In his rough and salty accent, Ned Land had claimed he could bring down seagulls with his rifle when they were only black specks in the sky. Verne didn’t ask why Ned would want to shoot at seagulls, but he and Nemo expressed appropriate appreciation for the man’s marksmanship.
In addition to his duties as quartermaster, Ned also served as the boatswain, sailing master, and Captain Grant’s first lieutenant. The big Canadian had a blustery good humor and the uncomfortable habit of clapping both Nemo and Verne on the back hard enough to make them think one of the cargo chests had dropped on them.
“Hark, Jules! Boy, yer wanted up to the bridge,” Ned bellowed. “Come too, André Nemo.”
Puzzled, Verne hoped the captain meant to let them watch as the local pilot guided the Coralie out of the harbor and into the open Atlantic. They scrambled up the ladders into the last rays of the sunset. The anchors had been drawn up, but the ropes were still tied to the quay and the gangplank remained in place. A few seamen stood by the sail ropes and looked oddly at the two, but Verne didn’t pause. He and Nemo trotted up the wooden stairs to the quarterdeck and the captain’s cabin.
Inside, Captain Grant sat in the large chair, staring across his tiny bureau at Pierre Verne. Seeing his father, Verne’s heart turned to stone and sank to his stomach. Nemo stopped beside him at the doorway, but didn’t say a word.
Pierre Verne gazed at his son, and his peppery sideburns bristled. Verne could read behind the man’s gray eyes that a terrible storm brewed inside.
Captain Grant looked at Jules with a sad smile and pulled out the single sheet of paper both recruits had signed. “It is my sad duty to rescind your contract, sir.” With a flourish, he tore the paper in half. “In normal times, ’twould not be this easy for a cabin boy to get out of his term of service, but your father and I have reached an agreement.”
He offered the scraps of the contract to the redhead, but Pierre Verne snatched them away and stuffed them into the pocket of his jacket. Tears of shame filled Verne’s eyes, and he looked over at Nemo. “You’ll have to go alone after all. But I would have come this time. I really meant to.”
“I know, Jules,” Nemo said.
“We will go home now,” Pierre Verne said, his voice as gritty and cold as the last block of ice stored in sawdust after winter. “Your mother is waiting.”
Verne turned to Nemo, remembering the possessions beside his assigned hammock belowdecks. “Keep my books, André. Think of me when you read them. And the journal—write what happens, so that when we see each other again I can read everything you did, since I can’t be there with you.”
“I’ll write everything down,” Nemo said. “I promise.”
Pierre Verne placed a strong hand like a vise on his son’s shoulder, but Verne broke away and embraced his friend. “I’ll see you in two years, three at the most.”
In truth, it would be a great many more years before they set eyes on each other again. . . .
XIV
When Jules Verne returned home to his concerned siblings and a tearful mother, Pierre Verne gave him the worst caning in his life. He was exiled to his room and locked inside, as if he might attempt to escape.
For three days Jules received only bread and water. Worse, his father did not even lecture him. The silence was far harder to endure. The young man had no opportunity to explain himself, could not say what he was feeling. No one gave him a chance.
At times he sensed his mother outside the closed door, but she refused to comfort him. Then the stairs would creak softly as she went back down to the lower levels of the house. Instead, he sat alone staring at Caroline’s colorful green hair ribbon tied around his wrist.
After an interminable time, his father opened the door and stood there, looking deathly solemn. He stared at his son while Verne sat on his bed in terror, still bruised and aching from the whipping he’d endured days before.
“I want your vow, your solemn vow, and then I’ll let you out of this room,” M. Verne said.
Verne swallowed hard, but he could endure his imprisonment no longer. He knew what the older man was asking of him.
As if he were ripping his own soul out of his chest and handing it to his father, Jules Verne said, “From now on, I promise to travel only in my imagination.”
PART II
C APTAIN G RANT
I
Brig Coralie
October, 1841
The winch creaked as sailors raised a dripping net out of the water. A hoarse-voiced man chanted a work tune, and Ned Land stood on the quarterdeck, directing operations with his brawny arms. With a shout, the men released the catch and the bulging net spilled open. Strange fish rained flopping onto the deck.
