Captain Nemo

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “I cannot argue with you that crossing darkest Africa is an amazing idea, André. I expected nothing less of your imagination . . . but still, I remain skeptical. Are you certain it’s safe?”

  He looked at Verne, his dark eyes flashing, an impish grin on his face. The expression reminded him of the times they had fashioned schemes down on the docks or pored through geography books, trying to outdo each other with tales of exotic lands. “My friend, can you truly be concerned for my safety, after all I have already survived?”

  Verne gave a snort and turned away to scrutinize a rather dark and unimaginative still life of fruit and feathers. “Why should I be concerned about that? For a man who has walked underwater, sailed halfway round the world, fought off pirates, survived on a desert island, and explored the uncharted bowels of the Earth—why, a simple trip in a balloon is bound to be downright dull.”

  Then Verne drew a deep breath, trying to explain. “André, when I finish at the Academy, I am doomed to life as a small-town lawyer, forced to follow in my father’s tedious footsteps. But you already have a useful, interesting job—an engineer who has captured the interest of Baron Haussmann and even the Emperor himself. Why would you throw all that away?”

  Nemo stared at the stoic expression of Bonaparte in an enormous painting that depicted the battle of Borodinó. “Haussmann has asked me to redesign the Paris sewers, Jules. Surely there will still be work remaining for me when I return from Africa.”

  They walked along in silence, then paused in front of a painting of an old fisherwoman holding a basket of herring. Nemo had a distant expression on his face, and he responded in a quiet voice that told how well he knew Verne. “Or are you more concerned about Caroline, Jules? Concerned because she’ll be with me?”

  He clutched his friend’s forearm and stared at him. Always before the mutual attraction between Nemo and Caroline had sparked a bit of envy from Verne, but now Nemo was going away with her on a long and dangerous voyage across Africa. Verne’s flushed cheeks and awkward silence told Nemo everything that his friend would not say aloud. “Jules, she is still a married woman. I won’t forget that. Dr. Fergusson will chaperone us at all times. On my honor, I will see to it that no harm befalls her.”

  The best Verne could manage was a faint smile. “She could ask for no better protector.” The alabaster statues in the center of the wide hall seemed to look at him skeptically. He didn’t dare say anything more.

  He began to walk again, the tip of his umbrella clicking on the polished floor. In a side gallery a worker with a mop did his best to be unobtrusive as he wiped away wet footprints. “If you must know,” Verne said, looking straight ahead in search of another work of art worthy of his attention, “I envy you for actually having the fabulous adventures we talked about as boys. You are seeing the world, experiencing the wonders that I can only imagine. I . . . I have never even set foot outside of France.”

  Nemo brightened. “Does this mean you’d like to accompany us, Jules?”

  Verne looked both intimidated, but tempted. Finally, he bit his lower lip and shook his head. “I have my studies here in Paris, and my friends, and—” He sighed. “I’m afraid that would be impossible, André.”

  Nemo patted him on the back. “Never fear, Jules. I promise to tell you all about our excursion when we return. It will make a grand story.”

  After months of preparations, Fergusson’s equipment was carefully loaded aboard a British naval vessel tied up in the London estuary. The ship was bound for a trip around Africa, around the Cape of Good Hope and back up to Zanzibar on the east coast of the mysterious continent.

  Jules Verne did not manage to attend the launch of the ship, though. In his heart, he had wanted to be there to bid Nemo and Caroline farewell, but he could not summon the nerve to cross the choppy waters to England. Despite all the adventures in his imagination, he had never been outside of France. One day, he wanted to see the whole world. But not today.

  V

  With full sails flapping in a brisk breeze, the British navy ship set off en route to India. Nemo stood in the open air, grasping one of the thick tie-ropes as he watched the African coastline roll by. He had a strange, empty feeling in his chest, remembering the fateful time he had made a similar voyage as a cabin boy with Captain Grant and Ned Land.

  The British vessel journeyed southward, following the Coralie ’s path around the Cape of Good Hope. This time, of course, Nemo was a passenger, not a crewman. And this voyage had one other tremendous advantage: He would spend a great deal of the time with Caroline.

