by Jules Verne
I gaped at the bizarre individual who had just spoken these words. Was he playing on my credulity? Time would tell.
Chapter Fourteen
The Black Current
The Pacific Ocean extends north to south between the two polar circles and east to west between America and Asia over an expanse of 145 degrees of longitude. It’s the most tranquil of the seas, its currents are wide and slow-moving, its tides moderate, its rainfall abundant.
And this was the ocean that I was first destined to cross under these strangest of auspices.
“If you don’t mind, Professor,” Captain Nemo told me, “we’ll determine our exact position and fix the starting point of our voyage. It’s fifteen minutes before noon. I’m going to rise to the surface of the water.”
The captain pressed an electric bell three times. The pumps began to expel water from the ballast tanks, on the pressure gauge, a needle marked the decreasing pressures that indicated the Nautilus’s upward progress, then the needle stopped.
“Here we are,” the captain said.
I made my way to the central companionway, which led to the platform. I climbed its metal steps, passed through the open hatches, and arrived topside on the Nautilus.
The platform emerged only eighty centimetres above the waves. The Nautilus’s bow and stern boasted that spindle-shaped outline that had caused the ship to be compared appropriately to a long cigar. I noted the slight overlap of its sheet-iron plates, which resembled the scales covering the bodies of our big land reptiles. So I had a perfectly natural explanation for why, despite the best spyglasses, this boat had always been mistaken for a marine animal.
Near the middle of the platform, the skiff was half set in the ship’s hull, making a slight bulge. Fore and aft stood two cupolas of moderate height, their sides slanting and partly inset with heavy biconvex glass, one reserved for the helmsman steering the Nautilus, the other for the brilliance of the powerful electric beacon lighting his way.
The sea was magnificent, the skies clear. This long aquatic vehicle could barely feel the broad undulations of the ocean. A mild breeze out of the east rippled the surface of the water. Free of all mist, the horizon was ideal for taking sights.
There was nothing to be seen. Not a reef, not an islet. No more Abraham Lincoln. A deserted immenseness.
Raising his sextant, Captain Nemo took the altitude of the sun, which would give him his latitude. He waited for a few minutes until the orb touched the rim of the horizon. While he was taking his sights, he didn’t move a muscle, and the instrument couldn’t have been steadier in hands made out of marble.
“Noon,” he said. “Professor, whenever you’re ready…”
I took one last look at the sea, a little yellowish near the landing places of Japan, and I went below again to the main lounge.
There the captain fixed his position and used a chronometer to calculate his longitude, which he double-checked against his previous observations of hour angles. Then he told me,
“Professor Aronnax, we’re in longitude 137 degrees 15’ west—”
“West of which meridian?” I asked quickly, hoping the captain’s reply might give me a clue to his nationality.
“Sir,” he answered me, “I have chronometers variously set to the meridians of Paris, Greenwich, and Washington, D.C. But in your honour, I’ll use the one for Paris.”
This reply told me nothing. I bowed, and the commander went on, “We’re in longitude 137 degrees 15’ west of the meridian of Paris, and latitude 30 degrees 7’ north—in other words, about three-hundred miles from the shores of Japan. At noon on this day of November 8, we hereby begin our voyage of exploration under the waters.”
“May God be with us,” I replied.
“And now, Professor,” the captain added, “I’ll leave you to your intellectual pursuits.
I’ve set our course east-northeast at a depth of fifty metres. Here are some large-scale charts on which you’ll be able to follow that course. The lounge is at your disposal, and with your permission, I’ll take my leave.”
Captain Nemo bowed. I was left to myself, lost in my thoughts. They all centred on the Nautilus’s commander. Would I ever learn the nationality of this eccentric man who had boasted of having none? His sworn hate for humanity, a hate that perhaps was bent on some dreadful revenge—what had provoked it? Was he one of those unappreciated scholars, one of those geniuses ‘embittered by the world’, as Conseil expressed it, a latter-day Galileo, or maybe one of those men of science, like America’s Commander Maury, whose careers were ruined by political revolutions? I couldn’t say yet. As for me, whom fate had just brought aboard his vessel, whose life he had held in the balance, he had received me coolly but hospitably. Only, he never took the hand I extended to him. He never extended his own.
