by Jules Verne
‘As monsieur requires,’ replied Conseil calmly.
‘You know, my friend, it’s the monster . . . The famous narwhal . . . We’re going to rid the seas of it! . . . The author of the two-volume in-quarto Mysteries of the Ocean Deeps cannot refuse to sail with Captain Farragut. A mission full of glory, but also . . . dangerous. We don’t know where we’ll end up. Those creatures can be awfully flighty. But we’re going all the same! We have a captain who’s got guts!’
‘Wherever monsieur goes, so will I.’
‘Please do think it over. I don’t want to hide anything from you. It’s one of those journeys you don’t always come back from!’
‘As monsieur pleases.’
Quarter of an hour later, our trunks were ready. Conseil had packed them standing on his head, as it were. I could be sure that nothing was missing, for this fellow classified shirts and coats as proficiently as birds and mammals.
The hotel lift* dropped us at the mezzanine lounge. I went down a few steps to the ground floor. I settled my bill at the huge desk, always besieged by a large crowd. I left instructions for my packages of stuffed animals and dried plants to be shipped to Paris, France. Having opened a well-provisioned account for the babirusa, with Conseil following, I jumped into a cab.
The vehicle, at twenty francs a trip, went down Broadway as far as Union Square, followed Fourth Avenue until its junction with the Bowery, turned into Catherine Street, and stopped at Pier No. 34. There the Catherine Ferry took us, men, horses, and cab, to Brooklyn, New York’s great extension on the left bank of the East River. Minutes later we stood on the quayside where the Abraham Lincoln was spewing torrents of black smoke out of its twin funnels.
Our bags were immediately transported on to the frigate’s deck. I rushed on board and asked for Captain Farragut. One of the sailors took me to the poop deck, where I found myself in the presence of a handsome officer, who stretched out his hand.
‘Dr Pierre Aronnax?’
‘Himself. Captain Farragut?’
‘In person. Welcome aboard, Dr Aronnax. Your cabin is ready.’
I bowed and, leaving the captain to his work of getting under way, was shown to the designated cabin.
The Abraham Lincoln had been perfectly chosen and fitted out for its new task. It was a high-speed frigate, equipped with superheating apparatus allowing its steam pressure to attain seven atmospheres. At this pressure, the Abraham Lincoln typically reached 18.3 knots: a considerable speed but still insufficient to compete with the gigantic cetacean.
The accommodation of the frigate reflected its nautical function. I was very satisfied with my cabin, located at the stern and opening on to the officers’ wardroom.
‘We’ll be comfortable here,’ I said to Conseil.
‘With all due respect, monsieur, as comfortable as a hermit-crab in a whelk’s shell.’
I left Conseil to stow our trunks suitably, and went back up on deck to watch the preparations for weighing anchor.
Captain Farragut was just ordering the casting-off of the last ropes securing the Abraham Lincoln to the Brooklyn pier. A quarter of an hour’s delay, less even, and the frigate would have left without me; and I would have missed out on that extraordinary, supernatural, implausible expedition, whose recounting may indeed find a few disbelievers.
Captain Farragut did not wish to waste a day, nor even an hour, before heading for the seas where the animal had just been reported. He sent for his engineer.
‘Are we under pressure?’
‘Aye-aye, sir.’
‘Go ’head!’* cried Captain Farragut.
Hearing this order, transmitted to the machine-room by means of an air tube, the engineers activated the starting-up wheel. The steam hissed as it rushed through the half-open slide valves. The long horizontal pistons groaned and pushed the crank arms of the drive shaft. The propeller blades beat the waves with increasing speed as the Abraham Lincoln advanced majestically through a hundred ferry-boats and tenders1 filled with a retinue of spectators.
The wharves of Brooklyn and the part of New York lining the East River were covered with bystanders. Three successive hoorays resounded from half a million chests. Thousands of handkerchiefs continued waving above the dense mass cheering the Abraham Lincoln until it reached the waters of the Hudson, at the tip of the elongated peninsula that forms New York City.
