The dark-garbed men closed the gap, still howling. As they shot their long rifles, bullets grazed the grasses near him. A lucky shot could kill him or the zebra. The slavers’ shouts came across the still air, but Nemo paid them no attention. He drew closer and closer to the balloon.
The rope ladder dangled almost within reach. He would have only one chance, and he stretched out his hand to take it.
In that same moment, a gust of cruel wind jerked the balloon higher, and the bottom rung of the ladder rose out of reach. Above in the basket, Caroline leaned over the edge, her face filled with anxiety. She stretched out her arms, as if to grasp him. With a pang, he remembered how stricken she had looked when he’d jumped out of the balloon into Lake Tchad—and he vowed not to disappoint her again.
As the zebra charged under the balloon, Nemo used the last of his strength and balance to rise up on the animal’s back. He barely managed to plant his feet on the black-and-white striped hide. Snorting, the zebra wheeled, and Nemo knew he was about to fall—but at the last instant, he grasped the lowest rung of the ladder. Relieved of its burden, the zebra galloped away into the veldt.
Caroline shouted and Nemo locked his other hand on the second rung, trying to haul himself up. His arms shook, yet somehow he had to find the strength.
The slavers rode beneath the dangling young man, furious, but he spat down at them. Dr. Fergusson and Caroline began heaving out bags of ballast, and the balloon began to climb and climb.
A heavy sack struck a slaver’s horse and it reared, throwing its rider.
Fergusson fired his rifle, killing one of the pursuers, while the others milled about. The slavers finally began to shoot their inferior rifles up at the rising balloon, and Nemo knew the Victoria and her passengers were still in grave danger. If the evil men were to strike the hydrogen sack, the punctures would destroy their remaining balloon.
He scrambled up the swaying ladder, as Caroline threw out more ballast. The slavers circled and howled in outrage. A sack struck the tall, surly leader on the shoulders, driving him to the ground. The balloon climbed higher. The slavers wheeled about and began shooting up at the Victoria, even though it had drifted high enough and far enough to be out of range.
Breathless with happiness, Caroline said, “I didn’t think you’d been gone long enough to get into this much trouble, André.”
“I used my time wisely.”
Using every last ounce of energy, Nemo heaved himself upward one rung at a time, until Caroline and a grinning Dr. Fergusson could grasp his arms and shoulders. They grabbed the back of his shirt and hauled him over the edge of the basket.
Nemo fell into Caroline’s arms.
X
The balloon climbed until it reached a river of air that drove them northwest across a line of hills. While Caroline cleaned his minor injuries, Nemo devoured part of one of the ducks Fergusson had shot the day before.
Caroline used a few drops of their remaining water and a piece of cloth to wipe the sweat and grime from Nemo’s forehead. The dampness felt cool; her touch was gentle, and lingered. Her bright blue eyes looked down at him with a depth of emotion that made him feel weak. Something had changed in her heart during his absence. Though unspoken, another pledge passed between Nemo and Caroline: Soon, their time would come.
Listening to Nemo’s tale, Fergusson leaned back against the wicker basket, scratching his extravagant mustache. With his logbook open on his lap, he used one of Caroline’s lead sketching pencils to record the young man’s story. “When we publish the record of our journey, this will make a fine addition, eh? Great excitement accompanied by numerous scientific observations. Perhaps even a biting commentary on the vile practice of slavery. Such a combination will greatly increase our book’s readership, my friends.”
Until this point, Nemo hadn’t thought of publishing an account of their travels, except perhaps in the Proceedings of the Royal Geographical Society. Caroline had already suffered a scandal in France because of her independent ways and unorthodox ideas. The very thought of a woman participating in such an expedition across Africa—most especially in the company of a young man to whom she was not married (never mind Dr. Fergusson’s constant presence)—would set the high-society tongues wagging again.
Dr. Fergusson was utterly baffled that they would want to keep their real names out of the official report, but after they both insisted, he finally agreed.
