Captain Nemo: The Fantastic History of a Dark Genius (63 page)

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He gave Honorine a cursory goodbye, glad to leave her behind with their fussy toddler.
 
Verne boarded a train carrying a small valise that contained a few toiletry items and three changes of clothing, as well as a bound journal in which he could write down notes for stories.
 
If he should not encounter the promised “adventure,” at least he would get writing done.

On the appointed night, nervous and anxious, Verne took his valise, and walked along the shingled beach north from Paimboeuf.
 
As the time grew near, he began to feel like a fool for believing what was most likely a prank -- but he had to see for himself.
 

A mile up the coast from Paimboeuf, just as the letter-writer had described, he found a deep, calm cove far from the nearest village.
 
Faint white breakers stippled the dark water.

Verne waited, listening to the brisk wind and calm whisper of the ocean.
 
He smelled the brine, the iodine tang of seaweed, the odor of dead fish.
 
There were no campfires, no fishermens’ huts, no one at all.
 
Clouds scudded across the sky, obscuring the silvery circle of the moon.
 
He saw no roads nearby, heard no wagons or horses.
 

Drawing a deep breath, Verne reached into his vest and pulled out the pocketwatch he had purchased with money Hetzel had paid him for the balloon book.
 
He remembered how his father had always kept a telescope trained on the distant monastery clock: now Verne could tell time whenever he wished.
 

He snapped the lid shut.
 
It was midnight.
 

He sighed, convinced that no one would appear after all.
 
Some rival or dissatisfied reader must be back at a Paimboeuf inn right now, snickering at Verne’s gullibility.
 
His cheeks burned; maybe someone was watching him from the rocks even now.

Then a stirring caught his eye in the water out in the cove.
 
Air bubbles rushed to the surface like a pot coming to boil.
 
Verne whirled and faced out toward the ocean.
 
To his astonishment, a great metal sea beast rose from the waves.

Its round portholes gleamed like the infernal eyes of a demon.
 
Jagged fins looked like the ridge on a dragon’s back.
 
As it surfaced, Verne backed away, stumbling on the loose rock of the beach, but he could not stop staring.
 

The armored beast floated in silence and then, with a scraping sound and a heavy clang, a hatch opened on its top.
 
The lean, shadowy figure of a man in a dark uniform rose up from the thing’s gullet.
 
He raised his right arm to wave toward the lone figure on the beach.

“Jules Verne, is that you?” the man called in an oddly familiar voice.
 
It was deeper and rougher . . . yet it reminded him of someone he’d known as a young boy.
 
“Come aboard and see my
Nautilus
.”

At a loss for words, Verne opened and closed his mouth.
 
The terror had trickled away, leaving him numb with awe . . . and, yes, even a little curiosity.
 
A small boat detached itself from the armored craft, and the lone man rowed toward him.
 
“Jules, don’t you recognize your old friend?
 
It’s me -- Nemo.”

Verne stared at the man as he brought the boat to shore and stepped into the shallow water.
 
His friend’s face had changed: now in his mid-thirties, Nemo had grown leaner, his muscles tougher.
 
A neatly trimmed beard covered his chin, and his dark eyes had a hard look, as if he had seen much more than he could ever explain.

“Nemo . . . but I -- we -- thought you were dead.
 
Caroline and I both received a notice from the Department of the Military.
 
It said you were killed in the Crimean War.”
 
He legs felt as if they were about to give out, and he would faint backward onto the beach.

“Not exactly killed, as you can see.”
 
His smile was grim, without a trace of humor.
 
“You and I will have plenty of time to share the entire tale, Jules.
 
I think you’ll want to hear about my adventures.”
 
He reached out to haul Verne’s valise into the metal-hulled boat.
 
“Follow me -- you will be amazed.
 
It’s about time you came along on one of my voyages.”

Taking Nemo’s hand, Verne climbed into the small boat and sat unsteadily.
 
“I . . . I’ve always meant to go on an adventure.”
 
As Nemo rowed back out to the armored vessel, Verne thought of the tiny rented skiff he had taken down the Loire, which had broken apart and stranded him on the isolated sandbar.
 
“I would have gone on the
Coralie
with you.
 
Honestly.”

“And now you can go on my
Nautilus
.”

After Nemo docked against the iron-plated vessel, the two men stepped onto the wet outer hull.
 
Verne felt wobbly on his feet.
 
Awkward, he leaned forward and embraced his old friend, still numb with shock.
 
Nemo patted him on the back, then laughed with genuine warmth.
 
“Come below into the vessel.
 
You have a grand adventure ahead of you, just like we always talked about.”

They descended a metal-runged ladder into the sub-marine boat.
 
Verne stared in wonder.
 
A square-jawed British man with a prominent dimple stood at the bridge, calling orders to the crewmen, all of whom wore the same strange uniform.
 
When Verne asked about it, Nemo tugged at the dark fabric on his shoulder.
 
“We kept these outfits as a badge of honor, after we escaped from Rurapente.”
 
Seeing Verne’s confusion, he said, “I hope you brought along a journal to take notes.
 
