After calling all hands, Captain Grant stood on the quarterdeck and let his men handle the situation. The first and second mates yelled orders, which were sometimes lost in the wind. Rather than riding atop the heavy swells, the brig’s sharp prow cut through them, which brought huge surges over the deck.
From his high vantage, Nemo looked overboard into the foaming waves—and wondered how quiet it must be just a fathom beneath the surface. He recalled da Vinci’s speculative drawings of the boat that could travel under the water, out of the reach of bad weather.
Then the storm took all his attention again. . . .
When the weather died down, the crew worked through the day to put the Coralie back in order. Exhausted and dripping, Nemo changed into his second set of dry clothes so he wouldn’t catch cold . . . or get waterspots on any of the scientist captain’s precious notebooks.
At the captain’s table they ate cold meat and boiled eggs. “I prefer my food solid and immobile,”’ Grant said as the ship continued to rock and sway. “ ’Tis not weather for soup, lad, not if ye want to keep any in your bowl.”
Nemo ate in silence, wrestling with the question in his mind. Finally, he asked, “The notebooks of da Vinci, the drawings you showed me. I keep thinking of that underwater vessel. Do you really think it could be built someday?”
The captain smiled at him, brushing down his trim mustache. During the voyage he had let his brown hair grow longer. “Aye, lad, I’ve heard of schemes to use sealed boats under water. In Year of Our Lord 1620, the court engineer for King James I—a man named Cornelius Drebbel—constructed a ‘sub-marine boat’ and demonstrated it in the Thames River. To maneuver he used oars sealed at the locks with leather gaskets. Alas, it did not prove practical.”
Nemo tried to picture the spectacle in his mind, with the English king and his court dressed in finery, waiting on stands at the river bank. The court engineer submerged his awkward boat by admitting water into the hull, and rose to the surface again by pumping it out, using a contraption like a blacksmith’s bellows.
“Then, lad, during the American rebellion in 1776, a Yankee named Bushnell built a sealed ship he called the Turtle, barely large enough to hold one occupant. ’Twas driven by two hand-cranked screw propellers, one for vertical movement, one to go forward. Sergeant Ezra Lee took the Turtle underwater toward the loyal British flagship Eagle anchored in New York harbor. He carried an explosive charge to attach to the hull plate. Fortunately for the British, he couldn’t maneuver at all, and got lost. He never did manage to sink our ship.”
Nemo peeled a cold egg. “So no one has made a functional sub-marine boat?”
Captain Grant dipped his knife into a small pot and smeared mustard onto a slice of gray-brown salt beef. “Robert Fulton, the American who invented the steamboat, came close to succeeding at the turn of this century. He journeyed to France in 1797 and your Napoleon Bonaparte granted him funding to build a functional vessel twenty-five feet long. ’Twas metal and streamlined like a fish, could hold three or four men in its belly, and used inclined diving planes to submerge. Compressed-air tanks augmented the oxygen supply. In theory, the vessel could stay underwater for six hours.”
“Six hours?” Nemo remembered his experiment with the bladder helmet and reed-breathing tubes in the Loire. “And did it work?”
“Aye, but Napoleon never saw any military potential in underwater ships. Fulton rallied no support from the British or American governments, either, so he abandoned his lovely sub-marine in 1806.”
Nemo, his imagination captivated now, met his mentor’s eyes. “Did Fulton’s sub-marine boat have a name?”
Grant rummaged through his notebooks, confident that he could lay his hands on any bit of information. “Aye, he christened it the Nautilus.”
IV
The Straits of Malacca, a narrow trench between the Malay Peninsula on the north and Sumatra on the south, were known to be haunted by seafaring bandits. As the Coralie navigated the narrows, Captain Grant maintained full crews at the cannon, powder magazines, and crow’s nests.
“We stop at Borneo, perhaps Java, then continue to the Philippines before we strike across the Pacific to the Sandwich Islands.” Grant indicated the specific islands on the large nautical chart mounted under glass in the navigation room. “I warrant we’ll see San Francisco before Christmas next.”