“ ’Tis a big haul, aye!” Ned bellowed. “These waters be filled with fish.”
With long-practiced ease, a barefoot Nemo ran forward with the other crew members to grab the slippery prizes. His hands and clothes already smelled like old fish and fresh tar. After more than a year aboard the brig, he knew every knot in every rope, every splinter on the topdeck boards.
Like the rest of the crew, he wore a checked shirt and a black-varnished tarpaulin hat, even in the heat. Duck trousers fit snug around the hips and loose about the feet in wide bell-bottoms that could be rolled up in a flash. Seasoned sailors walked the deck with their hands half-open and fingers curled, ready to grasp a rope in an instant at a rigger’s barked command.
The cook already had his pots and barrels ready for the fresh haul of fish, while Captain Grant—not afraid to get dirty and slimy—stood in the midst of the mess and calling for Nemo to grab any unusual fish to be preserved in his alcohol bottles.
The English captain, a naturalist and explorer, kept a library of specimens in his cabin and maintained careful records in a massive scientific logbook. He had taken the young man under his wing, instructing Nemo in mathematics and the English language, as well as the nautical arts and sciences. On calm evenings, Nemo helped the captain sketch some of the stranger species they had caught. Drawing reminded him of Caroline Aronnax and her artistic aspirations, and he toyed with the now-frayed hair ribbon on his wrist, thinking thoughts of Ile Feydeau and Jules Verne. . . .
After Captain Grant made his selections from the wriggling catch, the cook grabbed what he wanted for the stewpot, and the remaining fish were dumped back overboard. Then, under the beating sun, Nemo and his crewmates set to work swabbing the deck, cleaning fish guts and scales from the boards. He looked toward the horizon to see a haze hinting at the southwestern coast of Africa.
Fourteen months at sea had made his olive skin brown and his muscles as strong as capstan knots. For Nemo, this ship already felt like home.
When the Coralie had first set sail, every seaman seemed to know what to do—except Nemo. Unintelligible orders were barked and followed without question. Nemo tried to help, but found himself more often in the way. He did his best to stand clear as the sailors intuitively worked the ropes and sails.
“I warrant there’s no more helpless and pitiable an object as a landsman beginning a sailor’s life,” Captain Grant had said from the quarterdeck, his voice warm and understanding. “Don’t fret, lad—within a month, ye’ll be scurrying about to follow the same orders without a second thought. Best enjoy these first days on deck, because there’ll be little enough time for sentiment once we get under way.”
Indeed, it hadn’t taken long for the change to occur in Nemo. As the ship voyaged southward, the salty breezes and sun-glared blue expanse began calling to him like a mermaid’s song. During the day, trade winds stretched the sails taut and made the rigging hum. The layers of canvas lapped each other in patterns assigned by the captain, pulling the three-masted brig along as if by the finger of God.
In the lower decks, bunks and hammocks were shared between the port and starboard watches. Open hatches let in sunshine and fresh air; lanterns hung from the rafters, providing the only light when the hatches were sealed against stormy weather.
&nb
sp; Each man had his kit of meager possessions and changes of clothes that would last him for two years on board the Coralie. When not on watch, the crew slept and lived amongst the coils of rigging rope, spare sails, and patch cloth. Belowdecks on quiet evenings, older seamen told stories, topping each tale with another. The thick air was redolent of old sweat and old fish. Nemo swung in his hammock and listened to their lore with a contented smile.
The deck fittings were painted light gray to be visible on moonless nights; the deck houses were white and stood out smartly against a rich oiled deck. And on the night watch, a blizzard of stars in the dark sky shone down like nothing Nemo had ever seen from Nantes. . . .
The Coralie had gone south along the coast of France and around the Iberian Peninsula, with a four-day stop in Lisbon, where Captain Grant had once spent several years learning his trade from a Portuguese mentor. The Portuguese were themselves great explorers of the oceans, and revered their long-ago monarch, Prince Henry the Navigator, as if he were a patron saint.