Then the frigate followed the splendid right bank of the river, the New Jersey shore crowded with villas, and passed between the forts, which saluted it with their largest cannons. The Abraham Lincoln responded by lowering and raising the American flag three times, with the 39 stars* resplendent on the tip of the mizzenmast. Then, slowing down to take the buoys marking the channel which curves round the bay formed by Sandy Hook, it hugged the sandy shore, where thousands of spectators greeted it with more applause.
The escort of boats and tenders continued to follow the frigate, only leaving it when abeam of the lightship whose two beacons mark the entrance to New York Bay.
Three o’clock was striking. The pilot climbed down into his boat and boarded the small schooner waiting for him to leeward. The boilers were stoked up, the propeller beat the waves faster, and the frigate skirted the low, yellow coast of Long Island. At eight o’clock, having left the lights of Fire Island to the north-west, it was steaming at full speed over the dark waters of the Atlantic.
1 Small steam‑driven boats that serve the great steamships. [JV]
4
Ned Land
Captain Farragut was a fine sailor, and worthy of the frigate he commanded. He and his ship were one. He was its soul. He did not allow the slightest doubt about the cetacean to enter his mind, nor did he permit any discussion on board as to whether the animal existed. He believed in it as some good women believe in Leviathan,* through faith not reason. The monster existed; and he had taken an oath to rid the seas of it. He was like a Knight of Rhodes,* a Dieudonné of Gozo,* marching out to face the serpent laying waste to his island. Either Captain Farragut would kill the narwhal or the narwhal would kill Captain Farragut. There could be no middle course.
The officers shared the captain’s views. You could hear them chatter and debate and argue and calculate the chances of an encounter as they scanned the vast stretches of ocean. Quite a few of them voluntarily stood watch, clambering up to the fore-topmast crosstrees, when under other circumstances they would have cursed the duty as a terrible chore. Every moment the sun spent describing its daily arc, the rigging was full of people unable to remain in one place on deck, like cats on hot bricks. And yet the Abraham Lincoln’s stem had not even started cutting the suspicious waters of the Pacific.
As for the ship’s crew, they longed with all their hearts to meet the unicorn and so harpoon it, hoist it on board, and carve it up. They painstakingly scrutinized the sea. Captain Farragut had in fact promised $2,000 to the first person to spot the animal, whether cabin boy, able seaman, mate, or officer. So I leave to your imagination how much those on board the Abraham Lincoln used their eyes.
For my own part, I was as engrossed as the others, and would not have let anyone take my share of the daily watch. The frigate could have had a hundred reasons to be called the Argus.* The only exception was Conseil; he demonstrated indifference to the question absorbing us, thus constituting a slight ‘damper’ to the enthusiasm on board.
I previously mentioned that Captain Farragut had carefully armed his ship with everything needed to catch the enormous cetacean. A whaling ship could not have been better equipped. We possessed all known weapons, from the simple hand-harpoon, via a blunderbuss firing barbed arrows, to exploding bullets from a punt-gun. On the fo’c’sle stood the latest model of breech-loading cannon with a great thick barrel and narrow bore, identical to the one due to be exhibited at the 1867 Universal Exposition.* This valuable American-made weapon could send a 4-kilogram conical shot a mean distance of 16 kilometres with the greatest of ease.
Thus every means of destruction was at hand on the Abraham Lincoln. Bu
t there existed better than this. There was Ned Land,* the king of the harpooners.
Ned was a Canadian of almost unbelievable manual dexterity, unrivalled in his perilous profession. He possessed skill and composure, bravery and cunning to a remarkable degree, and it was an exceptionally devious whale or smart cachalot that could elude his harpoon.
Ned was about forty years old. He was burly, more than six feet tall, muscular, grave, silent, sometimes aggressive, and very bad-tempered when contradicted. He compelled attention through his appearance, especially the power of his gaze, which made his facial expression quite remarkable.
I believe that Captain Farragut had done well to engage this man. Because of his steadiness of eye and arm, he was worth the rest of the crew put together. I can only compare him to a powerful telescope combined with a cannon always ready to go off.
A Canadian is really a Frenchman, and however uncommunicative Ned Land seemed, I must admit that he developed a certain affection for me. My nationality attracted him no doubt. It was an opportunity for him to speak and for me to hear the old language of Rabelais,* still in use in some of the Canadian provinces. The harpooner’s family came from the town of Quebec, and had already become a tribe of robust fishermen when that town belonged to France.
