Captain Nemo: The Fantastic History of a Dark Genius (41 page)

Since they had already discarded most of their heavy objects into the lake, regaining six hundred pounds of lift required them to take on ballast again.
 
That would also enable them to retrieve Nemo, if ever they managed to find him.

She replaced the despair in the pit of her stomach with iron-hard determination.
 
Caroline pressed her lips together and lost herself in work.
 
She had to slice the silk into strips and pull wads through the gaps in the webbing, taking special care not to puncture the inner balloon with the dagger point.

She thought of when she’d been younger, how she had enjoyed talking with Nemo from her window late at night, how she had flirted with him and strung him along . . . and Jules Verne as well.
 
Because of her father’s successful business and social standing, Caroline would never have been allowed to marry either of the young men, though she’d made her promises to a young Nemo, and had meant them with all her heart.
 

Yet now, with her father dead and her legal husband vanished somewhere in the Arctic . . . she knew she’d have been happier with Nemo after all.
 
Angry, she tore strip after strip off the outer balloon, letting the tatters float away like colorful ribbons to adorn the top branches of the thorn trees.

She heard a gunshot and then a second, but even from her high vantage she could see nothing, could not tell what Fergusson was doing.
 
Caroline imagined the English explorer fighting off ferocious beasts to rescue Nemo . . . though somehow she doubted that was true.

By the time she finished removing the outer balloon and climbed back into the
Victoria
’s expansive basket, she heard a rustle in the branches and saw Fergusson returning.
 
Tied to his belt were two ducks he had shot.
 
“I’ve replenished our food supplies.”
 
He tossed them into the basket as he climbed aboard himself.

“But what about André?” she said.

He blinked at her as if in surprise, then shook his head.
 
“Ah!
 
No sign of him.”

vii

Nemo managed to tread water long enough to catch his breath, and then he began to swim.
 
The warm lake made him feel heavy and sluggish.
 
He hoped to find an island in the huge shallow body, but low mists had risen from the surface of the water, and he could not see into the distance.
 
He swam blindly, hoping he wasn’t heading farther from the safety of shore.
 
Creatures moved within Lake Tchad -- eels or snakes, even submerged crocodiles.

Twice he called out for help.
 
His hoarse shout echoed in the air, reflected mockingly back at him.
 
Finally, he heard soft sounds, a synchronous chant, and a splash of paddles in the water.
 
He swam toward the noises.
 
Before long, as the lake mists thickened, he spotted a long canoe filled with dark-skinned native fishermen gliding toward him.
 
Nemo called out, hoping for rescue.

With a flurry of dipped oars, the canoes drew up beside the strange white man who had fallen from the sky.
 
The boatmen seemed very excited.
 
Their skin was remarkably smooth and ebony-colored, their attractive faces like statues with wide mouths and flat noses; gold ornamentation pierced their ears.
 
They spoke in a musical-sounding language unfamiliar to Nemo.
 
His French and his English would do him no good here in the heart of Africa.
 

Exhausted, drenched, and completely lost, he grasped the side of the canoe.
 
The men said something to him, then consulted amongst themselves.
 
Then, with such powerful muscles they seemed to be lifting a leaf, the fishermen hauled him out of the water and into their boat.

Nemo lay panting among the nets and fish.
 
The fishermen began to sing again, dipping their paddles in the water with even, effective strokes.
 
The canoe shot across the lake.
 

The boatmen made no threatening gestures with their fishing spears, though they could easily have clubbed him and thrown him back into Lake Tchad for the crocodiles.
 
Even so, Nemo saw a hardness in their onyx eyes, a predatory gleam that made him suspicious.
 

He knew there were many tribes, many nations in Africa, often at war with each other -- some brave and honorable, some treacherous . . . just like all the other men he had known.
 
He did not yet know to which category these fishermen belonged.
 
Nemo drew a deep breath and coughed out water.
 
At least his sacrifice had allowed the
Victoria
to fly on.
 
No matter what happened, Caroline was safe.

The fishermen took the canoe into channels through the swamps.
 
The ground became drier, and real grasses and shrubs replaced the marshy reeds, until the channel became a stream flowing out of Lake Tchad.
 
Ahead, Nemo saw a village of reed huts, thatched roofs, and stockades made of thorn branches.

Women chattered with great enthusiasm, welcoming the return of the fishermen.
 
The man at the prow of the canoe loosed a musical cry.
 
Then Nemo heard a startling gunshot, which seemed out of place in this wilderness.
 
In the canoe, the boatmen took on harder expressions, and he felt even more uneasy.
 
Nemo wished he could speak to the natives and ask their intentions, but for now, he waited stoically to see what fate had in store for him.

The canoe came to shore, and two boatmen leaped out to hold it steady while the others disembarked.
 
Nemo climbed out after them, glad to stand on dry land again, though his knees quivered.

