergusson persisted in this plan, he would never be heard of again.

Unless the balloon could be modified. . .

Nemo shrugged off all thoughts of Parisian sewers and set to work with pen and paper, making calculations, incorporating his own ideas.
 
He did not sleep, but still felt more refreshed and alive than he had in many months.

iii

Standing in front of an imposing door covered with peeling black paint, Nemo rang the English explorer’s bell in the middle of the afternoon.
 
He was still breathless but filled with ideas.
 
He had never been to London before.

“I request an audience with Dr. Samuel Fergusson, please.”
 
Nemo stood straight-backed and unwavering on the doorstep.
 
He had spent his savings on a passage across the English Channel, then took a train into London, where he’d had no difficulty finding the doctor’s address.

The gaunt manservant scowled, assessing the young man.
 
He had a high forehead and drooping eyes as gray as winter clouds.
 
His mouth drew together in a pinched frown like a flowerbud shriveling in the sun.
 
“And might I inquire as to your business, sir?
 
You sound . . . French.”

Nemo blurted out the sentence he had rehearsed, though his English was still a bit rough.
 
“The doctor’s proposed balloon design will not work.
 
I have a better idea to share with him.”

Skeptical, the manservant stepped back into the foyer and closed the door, leaving the young man to stand on the street.
 
While he waited, Nemo checked his clothes and smoothed his dark hair, making certain he did not appear to be a wild-eyed madman.
 
He tucked his rolled drawings neatly under one arm, as if they were weapons.
 

When the door was flung open again, Nemo looked up to see a long-legged man with hazel eyes, bushy dark eyebrows, and a ridiculously huge black mustache that balanced like a canoe upon his lip.

“Whatever is the meaning of this, eh?” Fergusson said, like a roaring lion.
 
“How could you possibly know whether or not my balloon will work?
 
Indeed, I have spent hours on the design, and I missed nothing.”

Nemo held up his rolls of sketches and designs.
 
“Allow me to show you why, Monsieur.”
 
Without waiting for permission, he pushed past the doctor and marched down the corridor, following daylight to the large windows in a drawing room.
 
There, he found a writing desk at which Fergusson had been compiling notes and a list.
 
Nemo unrolled his blueprint on the flat surface.

“Why, I don’t even know you, sir!”
 
Fergusson hovered behind him.
 
“This is highly irregular.”

“Your idea to cross Africa in a balloon is also highly irregular,” Nemo pointed out.
 
“And it is brilliant.”

“Brilliant, eh?
 
Yes, yes it is.
 
But because of my, er, unfortunate track record with similar balloon designs, the Society chooses to fund more conventional expeditions.
 
I shall never get the chance.”

“Your balloon designs are flawed, as I will demonstrate.
 
You, of all people, Dr. Fergusson, should listen to an unorthodox concept.
 
I would hate to see your expedition fail because of several miscalculations that could have been avoided.
 
I suspect that your earlier test flights failed for the same reasons.”

“But what sort of . . . miscalculations can you mean?”
 
He stroked his thick mustache like a man petting an unlucky cat.
 
“Indeed, I cannot deny that my earlier balloons were disasters, eh?”

Nemo pointed to the columns of numbers, and the flustered doctor scanned them, pretending to redo the math in his head.
 
“You’ll need five weeks in a balloon to traverse Africa, Monsieur.
 
As is apparent here” -- he jabbed a finger at his calculations -- “even under favorable winds, you will not have enough flotation for three weeks.
 
Your hydrogen gas will not last for the duration necessary to cross such a distance.
 
Even if the Society had seen fit to fund your expedition, you would have crashed in the middle of the continent.”

“Yes, yes, I see now.
 
Perhaps they were wiser to fund traditional overland treks instead, considering. . . .”
 
Fergusson nodded, intent.
 
His indignation forgotten, he stared at Nemo’s drawing instead.
 
“Indeed.”

“My new balloon design
will
, on the other hand, succeed.”
 
Nemo squared his shoulders.
 
“I am confident of it.”

Fergusson tapped the sketch with his forefinger.
 
“You appear to have two balloons?”

Nemo nodded.
 
“One inside the other, with a valve so that gases communicate from the inner sphere to the outer sphere.
 
I have also developed a mechanism that can heat and recondense the hydrogen gas to increase our buoyancy.”

“And the purpose for that is?”
 
Fergusson raised his bushy black eyebrows.
 
He sounded testy now, but Nemo could tell it was only an act.
 
The man was intrigued by the innovative design, and somewhat abashed at the clear mistakes he had made with his own proposal.

“For maneuverability,” Nemo said.
 
“In previous travel by balloon, one has been at the mercy of the winds.
 
However, aeronautical studies have proven that the winds blow in different directions at different altitudes.
 
Therefore, we must simply seek a height at which the winds will blow us on our westward course.”

“
Our
course?
 
We
?
 
What do you mean,
we
?”

“I intend to come along, Doctor, since the design is mine.”
 
Nemo’s gaze was calm and unshakeable.
 
“Is that so much to ask?”

“An international expedition, you say? English
and
French?
 
My, that would cause quite a scandal.”
 
Then Fergusson’s excitement deflated.
 
The long-legged man stepped away from the writing desk.
 
He shook his head.
 
“Alas, it is a moot point now, my friend.”

“Why?
 
The design is quite practicable,” Nemo insisted.
 
“I know it can take us across Africa.”

Fergusson tugged on his enormous mustache, as if trying to remove it from his lip.
 
“No, young man.
 
The problem is with the Royal Geographical Society.
 
They have sent out their quota of explorers already for the coming year.
 
This afternoon they denied my second appeal for expedition funding, and therefore there will be no balloon trip.
 
Unless you have a private fortune of your own, eh?”
 
The doctor chuckled.
 
“And that much I doubt, from your appearance.”

Flushed with embarrassment and disappointment, Nemo realized the brashness of his scheme to come here.
 
He should not have bothered the scientist.
 
His new balloon design must have thrown salt on the would-be explorer’s wounds.
 

“I apologize for taking your time, Monsieur.”
 
Nemo gathered his drawings and backed out of the drawing room.
 
“If circumstances should change, allow me to give you my name and address so that you can contact me.”

Fergusson nodded, his thick brows knitting together.
 
“Most certainly, my friend.
 
I admire your verve -- and audacity.
 
Reminds me of your Napoleon Bonaparte, eh?
 
Of course, he was defeated in the end, as well.”