Lisbon was a city that looked like a staircase. The streets and whitewashed buildings stumbled down from the surrounding summer-brown hills. The crowded houses stood in successive layers, their narrow windows bedecked with flowerboxes. Level after level led down to the Tagus River, which spilled into a calm, sheltered harbor at its mouth. The air was heavy with screaming gulls and the moist, salty scent of the sea.
After Portugal, they continued south to Casablanca in Morocco. The Coralie sat at anchor across from Gibraltar where the sea turned a jewel blue against the curve of sandy shore. Five times each day, the muezzins stood atop the elegant spires of minarets, calling out to summon the faithful into mosques for prayer. Their warbling voices sang out across the crowded and haphazard streets, echoing along the walls of white-limed houses.
After putting ashore again on the Canary Islands, they cut across the hot and moist doldrums of the Tropic of Cancer, then rounded the western elbow of Africa, Cape Bojador, which was once thought to be the end of the world.
Standing on deck, Nemo saw bleak deserts that poked into the ocean, turning the water a dirty brown with suspended sand. The Coralie sailed past barren cliffs of naked sandstone, where the burning sun baked the rock so that not even a weed could grow in the crannies.
Captain Grant guided them south along the Gold Coast, the Ivory Coast, the Ebony Coast, until they reached the wide mouth of the Congo River. They stopped at a Belgian outpost, trading a few items from the hold to stock up on fresh fruit and meat.
When they reached the Cape of Good Hope, the Coralie lay at anchor while Nemo rode with Ned Land in a skiff dispatched to negotiate docking privileges at Capetown. All travelers were welcome, and any nonhostile ship received permission to drop anchor in the harbor.
The Dutch had established Capetown Colony, raising vegetables to sell to passing ships that rounded the southern tip of Africa en route to the Orient. In the past decade, the town had spread from the beach up the surrounding hills. Now Capetown had three hospitals, a military parade ground, and six chapels and churches serving various faiths.
More than a century before, the Swedish naturalist Carl Peter Thunberg had filled volumes with specimens obtained from South African shores. Thunberg had tramped across the wilds, heedless of predators, collecting samples from unexplored cliffsides and rugged valleys. He wore out three pairs of shoes in a single expedition.
“ ’Tis sad so little remains in all the world to discover, lad,” Captain Grant said, looking at the horizon. “But whatever remains, we shall find it.”
Now, as the skiff from the Coralie approached the Capetown shore, Ned Land stood at the prow. The big Upper Canadian pointed with a callused hand. “Look there, scamp—that be Table Mountain, and there be the Lion’s Head.” He winked at Nemo. “If ye want more civilized sights, in town ye’ll see elegant houses, the likes o’ which ye’d find in London, Glasgow, or Paris.”
The quartermaster was eager to be ashore, because once on dry land he could smoke tobacco again. On board the ship, smoking was forbidden because of the fire danger; instead, the sailors had to chew plugs of tobacco and spit brown streams over the sides. Ned pulled his clay pipe from a shirt pocket, holding it with anticipation. Maybe, Nemo thought, the Canadian could also get a new striped shirt. . . .
The Coralie remained at the Cape of Good Hope for a fortnight while her crew cleaned hull and hold, refitted and restocked. Nemo composed and sent long letters to Caroline Aronnax. He still remembered the way her hair shone in the sun, the scent of her perfume, the feel of her parting embrace . . . all as if it were yesterday. He hummed the melody of some of her illicit musical compositions.
Nemo also tore out the pages of his journal describing the voyage thus far and posted them back to Jules Verne, so that his friend could read a detailed account of more than a year aboard ship. Though he wished Verne had been able to accompany him, Nemo had no regrets.
Captain Grant did not approve of his crew’s wild impulses in the city known as the “Tavern of the Seas,” but he preferred them to let off steam under the watchful eyes of Capetown’s magistrates, rather than on his ship.
When they returned aboard for the last time, exhausted and penniless, the Coralie ’s crew was ready to set off for the Indian Ocean. . . .