For days they drifted northwestward, and the landscape became more desolate. The jungle vegetation gave way to scrub brush and leafless bushes. “We’re approaching the edge of the Sahara,” Caroline said, pointing to their charts with anything but enthusiasm. “Look.”
Their water supplies were low, and they no longer had the recondenser apparatus to raise and lower themselves, leaving the Victoria at the mercy of the winds. They had to make the best possible speed, hoping their diminishing gas would keep them aloft for the thousand miles remaining to the coast.
Soon, the terrain changed from golden scrub to dark rocks and the taupe of unrelenting sand. Ahead, the dunes of the Sahara sprawled like an ocean whose sinuous hills and crests reflected the harsh sun.
Faint caravan paths led from Tangier or Fez across the Atlas Mountains, or from Tripoli across Sudan and the breadth of the desert. As they drifted over the dune sea, they saw no signs of life, no water, none of the wild herds they had observed on the Serengeti. Only the balloon itself gave them any shade in the cloudless sky. The shimmering sands created thermal updrafts that made the Victoria bounce and buck.
In the distance they could see a few rare, dark smudges that indicated oases. Nemo kept his eye on these patches for hours before he came to the grim conclusion that the balloon was no longer moving. Fergusson tested the stagnant wind with his scientific apparatus. His black mustache drooped as he scowled. “Indeed, it appears the wind has failed us. We seem to be at a standstill in the middle of the desert. Rotten luck.”
Caroline saw the implications. “We must conserve our water and our food.”
“The outlook does not appear good, my friends,” Fergusson said at the end of a long afternoon. Caroline frowned at him for stating the obvious.
“The heat will expand our balloon,” Nemo pointed out. “The extra buoyancy should keep us aloft longer.”
But in the dead calm of the Sahara, they still made no progress whatsoever.
Then, after interminable hours of sunburn and sweat and parched throats, Caroline sniffed the air and held up her hand. “There is a breeze. We’re moving again.”
Fergusson grasped one of the support ropes and looked around. Nemo stared at the dunes below and saw that they had indeed begun to crawl along. “Now we are moving due northward.”
Behind them, a hazy shimmer appeared in the air, moving across the desert. Caroline perked up. “If that is rain, can we refill our water tanks?”
Sickened, Nemo took out the spyglass. “Not rain, Caroline—that’s a sandstorm.”
The pillar of gusting winds picked up fine dust from the desert, leaving heavier sand grains at ground level. They had little enough time to fasten down loose objects. Thinking fast, Caroline gathered cloth for makeshift hoods to pull over their heads, mouths, and noses, leaving only a slit for their eyes.
The three huddled in the basket as the murky wind slammed the balloon off on a careening course. Choking grit coated them all with a layer of chalky, tan residue. The wind howled and shrieked, buffeting them back and forth. Caroline and Nemo clung to each other.
Fergusson said something unintelligible, then spat grit from his mouth and rubbed his dirty sleeve across his teeth, looking annoyed. The wind carried so many particles that it made a hissing sound. Static electricity created blue fingers of St. Elmo’s fire that skittered up and down the netting.
The storm drove them along for many miles. When the whipping gale cleared and dust settled out of the air, the newly washed landscape of gentle sandy slopes appeared unchanged. Nemo scanned the dunes with the spyglass,
while Fergusson and Caroline used rags to clear clinging dirt from the basket.
“Battered, but still intact, eh?” Fergusson said, optimistic. “If that storm cooperated, it could have taken us halfway to the coast by now.”
They each took a ration of food and water, and drifted for another day on a brisk westward breeze. Like a miracle, the terrain changed again. The vagaries of weather had nudged them beyond the southern fringe of the Sahara, and even the scrub brush looked like a comparative paradise.
But Nemo realized to his dismay that their altitude was decreasing. He didn’t voice his suspicions until he had stared at the balloon, watching the patterns of dust that clung to the silk. “The sandstorm weakened our seams. We’re losing hydrogen faster than I had expected.”