Gradually Ned came to enjoy chatting: I liked listening to his tales of adventure on the Arctic seas. He showed much natural poetry of expression in recounting his fishing exploits and battles. His stories had an epic form, and I imagined I was listening to a Canadian Homer* reciting some Iliad of the polar regions.
I am in fact describing this hardy companion as I now know him. We became old friends, united by an unshakeable friendship that was initiated and sealed by the most terrible shared experiences. Oh good Ned, how I long to live another hundred years just to be able to remember you for longer!
So what was Land’s opinion concerning the marine monster? I must admit that he scarcely credited the unicorn theory, being the only man on board not to share the general conviction. He even avoided the subject when I tried to engage him on it.
On the lovely evening of 30 July, three weeks after our departure,* the frigate was about 30 miles to leeward of Cape Blanco on the coast of Patagonia. We had crossed the tropic of Capricorn, and the Strait of Magellan was scarcely 700 miles southwards. Within a week the Abraham Lincoln would be sailing over the waters of the Pacific.
Sitting on the poop deck, Ned and I were chatting about this and that while watching the mysterious ocean, whose depths are still hidden from human eyes.* I brought the conversation discreetly round to the subject of the giant unicorn, and explored the chances of success of our expedition. Then, noticing that Ned was letting me talk without saying a word, I pressed him more directly:
‘But how is it, Ned, that you are so unconvinced of the existence of the cetacean we are pursuing? Have you any particular reason for being so sceptical?’
The harpooner looked at me for a few seconds without replying, struck his forehead with a gesture he often used, closed his eyes as if to collect his thoughts, and at last said:
‘Perhaps I have, Dr Aronnax.’
‘But, Ned, a man like you, a professional whaler, familiar with the great marine animals, who must easily be able to accept the idea of enormous whales — under these circumstances you ought to be the last person to harbour any doubts!’
‘It’s just there that you’re wrong, monsieur. It’s one thing for common folk to choose to believe in incredible comets crossing space or prehistoric monsters living inside the earth; but neither the astronomer nor the geologist accept such fantasies.* The same goes for the whaler. I’ve hunted hundreds of whales, harpooned scores, killed quite a few; but however strong and well-armed they were, not one of their tails or tusks could have pierced the side of a metal steamship.’
‘But, Ned, there have been cases when a narwhal’s tooth has pierced ships through and through!’
‘Wooden ships perhaps,’ replied the Canadian, ‘although personally I’ve never seen it. But until I have proof to the contrary, I can’t believe that a whale, cachalot, or sea-unicorn could manage such a thing.’
‘Just listen to me, Ned . . .’
‘No, sir, no. Anything you like except that. Perhaps a giant squid . . .?’
‘Even less likely. The squid is only a mollusc; and its flesh is soft, as that very term implies. Even if it were 500 feet long, the squid wouldn’t belong to the branch of vertebrates, and so remains perfectly harmless to ships like the Scotia or Abraham Lincoln. We must therefore relegate all feats of krakens and suchlike monsters to the realm of fable.’
‘Then, sir,’ said Ned in rather a mocking tone, ‘as a naturalist, are you sticking to your opinion of a huge cetacean?’
‘Yes, Ned, I repeat my view with a conviction based on the logic of facts. I believe in the existence of a large powerful mammal belonging to the vertebrates, like the whale, cachalot, or dolphin, and endowed with a tusk made of horn of very great penetrative power.’
‘H’m,’ said the harpooner, shaking his head like one refusing to be convinced.
‘Just consider, my good Canadian, that if such an animal does exist, and lives a few miles below the surface of the ocean, it would have to have a body of unparalleled strength.’
‘And why would it need such a powerful body?’
‘Because it would require incredible strength to live so far down and resist the pressure.’*
‘Really?’ said Ned, looking at me and winking.
‘Yes, and a few statistics can easily prove it.’
‘Oh statistics! You can do anything you want with statistics!’