For an entire hour I was deep in these musings, trying to probe this mystery that fascinated me so. Then my eyes focused on a huge world map displayed on the table, and I put my finger on the very spot where our just-determined longitude and latitude intersected.
Like the continents, the sea has its rivers. These are exclusive currents that can be identified by their temperature and colour, the most remarkable being the one called the Gulf Stream. Science has defined the global paths of five chief currents, one in the north Atlantic, a second in the south Atlantic, a third in the north Pacific, a fourth in the south Pacific, and a fifth in the southern Indian Ocean. Also it’s likely that a sixth current used to exist in the northern Indian Ocean, when the Caspian and Aral Seas joined up with certain large Asian lakes to form a single uniform expanse of water.
It was this current the Nautilus was about to cross. I watched it on the map with my eyes, I saw it lose itself in the immenseness of the Pacific, and I felt myself swept along with it, when Ned Land and Conseil appeared in the lounge doorway.
My two gallant companions stood petrified at the sight of the wonders on display.
“Where are we?” the Canadian exclaimed. “In the Quebec Museum?”
“Begging master’s pardon,” Conseil answered, “but this seems more like the Sommerard artifacts exhibition.”
“My friends,” I replied, signalling them to enter, “you’re in neither Canada nor France, but securely aboard the Nautilus, fifty metres below sea level.”
“If master says so, then so be it,” Conseil answered. “But in all honesty, this lounge is enough to astonish even someone Flemish like myself.”
“Indulge your astonishment, my friend, and have a look, because there’s plenty of work here for a classifier of your talents.”
Conseil needed no encouraging. Bending over the glass cases, the gallant lad was already muttering choice words from the naturalist’s vocabulary, class Gastropoda, family Buccinoidea, genus Cowry, species Cypraea madagascariensis, etc.
Meanwhile Ned Land, less dedicated to conchology, questioned me about my interview with Captain Nemo. Had I discovered who he was, where he came from, where he was heading, how deep he was taking us? In short, a thousand questions I had no time to answer.
I told him everything I knew—or, rather, everything I didn’t know—and I asked him what he had seen or heard on his part.
“Haven’t seen or heard a thing,” the Canadian replied. “I haven’t even spotted the crew of this boat. By any chance, could they be electric too?”
“Electric?”
“Oh ye gods, I’m half tempted to believe it. But back to you, Professor Aronnax,” Ned Land said, still hanging on to his ideas. “Can’t you tell me how many men are on board? Ten, twenty, fifty, a hundred?”
“I’m unable to answer you, Mr Land. And trust me on this, for the time being, get rid of these notions of taking over the Nautilus or escaping from it. This boat is a masterpiece of modern technology, and I’d be sorry to have missed it. Many people would welcome the circumstances that have been handed us, just to walk in the midst of these wonders. So keep calm, and let’s see what’s happening around us.”
“See?” the harpooner excl
aimed. “There’s nothing to see, nothing we’ll ever see from this sheet-iron prison. We’re simply running around blindfolded—”
Ned Land was just pronouncing these last words when we were suddenly plunged into darkness, utter darkness. The ceiling lights went out so quickly, my eyes literally ached, just as if we had experienced the opposite sensation of going from the deepest gloom to the brightest sunlight.
Ned grabbed me, pulling me close as if he would protect me from some unknown enemy. We stood stock-still, not knowing what surprise was waiting for us, whether pleasant or unpleasant. But a sliding sound became audible. You could tell that some panels were shifting over the Nautilus’s sides.
“It’s the beginning of the end,” Ned Land said.
“…order Hydromedusa,” Conseil muttered.
