Captain Nemo: The Fantastic History of a Dark Genius (74 page)

Until the loud clang of the
Saint Michel
’s warning bell shattered the late afternoon silence.

One of the white-haired soldiers hollered from the bow, and Verne heard the thump of running feet on deck.
 
Someone retrieved the three flintlock weapons from the locker.
 
Ragged voices issued orders, while others countermanded them.
 

Verne groaned.
 
With a heavy sigh, he imagined it must be another false sighting.
 
He closed his notebook and left his cabin, striding up to the main deck just in time to see two old veterans fiddling with the tiny cannon.
 
They lit the fuse.
 
Verne raised his hand, demanding to know what they were doing, but it was too late.

The small gun fired its two-pound ball with a sound like a child’s oversized popgun.
 
The men cheered and raised their fists into the air, hurling obscenities and insults across the water.
 
They pointed and danced and waved their hands.

Then Verne looked into the gathering dusk to see a three-masted enemy warship approaching, its gunports open and full-sized cannons emerging.
 
Prussian navy men swarmed about like ants on the deck, preparing to capture or destroy the
Saint Michel
.

And his men had fired the tiny cannon in defiance.

“What have you done?” Verne gasped in horror.
 
“You fools!”

The Prussian warship launched a broadside at them.
 
All the cannons on its starboard hull blazed orange spitfire.
 
Though the range was still great, cannonballs rained like meteorites into the water between the two ships.
 
The warship adjusted her sails and bore down on Verne’s minuscule yacht.

“Turn us about, men,” he said.
 
“Turn us about!
 
Run for the shore.”

One of the wrinkled veterans pulled out his flintlock to fire a wild shot at the enemy, but others quickly realized the rashness of their action.
 
The small yacht turned toward the haven of the shore, which was merely a misty blur in the distance . . . much too far away.
 
Verne shouted orders, but these men were not sailors, and responded with less speed and efficiency than a captain would expect on a true war vessel.
 

“We are doomed,” Verne muttered.

As the
Saint Michel
began to flee, the Prussian warship closed the gap.
 
Within an hour, the enemy vessel had approached close enough that the Prussians let loose another volley of cannon fire.
 
The terrible balls struck closer, splashing all around the yacht.
 
Miraculously, they did no more damage than splintering one of the yacht’s top deck rails.
 

Next time, the cannonballs would probably sink them.

“We will have to surrender,” Verne said, groaning in despair.
 
“Raise our white flag.”

“But Captain Verne, we are defending the French coast!”

Verne’s voice cracked in abject panic.
 
“We can do nothing against that monstrous vessel.
 
Just look at all of her cannon!”

“Oh.”

Even as they hoisted the white rag, hoping for mercy from the enemy captain, the big warship turned about, bringing her port-side cannons to bear.
 

Verne stared, appalled.
 
There was nothing he could do, no means of escape.
 
Even if he should dive overboard, he could never swim all the way to shore in the cold winter ocean.
 

He was about to die.

Then, as he faced the oncoming battleship, he saw a golden glow in the sea behind the Prussian vessel -- the luminous yellow eyes of a deep-sea leviathan rising to the surface as it picked up speed.
 

Verne put a hand over his mouth and saw the great armored vessel breach the surface just enough so that its razor ridge of reinforced steel cut a vicious wake like a shark’s fin.
 
The
Nautilus.

The veterans onboard the
Saint Michel
were appalled.
 
“It’s a monster!”
 
At the bow, Verne gripped the side of his yacht close to the tiny cannon and shook his head, unable to believe his eyes.
 

The men aboard the Prussian battleship gave brusque orders to ready the cannon -- just as he heard the growl and hum of the sub-marine boat.
 
The armored vessel leaped forward at top ramming speed and crashed into the warship.
 
Too late, the Prussian cannons fired, intending to sink the
Saint Michel
.
 
But with their aim thrown off, the weapons blasted harmlessly into the sky.
 

Verne watched, stunned, as the
Nautilus
plowed through the lower hull of the Prussian vessel with a rending crunch.
 
The sailing ship canted to one side, taking in huge amounts of water.
 

Sparks from the cannon torches ignited black powder that had spilled onto the decks.
 
Enemy sailors ran about, trying to escape from the unexpected attack by the sub-marine vessel.
 
Then the warship exploded.

Verne’s heart pounded in his chest, and he found himself short of breath.
 
He couldn’t believe Nemo’s timely appearance.
 
“Old friend, you always did manage to defeat impossible odds.”

“We did it, Monsieur Captain Verne,” one of the old veterans said, grabbing his arm with joy.
 
“We have sunk that Prussian ship!”

Verne scowled at the ancient soldier.
 
The other eleven men jabbered amongst themselves, not sure what had just happened.
 
The dusk had deepened enough to make details in the water uncertain.