The men surrounded Nemo, then led him roughly along a worn footpath to the center of the village.
 
Other villagers stared at the strange, pale-skinned captive.
 
Two zebras pranced inside a thorny stockade; Nemo had no idea whether they had been captured as riding animals or beasts of burden . . . or just for food.
 
Children sat in the dirt playing with twigs.
 
Women wove fabric or pounded millet into flour.

Then with a chill he saw a group of narrow-faced men with pointed beards.
 
They wore billowy garments with flowing burnouses, and swords thrust into sashes at their waists.
 
By their lighter skin, Nemo recognized them as notorious slavers from northern Africa.

At the edge of the village, he saw dozens of people, obviously from a different tribe, chained together and tethered to the thick trees.
 
Some of them huddled in the shade, others sat miserably in the hot, equatorial sun.
 

Before he could struggle, the fishermen grabbed Nemo’s arms.
 
He thrashed and kicked and yelled, to no avail.
 
One of them cuffed him on the side of the head, making his vision spin.
 
The slavers looked over at Nemo and raised their eyebrows in curiosity.
 
They nodded with appreciation, then spoke in a guttural language which some of the natives seemed to understand.

One of the fishermen held out his hand for payment while the rest threw Nemo inside a small hut.
 
He surged to his feet, fists clenched to attack, but the natives barricaded the door in his face.

Seeing red, Nemo growled through the thin walls, “I am not a slave.”
 
He didn’t know if any of the others understood him, but he certainly comprehended their sharp, nasal laughter from outside.

viii

When the stripped-down balloon was ready to fly again, Caroline and Dr. Fergusson waited for a day, hoping Nemo would somehow make his way to them.
 
The
Victoria
bobbed in the sky like a beacon; he should have been able to see them even from a great distance.
 

But still, he didn’t arrive.

Caroline scanned the trees, the lake, the horizon, yet saw no sign of him.
 
So, when the breezes changed and tugged them back in the opposite direction, she made up her mind.
 
“If we take advantage of these winds, we shall drift back to Lake Tchad.
 
It’s our only chance.”

“We no longer have the means to control our direction, Madame,” Fergusson pointed out.
 
“We cannot easily find new air currents.
 
Indeed, we must go wherever the breezes take us.”

Caroline’s eyes were set with determination.
 
“And now the breezes will blow us toward where we need to be.
 
Nemo should spot us, and I know he can find a way to draw attention to himself . . . somehow.”
 

Seeing her forceful expression, Dr. Fergusson climbed down the ladder to disengage the grappling hook.
 
The
Victoria
, as if anxious to be off, sprang into the sky as he climbed back up, mopping sweat from his brow.
 

Free again, the balloon wandered eastward across the sky like a drunkard, following the vagaries of breezes.
 
Caroline refused to relinquish her grip on the spyglass, scanning for any sign of her lost Nemo.
 
She knew that if they didn’t find him soon, before the prevailing winds began pushing them the opposite direction, she and the doctor would have no opportunity to return here.

At last, she made out the metal-blue haze of Lake Tchad on the horizon.
 
Now they merely had hundreds of uncharted miles to search for one lone man.

ix

Nemo stared through the cracks in the dry thatch of his prison hut.
 
The cruelty and injustice he saw made his blood simmer, and he focused his iron thoughts on escaping.

The other slaves, taken as spoils of battle in intertribal warfare, seemed crushed in spirit and unwilling to escape.
 
Heartbroken, their villages destroyed, their relatives murdered in battle, they had nothing left to run to, no possibility for peace even if they escaped.
 
The slavers had destroyed their very will to live.
 

But Nemo could still think, and he could still fight.

Ruthless slave merchants took captives to the coast, where they were sold in great markets such as the one at Zanzibar.
 
The practice was so prevalent that the western edge of Africa bore the label “ebony coast,” a euphemism for the slaves sold to Portuguese and Dutch ships.
 

Here, many of the hopeless women and children tied to the thorn trees were emaciated from a long trek across the wilderness.
 
But Nemo was still healthy and strong.
 
He would never be more fit.
 
If he had to fight his way out, there could be no better time.

The hut enclosing him was not sturdy, with a floor of pounded earth -- as if the slavers expected no outright resistance.
 
Though Nemo had no knife, he knew he could break out.
 
The main question was where he would go afterward.
 
Where could he run?
 
By now, if his sacrifice had meant anything, the
Victoria
would be long gone, far away . . . and Caroline would be safe.

The slavers gathered their horses and paid the villagers, making ready to depart at dawn the next day.
 
Accompanying them, Nemo would be shackled and dragged along.
 
Once the slavers put him in chains with the others and set off for the slave markets, he would never have a chance.
 
It had to be tonight.

He sat motionless, studying everything around him, until he developed his plan.
 
He didn’t have the luxury of choosing among options.