“We still have two hundred pounds of ballast to toss out, don’t we?” Fergusson said. “Even though we have you aboard, my friend, we decreased our weight by six hundred pounds by removing the outer balloon.”
Fergusson bent to pick up one of the heavy sacks at the bottom of the basket, but Nemo stopped him. “No. If we’re going to descend anyway, let’s take advantage of it. We can anchor for a while and replenish our supplies.” By now, the near-empty water container held only a few cups of tepid liquid.
When they drifted close enough to the ground, they would tether the Victoria long enough to take on supplies; then they would get rid of ballast and hope to stay aloft all the way to the Senegal coast. From there, outposts of Portuguese, Dutch, British, or French would be within reach, even if the three explorers had to trudge overland and ask the locals for help. Coastal Africans were familiar enough with white traders and explorers that Fergusson expected to receive assistance without much risk.
Still, this was all completely unfamiliar territory.
XI
Ahead, a black and brown buzzing cloud shifted with the winds, and then came straight for the balloon as if it were an intelligent, destructive storm. Fergusson stared perplexed at the oncoming apparition, trying to figure out what to write in his logbook.
But Nemo understood what it was. “It’s a plague of locusts! They’ll eat everything.” In the distance, they could all see that the grasslands had been completely razed.
Helpless and adrift, the travelers had no way to defend themselves as the locusts attacked like a hurricane. A hail of winged grasshoppers pelted them, striking the basket, the ropes, and the balloon fabric itself. The insects chewed every scrap of vegetable matter. Nemo tried to keep Caroline covered at the bottom of the balloon car, but she insisted on fighting back and climbed up to swat the locusts off the basket and her clothing.
Coughing, Nemo slapped the insects away from his face and knocked them from the vital ropes. The voracious grasshoppers chewed at the cords and netting, clustering on anything they could devour. The sheer weight of the winged vermin made the balloon droop.
Fergusson hauled out his rifle, as if that might do anything, and then set to work crushing the insects himself with the wooden stock. Nemo, his hands smeared with ichor from hundreds of smashed locusts, crawled up the rope to reach the outer netting. He clambered around the cords, brushing grasshoppers off into the air, but they merely circled back.
The buzzing sound was deafening. Caroline shouted to Nemo, but he couldn’t understand her words. He watched her climb the opposite side of the balloon, working desperately, and then he saw what she had realized. If they didn’t keep the insects away from the surrounding mesh, the balloon and the ropes would all fall apart, and they would plummet to their deaths.
Fergusson stamped on the locusts chewing the Victoria ’s basket. The humming made the air itself vibrate, as the swirling cloud of grasshoppers kept coming and coming. Nemo reached the top of the balloon and nearly lost his grip as a frayed strand of netting snapped.
“It’s like one of the plagues of Moses.” Caroline spat out a grasshopper that had flown into her mouth. Surprisingly agile, she climbed around the balloon, keeping the ropes clear, while Fergusson hurled curses at the grasshoppers.
Then, a few moments later the lush grasslands to the east proved a more tempting feast to the locusts. As the mindless swarm flew onward, some alighted, gnawed a mouthful of the basket frame or rope fibers, then moved on. They watched in awe as the buzzing cloud continued like a school of tiny piranhas to clear vegetation across the African countryside.
Nemo and Caroline at last lowered themselves into the Victoria ’s basket, then spent several minutes picking grasshoppers from each other’s hair and collars, pockets, and folds. At any other time, they might have found it amusing.
In the aftermath of the swarm, the balloon looked ragged and tattered, as if the whole vessel had been chewed by some giant beast and then spat out. The ropes were frayed, the colorful fabric of the inner balloon stained and spattered. Numerous tiny holes showed through the woven basket.
Luckily, according to Caroline’s chart marks and Nemo’s positional measurements, the Victoria had finally entered the environs of Senegal and Gambia, and they should be within a day of the west African coast.
This news cheered the travelers somewhat, but still the leaking balloon sank with discernible speed. After replenishing their supplies beyond Timbuctoo, they had discarded the last of their ballast. And now they needed to lighten their load more dramatically just to keep moving.