“What if the sea monster attacks us next?” another one said.

“It won’t,” Verne answered, leaning over the side of the boat and searching the waters.
 
“
He
won’t.”

As the Prussian vessel collapsed into a sinking mass of broken debris and flaming timbers, Verne wondered if he should take the
Saint Michel
over and rescue any survivors.
 
He had only a small yacht, a few weapons, and just twelve crewmen.
 
If he took aboard too many prisoners, they could easily overpower their captors -- and then what would he do?
 

Verne had no stomach for an actual fight.
 
He had never expected to be this close to the realities of war.
 
He scratched his beard, struggling to reach a decision.
 
The Prussian warship had meant to sink them without remorse, to kill him and his crew in cold blood, even after they had raised a white flag.
 
They could all swim to shore, for all he cared.

Another wake curled up beside the
Saint Michel
, and a great metal shape appeared beneath the water.
 
Demonic yellow eyes sent beams of light into the depths.
 
With a hiss and trickle of shed water, the armored craft rose next to the yacht.
 
The scrawny veterans scrambled to the opposite side of the boat, ready to jump into the cold Atlantic, if necessary.

The
Nautilus
floated like a dragon, water dripping off its hullplates.
 
While waiting for the upper hatch to open, Verne gripped the railing of his yacht, swung himself over, and dropped onto the outer deck of the sub-marine vessel.
 
The veterans gasped, marveling at their captain’s bravery, wondering if he meant to kill the monster.

Verne heard movement below, footsteps on the metal ladder.
 
The hatch opened to reveal an older-looking Nemo, his trim, dark beard etched with a few strands of gray.
 
Nemo raised a hand.
 
“Jules, I was surprised to find you out here.
 
Quite a good thing I chose a course along the coast.”

“I’m certainly glad you did,” Verne answered.
 
“Thank you, André.”

“I cannot stop a war, but I
can
come to the aid of a friend.”
 
Nemo gestured.
 
“Come aboard the
Nautilus
, for one last time.
 
We need to say our goodbyes, you and I.”

Without hesitation, Verne climbed down the metal rungs and once again entered the marvelous undersea boat.
 
The old veterans could handle the
Saint Michel
for a little while; in fact, they would need some time to recover from their astonishment and the unexpected victory over the Prussian warship.

Inside the vessel, Verne stood in a daze.
 
He recognized Cyrus Harding, the British second-in-command, and some of the other crewmen.
 
Embarrassed, he wondered if these people were aware of his novel
20,000 Leagues Under the Sea
, in which he had adapted their activities for the sake of his fiction.
 

His greatest surprise, though, was to see Caroline aboard the sub-marine with Nemo.
 
“Hello, Jules,” she said.
 
“I have missed you.”

He froze, speechless and confused.
 
By her expression, he knew that she had read his face, knew the pain in his heart.
 
Nemo had no doubt rescued her from the siege of Paris, and though he wanted to be thankful that Caroline was safe, Verne could not squelch his own feelings of jealousy.
 

Even since their younger days on Ile Feydeau, Caroline had always preferred Nemo, had always wanted to be with him.
 
She had waited for him when he was lost.
 
Because of Nemo, she had refused to remarry, even long after Captain Hatteras had vanished at sea.
 
Now, Verne’s two friends were finally together.
 
How could he not be happy for them?

“I’m glad that you are safe, Jules,” Caroline said.
 
“Paris is burning.
 
I was not sure if you had managed to get out before the Prussians came. . . .”
 
She shook her head.
 
“It is a terrible place these days.
 
I have lost everything: the merchant offices, my accounts, my papers.”

“You haven’t lost everything.”
 
Nemo touched her arm and looked toward Verne.
 
“We must bid you farewell, though -- this time we will not come back.
 
Have a glass of wine with us.
 
I’ll tell you what has happened since our last meeting . . . and then we must be on our way.
 
The rest of the world is yours, Jules Verne.
 
I want only my small, private part of it.”

#

In the gathering dark, the
Nautilus
floated motionless beside the
Saint Michel
.
 
After an awkward embrace, Nemo, Verne, and Caroline sat in the salon.
 
It was a bittersweet reunion for three friends who had known each other most of their lives.
 

Nemo explained about the death of his wife and son, about his declared vendetta against ships of war, and even about Phileas Fogg’s quest to travel around the world in eighty days.

“But we have had enough of such experiences with the cruelty of humans,” Nemo said.
 
He offered Verne one of his seaweed cigars.
 
“From this point on, I will not bother with civilization.
 
We will find a quiet place and make our own lives, live by our own rules.”
 
His heavy sigh spoke of a lifetime of struggles.
 
“I tried my best to make the world a better place.
 
But mankind does not wish to change.”

“Is this fair to her, my friend?”
 
Verne kept his eyes fixed on Nemo’s.
 
“Taking Caroline away from --”