  In England, after the Royal Geographical Society had balked at funding the risky and unproven expedition—leaving Caroline Aronnax to finance the balloon, supplies, and equipment herself—Dr. Fergusson missed no opportunity to point out to the press that a mere woman (and a French woman, at that!) had been willing to invest more in the furtherance of human knowledge than either the Royal Geographical Society or indeed the entire British government.

  Thus shamed, the President of the Society used his political influence to arrange for their passage aboard a British naval vessel around Africa and up the eastern coast to the British protectorate of Zanzibar. Still skeptical, the Society President said that they were willing to take this risk, even with Dr. Fergusson’s unproven designs, even despite his previous disastrous failures. The explorer himself dismissed any doubts.

  The ship’s hold contained the ingenious double balloon, along with the weapons, foodstuffs, and clothing they would need for the journey across the continent. Nemo had spent a month supervising the construction of the lighter-than-air vessel. With staunch British pride, Fergusson had insisted on naming it the Victoria after the Queen of England, and Nemo did not argue. After all, he thought, the Emperor of France had assigned him to rebuild Parisian sewers. . . .

  Nemo and Caroline walked the deck together in a fine afternoon breeze. Without speaking of their feelings, they had settled into a calm facade of friendship. “We must adjust to life’s expectations,” he said quietly to her, “regardless of our missed opportunities.”

  But just beneath the surface their thoughts burned hot, building an unrequited tension between them. Though he loved her even more now than during the hot-blooded days of his youth, Nemo refused to extend it beyond the bounds of propriety, and Caroline was comfortable with that.

  Aboard the ship, Caroline wore full skirts and appropriate “women’s clothing” as a minor concession to social expectations. After the three of them boarded the balloon, though, she intended to wear trousers and serviceable clothes. Caroline expected to work just as hard as the two men, and Nemo knew better than to argue with her. After all, the scandal about her activities couldn’t get much worse.

  Since she had done so well running her father’s shipping company, that gossip had no teeth. She had increased her family’s wealth through a shrewd but unorthodox decision to refit merchant ships to carry more passengers instead of cargo. With the frenzied news of the California Gold Rush in 1849, hundreds of fortune seekers were willing to exchange their life’s savings for the fastest possible ship to San Francisco. Caroline had realized a higher profit in hauling people than she could ever have made by trading goods.

  Before departing for Africa, she had left explicit instructions with the higher-level employees at Aronnax, Merchant—and paid a significant retainer to her feisty Parisian lawyer—to ensure that the business continued smoothly during her absence. She expected to be gone as long as a year, given the lengthy sea voyage around Africa and back.

  Now, as they stood together in the open sunshine, Caroline withdrew a wooden flute from her small traveling bag. “The pianoforte was too large to bring aboard, but I could not bear to be away from my music for so long.”

  Nemo knew that her exuberant compositions had begun to draw attention back in Ile Feydeau. During a dinner party, Caroline’s mother had a pianist play one of the works found in her old room, and some local musicians had begun to suspect that the “myst
ery composer” might actually be living somewhere in Nantes. Caroline had considered the Africa trip an excellent excuse to remove herself from France for a while.

  Now, with the wind thumping the sails above and the foaming waves applauding against the hull, Caroline toyed with melodies on her flute, letting her eyes fall closed as the music grew more complex, flowing out of her.

  Nemo leaned against the railing, smiling with contentment. The sailors paused in their chores to listen. Dr. Fergusson came up on deck, then clapped his hands when she was finished. Surprised, Caroline looked at her unexpected audience. Nemo complimented her with his warm expression instead of words. Fergusson nodded his vigorous appreciation. “That was lovely, Madame.”

  “I call it—” she caught herself. “It’s called ‘Siren Song.’ ”

  “Written by the French composer Passepartout, of course,” Nemo added.

  “Ah, yes. I’ve heard of the man,” Fergusson said, wearing a serious expression.