II
“Time for your Sunday lessons, lad,” Captain Grant said, interrupting Nemo from another afternoon of swabbing the sun-washed deck. Naturally, the young man didn’t complain.
At sea, the ship was its own country. On board, the captain became peacemaker and disciplinarian, judge and jury, physician, expert seaman, businessman, and any other role he chose. For an eager pupil like Nemo, Captain Grant had become a teacher as well.
Inside his spacious, specimen-crowded quarters, the captain hauled out his favorite volumes—the notebooks of Leonardo da Vinci, filled with drawings and musings and ideas. “Leonardo lived three and a half centuries ago, yet verily his inventions remain marvelous today.” Captain Grant stared at the pages with wistful eyes. “I purchased these copies in Milan—crude reproductions of the originals, but the magic remains.”
With a long finger, he pointed to sketches of contraptions that looked impossible, yet intriguing. “Leonardo lived in troubled times, lad, when Italian city-states waged war against each other. Because he believed knowledge must be based on observation, he drew studies of anatomy, plants, architecture. He developed theories of mechanics and mathematics, and applied them to engineering.”
Nemo could not decipher the writing on the pages in front of him. “I don’t speak Italian, sir.” He had been learning passable English aboard the ship, but had not yet managed any other languages.
Captain Grant chuckled. “ ’Twould be of no help to you, lad. Leonardo was left-handed, so he taught himself to write backward. One must hold the letters in a reflecting glass to understand.” He turned a ragged page. “Feast your eyes on the drawings alone and allow your imagination to translate.”
An architectural plan of a cathedral, the cross section of a human skull, designs for strange weapons . . . Nemo pored over plans showing a gigantic crossbow, a chariot with revolving scythe-blades to mow down infantrymen like weeds, and a four-wheeled car armored with wooden planking. The brilliant inventor had also drawn designs for flying craft, huge mechanical flapping wings, a flying screw, and a broad kite large enough to let a man soar on the winds like a falcon.
Most intriguing to Nemo, though, was a small boat designed to travel underwater, keeping a man safe and protected. “Are these ideas possible, sir? Or just fanciful visions from an impractical man?”
Captain Grant looked at the cabin boy, bemused, then closed the book. He replaced it in a revered place on his shelf. “Anything is possible, lad—given enough imagination, some engineering knowledge, and a lot of persistence.”
III
In the shark-infested Indian Ocean, the ship traveled around Madagascar off the eastern coast of Africa. They put ashore several parties to co
llect colorful specimens of lepidoptera (which Nemo learned was a Latin name for butterflies).
Under Captain Grant’s guidance, the Coralie sailed northeastward to the southern tip of India and the island of Ceylon, where they took on a load of black tea, saffron, and cardamom, which they hoped would remain fresh until the ship returned to the trading ports of Europe.
At dawn after a long night watch, Ned Land stood beside a bleary-eyed Nemo. They watched a purplish-maroon sunrise brighten into a wash of scarlet before full daylight. The muscular quartermaster turned to the cabin boy. “Red sky at morning, sailor take warning. Aye. Know that much, don’t ye, scamp?”
“I’ve heard the saying, but I don’t know the truth of it.”
“Means a bad storm is coming.” Ned sniffed the wind. “Mark my words.” The sailors on deck flashed knowing looks, and within half an hour, Captain Grant ordered the sails to be trimmed.
By afternoon Nemo found himself scaling the tarred ratlines with bare feet and callused hands to reach the topgallant sail on the foremast and yank ropes to furl it against a devastating wind. The ropes were slippery, and the squall-drenched cotton canvas sails were heavy as wet clay.
In a team effort, the sailors worked the deck ends of the lift lines while Nemo and the younger crewmen stepped into footropes, clinging onto the horizontal yardarms high above the deck and the roiling sea. The ship lurched like a wild horse—and the sway was much more pronounced high on the masts. But Nemo had no fear of falling, no loss of balance. He felt like a sailor, at home even on the frothing seas.
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