But the Victoria still had to pass over one more mountain range before they reached the coast. Unless Nemo could find some way to improve their buoyancy, the balloon would crash into the slopes.
XII
Covered with dense jungles, the line of low mountains loomed larger and more ominous by the hour. Beyond the hills, according to their maps, lay a river and lowlands that extended to the long-sought coast.
Then they would be across the continent, after five weeks in a balloon.
The sagging Victoria traveled in a weaving drunkard’s course on the erratic winds. When they dropped to within a hundred feet of the treetops, they were close enough to see terrified animals even without their wellused spyglass.
Near the base of the rugged foothills, the balloon passed over a streamside village, where they observed a huge commotion. At first, Nemo thought the frenzied activity must have been caused by the natives’ superstitious fear of their arrival, but then he noticed men tossing torches from one straw roof to another. The thatched huts went up in flames.
Tall villagers with glossy skin brandished spears defensively at men in billowing black robes riding muscular chestnut horses. The raiders carried swords and a few guns.
With a stricken expression, Caroline raised the spyglass and handed it to Nemo. Now he could make out the slaughtered forms of village defenders lying on the bloodied ground while the mounted raiders charged about rounding up women and children. Nemo’s shoulders sagged, and he felt sick with disgust and rekindled anger at seeing the atrocity of the slavers.
One lean woman, her face a mask of despair, thrashed loose from her captors and dashed toward a burning hut. Her bare breasts were swollen, and Nemo suspected she was a new mother. Before she could reach the hut, which no doubt contained her child, one of the slavers galloped by and struck her down with his long sword. Wheeling his horse about, the black-robed raider charged through the cluster of captives, as if he wanted to kill even more of them. Intimidated and outnumbered, the villagers let themselves be rounded up.
Silent and slow, the balloon drifted over the massacre, low enough that they could hear screams of anguish from the captured and dying. Sour smoke snaked around them as the flames devoured the remains of the village.
“I will not just sit idly by and allow this to happen,” Nemo said. “We must disrupt the slavers however we can.”
Wearing a grim expression, Caroline grabbed one of Fergusson’s rifles herself while the doctor picked up the other. She looked at the Englishman, studied his huge black mustache and bushy dark hair. “This time we are not taking specimens, Doctor, and I am not just drawing sketches.”
She fired the rifle at a raider and missed, but killed the horse beneath him. Fergusson aimed carefully and shot, knocking down a broad-shouldered man with a pointed beard. The other black-robed horsemen reined up and shook their fists at the balloon.
Several native women broke free of the circle and ran toward the tree-covered foothills. After Nemo reloaded Caroline’s rifle, he killed another of the dark-clad slavers, but the surge of satisfaction did little to dampen his anger. Soon, however, the balloon had passed over the scene of the massacre and continued to drift west toward the mountains.
Enraged, the mounted raiders left the burning village with only two men to guard the captives. They rode over the terrain in pursuit of the sinking balloon. The slavers had old-fashioned guns as well, and lead balls flew past the tattered Victoria; two struck the already-leaking silk bag. The balloon kept ahead of the raiders, though with the fresh bullet holes they lost altitude even faster now.
“We must hope the wind keeps up,” Nemo said, “and that the slavers follow until that village can rally its defenses.”
Below, the horsemen howled in a language Nemo could not understand—but their intent was clear enough. In the lead, the tallest slave raider whipped his chestnut horse and thundered into the hills. Gradually, the travelers increased their lead, but as the wind carried the sinking balloon toward the mountains, Nemo realized the Victoria would never maintain sufficient altitude to cross the range. He hoped the raiders gave up before the balloon slammed into the mountainside. Yet the furious black-robed men showed no intention of slackening their chase.
“It appears we have gotten into trouble again,” Caroline said, drawing a deep breath. “At least this time I have no regrets. We saved many people in that village.”
Captain Nemo Page 25