Days after the three-masted brig emerged into the island-cluttered waters of Indonesia, Nemo sat at the bow, cradling in his lap one of the books Verne had left for him, a worn copy of Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe. He and his friend had sat at the edge of the Loire, imagining what they might do if ever marooned on a deserted island.
Engrossed in the story, Nemo did not hear the captain’s footfalls above the groan of the rigging ropes and the whisper of tight sails. Captain Grant saw that his cabin boy was reading. “Young man, ’tis your turn at watch. Go climb the ratlines and spend your hours up in the crow’s nest.”
Sitting alone atop the mast for hour after hour, Nemo imagined himself in another world. Far below, the Coralie held the smells and stains from the long voyage, despite vigorous daily scrubbings. He’d grown accustomed to the crowded and unpleasant conditions, but he preferred to be up high, where the breezes danced around the topmost spire. Here, his thoughts could roam.
The rigging hummed, and the sails laughed with each gust. In the South China Sea, islands, reefs, and peninsulas dotted the charts in Captain Grant’s stateroom. At the moment, all Nemo could see was the hazy, curved plane of metal-blue water, a calm sea with just enough wind to keep the sails filled and the ship moving on course.
Sunlight glinted across the stippled waves, fragmenting and reflecting back at him, though he no longer felt the baking heat upon his bronzed skin. Nemo stared, looking for any interruption in the quiet sea that would indicate an island, an approaching storm, or another ship. The world was so vast, so full of possibilities. No birds were visible, which meant the ship must be far from land. He took a moment to retie the faded red hair ribbon Caroline had given him, which sparked a wash of memories of Nantes. With the chance Caroline had offered, the opportunity arranged through M. Aronnax, Nemo had indeed made something of himself.
In the crow’s nest he had carried the thick leather-bound journal Jules had given him. Now he wrote with a lead pencil, scratching out thoughts and recollections, adding details of the previous few days. Verne, who had been forbidden to take this journey himself, would want to know everything.
Nemo glanced up again and scanned the sea, startled to see a black speck on the horizon riding the wind toward the Coralie. He took out his spyglass and placed the warm brass eyepiece against his face. Through the lens he could make out a sailing ship, though he could determine no specifics. “Ship ahoy! East by northeast.”
The other sailors on the Coralie looked up at him, then out to sea. From his place at the wheel, the helmsman signaled that he had heard. Nemo glanced again at the distant craft, then returned to his writing.
Over the next hour or so, the other ship came closer while the Coralie tacked at an angle to the wind. The stranger—a large, sturdy sloop—chose a course bound to intercept them, moving with the breezes. As the distance between the two vessels closed, Nemo periodically checked with the spyglass.
Captain Grant’s sailors continued to adjust the rigging, pulling the Coralie ’s sails to snatch every breath of wind. Some gathered at the rail to look at the oncoming ship. It had been some time since the crew had encountered another vessel, but this was a high traffic sailing lane; finding another sail out in the South China Sea was not unusual.
Nemo could have finished his shift, scuttled down the shroud ropes, and asked to look at the Crusoe-inspiring books Captain Grant had promised him. But with another ship coming closer, he wanted to stay up in the crow’s nest where he could be the first to see.
Using the spyglass, he finally made out the flag atop the foremast of the sloop. “She’s British. Flying the Union Jack.”
> The other sailors milled about on deck, some shading their eyes and trying to see. The sloop picked up speed, coming closer. Nemo finished writing another page in the journal and stuffed the heavy book inside his shirt, tight against his chest.
Captain Grant stood on the raised quarterdeck, using his own spyglass to observe the approaching ship. The sloop clearly intended to rendezvous with the Coralie. The captain went into his cabin and emerged wearing a new jacket with bright brass buttons.
Nemo made out the details of the sloop, a black hull with a line of tan at the waterline, six gunports on a side, and a single tall mast with long booms that kept the gaff-rigged mainsail extended. Two squaresails had also been hoisted to give her greater speed to run before the wind. A well-dressed man stood at the tiller—a British captain?—and others strutted across the deck wearing finery. Some appeared to be ladies in colorful gowns made of oriental silk. They waved cordially.
Nemo knew a British ship wouldn’t be uncommon in the South China Sea. Perhaps it was an opium trader; more likely, this sloop carried a group of ambassadors or colonists out on a pleasure cruise among the islands.