  Later that afternoon, Caroline looked out at the sea, listening to the hum of rigging ropes overhead. She drew a deep breath of salt air, then turned to Nemo. “I’ve always heard the call of the sea, André, but now I understand it better.” She gripped the deck rail and faced the ocean-filled horizon. “There’s so much more to the world than . . . Nantes.”

  “And I’ll show some of it to you.”

  She strolled with him down the deck toward a patch of shade under the mizzen mast. “You must understand, André, that my options have been limited by the noose of social expectations. Even as a young man, you could do as you pleased and sign aboard a sailing ship. But I am a young woman. I had no such choices available. The only goal expected of me was to get married and stay at home. My parents even chose my husband for me. I have to pretend not to be the composer of the music I play in my own house.”

  Now her cornflower blue eyes flashed with anger. “But I want to do things, too! I want to accomplish whatever I can dream, just as you have. I want to be the first woman to cross Africa. That is an admirable goal, is it not?”

  Nemo laughed. He looked at her beautiful face, saw the determination there. “Most certainly.”

  The ship put in at Zanzibar, a large island off the eastern shore of Africa south of the equator. The island was a staging point, a kingdom ruled by Sultan Seyyid Said, who had consolidated an empire spanning Oman and Zanzibar and Tanzania. More than a decade ago, the old but powerful man had been forced to request English assistance to keep his kingdom.

  Zanzibar was now a British protectorate, with a large fort and barracks in the middle of the island’s main city. Britain’s stated purpose was to put an end to the heinous practice of human slavery (of which Zanzibar was a willing participant), but years had passed, and the slave trade from Zanzibar to the West Indies and the Americas had not declined.

  As the ship tied up at the dock in mid-afternoon, Dr. Fergusson came to greet Nemo and Caroline. He wore formal evening clothes, a stovepipe hat, and black coat, the very picture of a dapper Englishman. “Allow me to escort you into the town, my friends,” he said, smoothing down his big mustache. “We are the representatives of science and exploration, eh? English and French in a spirit of cooperation to unlock the secrets of darkest Africa. Indeed, we must do our utmost to impress the natives.”

  In the port they passed swarms of people. Some wore British military uniforms and looked altogether too hot and sweaty in the equatorial climate; lighter-skinned Arabs wore voluminous pale clothes, and narrow eyes highlighted their lean appearance. Still others were dark-skinned African natives from the interior of the unexplored continent.

  In the marketplace, Caroline stood beside Nemo, looking with anger and disgust at the groaning prisoners in chains. Zanzibar brought in great wealth through selling tons of cloves and clove oil, coffee, and coconuts—but slaves remained the most lucrative commodity. These captives had been taken from their villages during raids and shipped here to one of the world’s largest slave markets, where they would be sold to Portuguese or Dutch traders.

  Dr. Fergusson and his companions were treated to a sumptuous but strained dinner with the British consul and plump old Sultan Said. The sultan seemed unable to comprehend why Caroline, a woman, would sit at table with the important men. But Caroline remained calm and self-assured without provoking the curious and skeptical locals.

  Later, Fergusson supervised the unloading of his expedition supplies. He shouted at the porters carrying crates from the hold of the naval ship. “Those are delicate scientific instruments, eh!” He insisted on unloading his own firearms and ammunition. The doctor intended to shoot a great many specimens for study.

  Nemo worked to set up the balloon with several of the ship’s crewmen he had befriended during the voyage. With the basket tied down, he operated the recondensing apparatus that released stored hydrogen gas into the inner and outer balloons. As the enormous Victoria inflated, crowds came from all over the island to stare at the strange colorful sight.

  The Victoria was an elongated oval fifty feet wide and seventy-five feet high, with seams sealed by gutta percha, which enclosed a smaller balloon of the same shape. Blue, red, and green silk made the balloon look like a dragon floating in the skies. A mesh of hemp cords held the balloon in place, connected to the large open car, which would be their home for the next five weeks. The car was made of iron-reinforced wicker, with a network of springs to absorb the shock of any collision.