‘In business, Ned, but not in mathematics. Please listen. Let us assume that atmospheric pressure is equivalent to the pressure of a column of water 32 feet high. In reality the column would be shorter, since it would be sea water, which is denser than fresh water. Well, Ned, when you dive, your body undergoes a pressure equal to 1 atmosphere for every 32 feet of water you go down, that is 1 kilogram for each square centimetre of its surface. It follows that this pressure would be 10 atmospheres at 320 feet, 100 atmospheres at 3,200 feet, and 1,000 atmospheres at 32,000 feet, or about 2½ leagues. In other words, if you could reach this depth, each square centimetre on your body would be undergoing a pressure of 1,000 kilograms. Now, my good Ned, do you know how many square centimetres you have on your body?’
‘No idea, Dr Aronnax.’
‘About 17,000.’
‘As many as that?’
‘And since atmospheric pressure is in fact slightly more than 1 kilogram per square centimetre, your 17,000 square centimetres are at this very moment undergoing a pressure of 17,568 kilograms.’
‘Without me realizing?’
‘Without your realizing. And the only reason you are not crushed is the air entering your body with equal force. The inward and outward pressures are in perfect equilibrium, they cancel each other out, and so you can bear them without discomfort. But it is not the same underwater.’
‘Now I understand,’ Ned replied, suddenly more attentive. ‘Because the water is all round me, and isn’t coming into my body.’
‘Precisely, Ned. So at 32 feet you would be subject to a pressure of 17,568 kilograms; at 320 feet ten times that pressure, namely 175,680 kilograms; at 3,200 feet a hundred times, or 1,756,800 kilograms; and at 32,000 feet at least a thousand times, or 17,568,000 kilograms. In other words you would be as flat as if between the plates of a hydraulic press.’
‘Amazing!’ exclaimed Ned.
‘So my good harpooner, if vertebrates several hundred metres long and of corresponding girth inhabit such depths, their surface area is millions of square centimetres and the pressure on their bodies must be estimated to be billions of kilograms. Calculate now what the strength of their skeletons and robustness of their bodies must be to withstand such pressures.’
‘They must be made of 8-inch metal plate, like ironclads.’
‘Exactly, Ned, and now t
hink of the damage that such a mass would do if it hit the hull of a ship while moving at the speed of an express train.’
‘Well . . . yes . . . perhaps,’ said the Canadian, shaken by these figures but unwilling to concede.
‘Are you convinced now?’
‘You have convinced me of one thing, monsieur, which is that if such animals do live at the bottom of the seas, they must clearly be as strong as you say they are.’
‘But if they do not exist, my obstinate harpooner, how can you possibly explain the accident to the Scotia?’
‘Perhaps . . .’ he began.
‘Well go on!’
‘. . . because it’s not true,’ he retorted, unwittingly echoing a celebrated riposte of Arago’s.* But this reply simply proved the harpooner’s obstinacy — nothing more. I pressed him no further on this occasion. The accident to the Scotia was undeniable. The hole existed to the extent that it had had to be stopped up, and I do not think that a hole’s existence can be demonstrated any more conclusively. And as the incision did not get there on its own, and since it had not been produced by submarine rocks or weaponry, it must have been caused by the perforating tool of some animal.
Now in my view, and for the reasons already listed, this animal had to belong to the branch of vertebrates, class of mammalia, group of pisciforms, order of Cetaceae. As for the family — i.e. whale, cachalot, or dolphin — and genus and species, these could be determined later. To decide, we would have to dissect the unknown monster; to dissect it, catch it; to catch it, harpoon it, which was Ned Land’s job; to harpoon it, see it, the ship’s affair; and to see it, first encounter it — which was up to chance.
5
At Random
For a while the voyage of the Abraham Lincoln continued without any particular incident. Nevertheless, something did occur which served to demonstrate both Land’s remarkable prowess and the confidence one could have in him.
On 30 June,* off the Falklands, the frigate communicated with some American whalers, who told us that they had had no contact with the narwhal. But the captain of one of the ships, the Monroe,* knew that Ned was on board the Abraham Lincoln, and asked for his help in hunting down a whale then in view. Captain Farragut wanted to see Ned Land in action, and therefore authorized him to go on board the Monroe. And luck so favoured the Canadian that he harpooned two whales for the price of one so to speak, striking one through the heart and capturing another after a chase of only minutes.