Suddenly, through two oblong openings, daylight appeared on both sides of the lounge. The liquid masses came into view, brightly lit by the ship’s electric outpourings. We were separated from the sea by two panes of glass. Initially I shuddered at the thought that these fragile partitions could break, but strong copper bands secured them, giving them nearly infinite resistance.
The sea was clearly visible for a one-mile radius around the Nautilus. What a sight.
What pen could describe it? Who could portray the effects of this light through these translucent sheets of water, the subtlety of its progressive shadings into the ocean’s upper and lower strata?
The transparency of salt water has long been recognised. Its clarity is believed to exceed that of spring water. The mineral and organic substances it holds in suspension actually increase its translucency. In certain parts of the Caribbean Sea, you can see the sandy bottom with startling distinctness as deep as one-hundred and forty-five metres down, and the penetrating power of the sun’s rays seems to give out only at a depth of three-hundred metres. But in this fluid setting travelled by the Nautilus, our electric glow was being generated in the very heart of the waves. It was no longer illuminated water, it was liquid light.
If we accept the hypotheses of the microbiologist Ehrenberg—who believes that these underwater depths are lit up by phosphorescent organisms—nature has certainly saved one of her most prodigious sights for residents of the sea, and I could judge for myself from the thousandfold play of the light. On both sides I had windows opening over these unexplored depths. The darkness in the lounge enhanced the brightness outside, and we stared as if this clear glass were the window of an immense aquarium.
The Nautilus seemed to be standing still. This was due to the lack of landmarks. But streaks of water, parted by the ship’s spur, sometimes threaded before our eyes with extraordinary speed.
In wonderment, we leaned on our elbows before these show windows, and our stunned silence remained unbroken until Conseil said, “You wanted to see something, Ned my friend, well, now you have something to see.”
“How unusual,” the Canadian put in, setting aside his tantrums and getaway schemes while submitting to this irresistible allure. “A man would go an even greater distance just to stare at such a sight.”
Our wonderment stayed at an all-time fever pitch for the better part of two hours. Our exclamations were endless. Ned identified the fish, Conseil classified them, and as for me, I was in ecstasy over the verve of their movements and the beauty of their forms. Never before had I been given the chance to glimpse these animals alive and at large in their native element.
Given such a complete collection from the seas of Japan and China, I won’t mention every variety that passed before our dazzled eyes. More numerous than birds in the air, these fish raced right up to us, no doubt attracted by the brilliant glow of our electric beacon.
Suddenly daylight appeared in the lounge. The sheet-iron panels slid shut. The magical vision disappeared. But for a good while I kept dreaming away, until the moment my eyes focused on the instruments hanging on the wall. The compass still showed our heading as east-northeast, the pressure gauge indicated a pressure of five atmospheres—corresponding to a depth of fifty metres—and the electric log gave our speed as fifteen miles per hour.
I waited for Captain Nemo. But he didn’t appear. The clock marked the hour of five.
Deprived of our previous entertainment, Conseil returned to studying the various specimens on display about the chamber. Ned approached me from behind, encircling my waist with one of his strong arms. I leant back against him, and he put his lips teased my ear.
“I finally have a bed big enough to accommodate us,” he whispered, “but Conseil sleeps in the very same room.”
I smiled and tilted my head back to look at him. “This time, it’s my cabin that will afford us a bit of privacy.”
He moaned, nipping at my neck with his teeth. I felt his manhood growing stiff against my backside. His voice in my ear was deep and husky. “I foresee one aspect of this imprisonment which may be to my liking.”
“Not tonight, Ned,” I cautioned.
He groaned. “You will make me wait even longer?”
“Not because I want to, but we don’t know yet how such activities may be received if they’re discovered.”
He didn’t answer, but I knew he was weighing the possibilities. I continued, “On board the Abraham Lincoln, such things would have been overlooked, but we may have no such luxury here.”
“Ever the rational one, aren’t you, Professor?”
“Do you disagree?”
“No,” he said. “You’re right to be cautious. As much as I want you, I suspect we’d both regret being hung tomorrow morning for buggery.”
He kissed the side of my head and let me go. It was more painful than I might have imagined.