  Caroline, under escort by two British officers, procured food and water supplies to supplement their dried provisions. In the Zanzibar market she purchased bags of coffee, fruit, and millet flour.

  By the time the sun set across the misty line of the African continent to the west, their preparations had been completed. Nemo, Caroline, and Dr. Fergusson ate a large meal and rested thoroughly.

  At dawn the next morning, a British honor guard saluted the brave explorers. Resplendent in billowing clothes, Sultan Said arrived in a fine carriage. He waited while his personal slaves set up a pavilion near the balloon’s anchorage point so he could sip his cardamom-and-coffee while watching the event.

  Ignoring the growing crowd of spectators, Fergusson rechecked his stowed supplies and announced, “At last, we are ready to depart, my friends.”

  Nemo held out his hand to help Caroline into the balloon. They stood inside the swaying basket while Fergusson sprang aboard with a light step. He waved at the cheering crowd below.

  At the military fort, three cannons were fired in a thunderous salute. The British governor stood outside the sultan’s pavilion, formally at attention. He did not wave as all of the other people did.

  At a signal from Dr. Fergusson and another from Nemo, the workers pulled and strained at the ropes. Their muscles rippled beneath dark skin as they hauled the impatient balloon closer to the ground. Then they slipped off the anchoring ropes.

  The Victoria leaped into the sky. Nemo’s stomach lurched as the ground plummeted away from them, and Caroline peered over the side of the car at the receding crowd. Finally, as the British consul diminished against the landscape below, the stiff man deigned to wave them farewell. . . .

  The morning air was clear and still, but as they reached sufficient altitude, the breezes grasped them and nudged the balloon westward toward the mainland. For a long time, Nemo could hear the Zanzibaris celebrating below.

  Soon they left the island behind, drifting across the straits that separated Zanzibar from the coast. The Victoria set off across the huge unexplored continent of Africa.

  PART VI

  F IVE W EEKS

  IN A B ALLOON

  I

  African Continent, 1853

  Upon reaching the mainland, the balloon drifted over low country covered with tall grasses and rich vegetation. They observed tall forests, trees studded with flowers or fruits, others covered with thorns. Dr. Fergusson’s hazel eyes drank in the scenery with boundless enthusiasm, taking copious notes for his expedition records.

 
Nemo shared the spyglass with Caroline as they looked down upon the unfolding landscape. She studied the maps and charts purchased from Zanzibar merchants, but it didn’t take long to discover inconsistencies and gross errors. She diligently corrected each one, using the evidence of her own eyes.

  Fergusson leaned over the balloon’s basket, pursing his lips so that his mustache bunched up like a hissing black cat. “Far south of here, Dr. David Livingstone took his wife and four children deep inland. Amazing that a man—and an Englishman, yet—would even attempt to bring his family, eh?”

  “Some might call it foolhardy,” Caroline said, appalled at Livingstone’s callousness. “What about the safety of his wife, his children?”

  “He was a missionary, ” Fergusson said, as if that explained everything. “They took a wagon across the Kalahari Desert, without water and without food. I should say it’s amazing they survived at all, eh?” The explorer patted the basket. “Indeed, my friends, this is the correct way to travel across hostile territory.”

  The Victoria continued at a gentle but respectable speed, and many miles passed beneath them. All that first day, the expedition seemed like a charming country outing. As they ate fresh supplies, Nemo imagined himself on a pleasurable picnic with Caroline, rather than venturing into unexplored and unfriendly wilderness.

  At nightfall, Nemo operated the balloon’s gaseous recondensing apparatus, cooling the enclosed hydrogen and decreasing their buoyancy so that the Victoria descended with effortless grace. They could have continued to float through the hours of darkness, but then Dr. Fergusson would not have been able to see the landscape or take notes. Nemo tossed down one of their iron anchors, and the grappling hooks snagged in the tall trees. Thus, tethered to the ground yet still aloft in safety, they spent their first night with the evening breezes swaying the basket like an infant’s cradle. . . .