Do you still want to be a writer?”

Verne nodded, patting his valise.
 

One of the crewmen sounded bells, just as on a sailing ship, but the crew had no ropes to tie, no sails to set, no anchors to cast off.
 
The propeller of the
Nautilus
began to turn with the vessel’s powerful engines.
 
One sailor climbed up to seal the upper hatch, and then the craft headed away from the coast of France.

Verne stared out the portholes, but could see little in the ocean shadows.
 
A cold shiver crept down his spine as the angle of the deck tilted and water covered the thick windows.
 
His heart constricted with the realization that they were now beneath the ocean.
 
Sweat popped out on his forehead.
 
The
Nautilus
struck out into the wide Atlantic, and Verne hung on for dear life.

For hours he observed landscapes he had never imagined.
 
Fishes darted to and fro, glittering in the illumination from the forward lamps.
 
Rocks never touched by human hands made strange formations and undersea mountains.
 

Nemo stood beside him with a satisfied smile on his face.
 
When Verne’s astonishment had faded to a manageable level, Nemo clapped him on the shoulder.
 
“Come into the salon.
 
Let me tell you everything that’s happened to me in the past ten years.”

In the large, opulent room they sat at a narrow table and drank a strange-tasting tea.
 
Verne continued to gaze out the broad, thick-paned portholes as his friend began the tale.

“The Crimean War was terrible, but I suspect no worse than any others.
 
I watched pirates slaughter Captain Grant on the
Coralie
.
 
I saw slavers in Africa killing innocent women and children.
 
In the Crimea, I was with the Light Brigade when they made their foolish charge on Balaclava.
 
And then I spent time in a hospital, surrounded by all the pain and suffering caused by foolish orders and petty squabbles between officers.”

Nemo’s face darkened, and he looked down at the table.
 
Several beautiful shells were strewn about, specimens taken during his underwater explorations.
 
Verne glanced away from the porthole, noting the tremble in his friend’s voice.
 

“And then the things Caliph Robur did to some of my men.”
 
He drew a deep breath.
 
“It never ceases to amaze me how human beings enjoy inflicting violence upon their own species.”

As he drank more tea, Nemo’s voice took on a firm resolve.
 
“Here on the
Nautilus
, we are isolated from the political turmoils of the world.
 
We can be safe.
 
My crew is devoted to me -- they are at home on this vessel, more so than in any place in Europe.”

He scowled.
 
“Their countries sent these men to fight in the Crimea.
 
They saw and did things their families could never accept.
 
Due to bureaucratic error, every one of them was declared dead when Caliph Robur captured them.
 
These men endured fear, and threats, and long imprisonment.
 
They started new lives with new families in Turkey -- only to learn that Robur intended to execute us all when we’d done what he wanted.”
 
Nemo’s fists clenched and unclenched.
 
“And now we have escaped, and found peace here . . . until such time as we return to Rurapente to retrieve everyone and everything we left behind.”

Verne had lived in Paris during the revolutionary years, had been there for the formation of the Second Republic and then the new Empire.
 
“Peace is a hard thing to come by in this world,” he said.
 
“Even the United States of America is now embroiled in a terrible civil war.
 
I’m glad I’ve managed to remain safely away from it all.”

Disturbed, Nemo changed the subject by inquiring into Verne’s life.
 
He told Nemo about his law certificate and his years at the stock market, but how he had continued to write his plays and poems.
 
With some embarrassment, Verne explained about
Five Weeks in a Balloon
, for which he admitted borrowing heavily from his friend’s exploits.

“Forgive me, my friend.
 
I believed you were dead, and I saw no harm in it.”
 
Nemo gave him a quixotic smile, and Verne continued in a rush.
 
“The novel has been such a success that my publisher has contracted for three books a year.
 
I am developing a new kind of fiction.
 
Each volume will be a strange and exotic adventure based on technology and the best advances in geographical exploration.
 
We are calling the series ‘Les Voyages Extraordinaire.’”

“I should like to read this
Five Weeks in a Balloon
.”
 
Nemo looked at his friend with some amusement.
 
“Not bad for a man who has never set foot outside of France -- in fact, never traveled farther than from Nantes to Paris.”
 
He chuckled.
 
“Until now.”

Verne huffed.
 
“I did take a journey to England and Scotland two years ago.
 
An entire week on a boat.
 
And I’ve been to Amiens, too -- several times.
 
I think I may even like to live there someday.”
 
At the time, those trips had seemed breathtaking and exotic, but now they seemed . . . embarrassingly inadequate.

Nemo raised his eyebrows and said nothing for a moment, though his smile spoke volumes.
 
“Perhaps I can give you ideas and background for more stories, Jules.
 
I’ve done quite a lot in the past few years.”

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For the next several days, as the
Nautilus
cruised the Atlantic, Nemo talked to his friend about being held captive by Caliph Robur.
 
He described the debacle of the gigantic Moon cannon and how it had tumbled into the deep sea.
 
Then he explained how he and his men had designed and built the sub-marine boat, which Verne could now see with his own eyes.