Ned Land and Conseil returned to their cabin. As for me, I repaired to my stateroom.
There I found dinner ready for me. It consisted of turtle soup made from the daintiest hawksbill, a red mullet with white, slightly flaky flesh, whose liver, when separately prepared, makes delicious eating, plus loin of imperial angelfish, whose flavour struck me as even better than salmon.
I spent the evening in reading and writing although in truth, I could concentrate on none of it. I could not keep my mind from straying to Ned. The eelgrass mattress in my chamber was large, as soft and wonderful as any terrestrial bed I’d slept in. I imagined being face down upon it, with Ned’s significant weight upon my back. The thought of it made me ache. It occupied me until drowsiness overtook me, and I fell into a deep slumber, while the Nautilus glided through the swiftly flowing Black Current.
Chapter Fifteen
An Invitation in Writing
The next day, November 9, I woke up only after a long, twelve-hour slumber comprised of many erotic dreams in which Ned Land played a significant role. Conseil, a creature of habit, came to ask “how master’s night went,” and to offer his services. He had left our Canadian friend sleeping like a man who had never done anything else.
I let the gallant lad babble as he pleased, without giving him much in the way of a reply. I was preoccupied by thoughts of Ned and concerned about Captain Nemo’s absence during our session the previous afternoon. I hoped to see him again today.
Soon I had put on my clothes, which were woven from strands of seashell tissue. More than once their composition provoked comments from Conseil. I informed him that they were made from the smooth, silken filaments with which the fan mussel, a type of seashell quite abundant along Mediterranean beaches, attaches itself to rocks. In olden times, fine fabrics, stockings, and gloves were made from such filaments, because they were both very soft and very warm. So the Nautilus’s crew could dress themselves at little cost, without needing a thing from cotton growers, sheep, or silkworms on shore.
As soon as I was dressed, I made my way to the main lounge. It was deserted.
I dove into studying the conchological treasures amassed inside the glass cases. I also investigated the huge plant albums that were filled with the rarest marine herbs, which, although they were pressed and dried, still kept the
ir wonderful colours. Among these valuable water plants, I noted various seaweed, some Cladostephus verticillatus, peacock’s tails, fig-leafed caulerpa, grain-bearing beauty bushes, delicate rosetangle tinted scarlet, sea colander arranged into fan shapes, mermaid’s cups that looked like the caps of squat mushrooms and for years had been classified among the zoophytes—in short, a complete series of algae.
The entire day passed without my being honoured by a visit from Captain Nemo. The panels in the lounge didn’t open. Perhaps they didn’t want us to get tired of these beautiful things.
The Nautilus kept to an east-northeasterly heading, a speed of twelve miles per hour, and a depth between fifty and sixty metres.
Next day, November 10, the same neglect, the same solitude. I didn’t see a soul from the crew. Ned and Conseil spent the better part of the day with me. They were astonished at the captain’s inexplicable absence. Was this eccentric man ill? Did he want to change his plans concerning us?
But after all, as Conseil noted, we enjoyed complete freedom, we were daintily and abundantly fed. Our host had kept to the terms of his agreement. We couldn’t complain, and moreover the very uniqueness of our situation had such generous rewards in store for us, we had no grounds for criticism. Not only that, but Ned Land and I found reason to smile. He and Conseil, whose cabin was in close proximity with those of the rest of the crew, assured me that although they had seen nothing, they had heard plenty in the dark hours of the night to assure them that the young men aboard our vessel were regularly engaging in sexual activity together. Just as aboard the Abraham Lincoln, and indeed, as aboard any ship I’d ever encountered, when men were confined for long lengths of time without access to the company of women, they were not long in finding their pleasure amongst themselves.
“You can hold me at bay no longer,” Ned whispered into my ear.
I shivered in anticipation, for indeed, I had no desire to tell him no.
The rest of the day dragged on. With so many wonders to be seen, I should have been well occupied, but I couldn’t concentrate on anything. I could think only of what was to come.