Captain Grant signaled the sloop and called all hands on deck to prepare for a meeting at sea, where they could exchange news and mail. Nemo waited, breathless with anticipation, wondering what tidings the sloop might bring from the territories in Southeast Asia.
Unexpectedly, two of the women in bright dresses went to the mast and tugged ropes to draw down the Union Jack. Nemo squinted through the spyglass, trying to see what they meant to do. As the flag was lowered, two of the sailors on the Coralie ’s deck yelled a warning.
Another flag ran up the sloop’s main mast—a black banner sporting a crudely stitched skeleton and a bloody sword.
The sloop’s six gunports opened up, and the ominous snouts of cannons protruded. Nemo saw flashes of light and puffs of smoke as three cannons fired in successive, overloud drumbeats.
The pirates’ first cannonball ripped through the Coralie ’s mainsail, leaving a smoldering hole. The second ball crashed into the hull above the waterline, blasting one side of the upper cargo hold. “They’ve heated the balls red-hot!” a sailor shouted. The technique was devastating against wooden ships, easily starting the victim vessel on fire. Crews quickly filled buckets to extinguish any sparks.
The third cannonblast was the worst. Its load contained chains and mauls, rods of metal that spun like sawblades, tearing into the rigging, severing ropes. The sails flapped free. One of the ratlines dangled like an amputated arm. Fires began to burn on the Coralie ’s deck.
The men belowdecks started to scream and shout. When another cannon blast splintered the side of the mizzen mast, Nemo knew he had to get down from his vulnerable position. His heart pounded, and he thought quickly. Until now, the voyage had been marvelous and breathtaking. Now, though, he wondered about the difference between adventure and danger.
The sloop full of pirates came closer, narrowing the distance as the Coralie wallowed, unable to flee. The crew aboard shouted, preparing to fight for their lives. Nemo swallowed hard and went to join them.
Down below, Captain Grant’s weapons master managed to fire two of the starboard cannons, but the rapid approach of the pirate sloop made the range difficult to determine. The cannonballs sailed past their target, only one of them tearing a hole through the pirates’ triangular foresail.
Nemo used his spyglass again and saw the men aboard the sloop shedding their disguises of fine clothing, women’s dresses worn by younger pirates to lull the unsuspecting Coralie.
One of the raiders stood up, displaying gaudy clothes, a scarlet sash, and a striking black tricorne hat—obviously the captain. The pirate leader’s nose and ears had been sliced off, giving him a cadaverous appearance that made Nemo’s heart freeze. He had heard of pirate justice, how a man caught stealing or grabbing more than his share of booty would be thus disfigured with the grotesque markings of his crime. But this noseless captain had acquired a vessel and a crew of vicious cutthroats. He raised a long cutlass high in challenge.
Flushed and breathless, Nemo scrambled down from the crow’s nest, grabbing severed and swinging ropes, making his way from yardarm to ratline. His mind raced, trying to think of defenses the Coralie could mount against the pirates, but surely Captain Grant already had a plan.
He needed to descend to the deck, where he could join in the imminent fighting and do his part. He had an odd memory of play-acting late at night with Jules Verne and Caroline Aronnax, when he had pretended to be the brave hero fighting against a bloodthirsty pirate king. But somehow he doubted these real raiders would flee in panic as easily as Jules Verne had done. Nemo, however, would not fight with any less vigor, even though the danger was real.
Standing on the Coralie ’s deck, quartermaster Ned Land removed his long rifle and loaded it. His disheveled blond hair was damp with sweat. The blustery Canadian had bragged about his shooting accuracy, able to pick off seagulls when they were mere flyspecks in the sky. Now, his face red with anger but his expression cool and focused, Ned lay the weapon across the railing, took aim, and fired at the approaching ship.
Nemo saw one of the pirates stumble backward and fall dead to the deck.
With a howl of rage, the marauders tossed the body overboard. They began to fire their pistols at random, striking the Coralie with a barrage of unaimed bullets. But the pirates also had their own sharpshooters and a more vicious agenda. Captain Noseless barked an order, and several rifles fired from the deck of the sloop. They picked off the Coralie ’s helmsman and then two deckhands who were wrestling to bring the flapping sails under control.
Now the Coralie lay helpless and burning, unable to use her sails or her helm. Captain Grant shouted to rally his crew. Without waiting for the key, one of the older seamen scrambled down the deck ladders to break open the armory. The English sailors distributed swords and pistols and powder as they prepared to defend their ship. Below, the weaponsmaster recalculated his aim and fired another cannon blast. The shrieking ball struck the bow of the sloop and splintered the masthead.
Just as Nemo managed to land barefoot on the deck, the enemy sloop came alongside the Coralie. The marauders threw grappling hooks and boarding ladders across the gap between the ships. Nemo felt cold, numb but not fearless, and stood with his shipmates to face them, no matter what.
The pirates had painted their bodies with brilliant colors and coated their skin with thick grease to help deflect edged weapons during hand-to-hand combat. They scrambled aboard with knives in their teeth, boarding axes in their hands, and murder in their eyes. The shouts and smells were horrific: sweat, blood, gunpowder, and rancid grease.
His tattered striped shirt stained with soot, Ned Land continued to shoot his rifle. With every blast, another pirate fell, but the quartermaster had neither enough shot nor enough powder to save them all. Nemo both dreaded and anticipated when he could take part in the fighting.
Running to help the other grim sailors who were rattling their swords and tapping their pistols, Nemo took a firearm of his own, loaded it, then thrust a second one into his belt. He looked around for a sword and settled on a long knife, though he had no training with either. He would have to learn as soon as the fighting began. And Nemo had always been a good learner.
The pirates swarmed aboard like a plague of rats. Many had bandannas around their heads; some had lost fingers, hands, or feet—but none of those deficiencies slowed them down. Captain Grant’s men engaged them with a clang of steel and a blast of shot. Struck down, bodies squirmed and twisted, screaming in pain and in defiance.
Wounded men fell overboard. Crates and barrels began to spill into the water from a hole blasted in the Coralie ’s cargo deck. Adding to the chaos, a few chickens, pigs, and even a cow had gotten loose from their pens and now milled about belowdecks.
Feeling small, like a dust mote in a whirlwind, Nemo stood his ground as Captain Noseless strode aboard, sweeping his long cutlass
from side to side like a harvester cutting grain. Coralie sailors fell with their heads lopped off or a swordpoint thrust into their bowels.
Ned Land shot five more times, but at close quarters his rifle proved useless. He swore in French and English; the pirates were not bothered by either language.
Toward the rear of the ship, against the raised quarterdeck, Captain Grant held his own, using a sword with his right hand and firing a pistol with his left. Three dead pirates lay in front of him, their blood and entrails smearing the boards. The captain glanced over at Nemo, and the young man’s heart swelled. Their eyes met for an instant, then both went back to concentrating on the fight. Nemo’s knees were watery with terror, his stomach knotted . . . but a crimson fringe of anger flared around the edges of his vision. He had no qualms against killing these bestial men. He let out a loud yell, and it felt good.
Nemo fired his first pistol and wounded one of the pirates, a shaven-headed man with crooked yellow teeth. The bald pirate snarled at him, clutching his shoulder from which dark blood streamed. He strode forward, sword in hand, until another sailor chopped the wounded pirate in the back and sliced his legs out from under him. This was no duel with rules or honor. This was a fight for survival against ruthless pirates. His head buzzing, Nemo shouted in confused triumph and chose another pirate to attack.
Fires continued to lick along the deck, the rigging, and the sails. A few Coralie men threw buckets of seawater, trying to douse the flames around the swordplay. The pirates shot those men dead, and their dropped buckets of water mixed with the blood on the deck.
The disfigured pirate leader strolled through the melee and headed relentlessly toward Captain Grant.
Seeing the threat to his mentor, Nemo dodged sword thrusts, jabbed with his long knife, and tried to make his way to the quarterdeck. He had to defend Captain Grant. Reckless but outraged to see what the pirates were doing to his ship, his mates, Nemo charged forward, yelling—and suddenly found himself face-to-face with Captain Noseless. His bare feet skidded to a halt on the deck, but he meant to hurt this man.
Captain Nemo Page 8
