by Jules Verne
Decidedly, if ever the monster came to grips with Ned Land, my bet would not be on the monster.
The frigate sailed down the south-east coast of the Americas at a tremendous rate of knots. On 3 July we were at the mouth of the Strait of Magellan near Cape Virgins. But Captain Farragut didn’t want to enter such a tortuous channel, and directed our course round Cape Horn instead.
The crew lent their unanimous support. After all, was it likely we would encounter the narwhal in such a narrow passage? A number of sailors declared that the monster couldn’t get through, ‘as it’s too big to fit!’
At about 3 p.m. on 6 July, keeping fifteen miles to the south, the Abraham Lincoln rounded a solitary island, an isolated rock at the extreme tip of the American continent: Cape Horn as it was called by Dutch sailors after their native town. Our course now lay north-westwards; and next day the frigate’s screws were finally beating the waves of the Pacific.
‘Keep your eyes peeled,’ the sailors kept saying to each other.
And they did keep them exceptionally peeled. There was not a moment’s rest for eyes or for telescopes — both slightly dazzled, admittedly, by the prospect of the $2,000. The ocean was scanned day and night. Those with good night-vision had a 50 per cent better chance, and thus a very respectable prospect of winning the prize.
As for me, although largely immune to the lure of the money, I was one of the most watchful on board. Wasting only minutes on meals and a few hours on sleep, oblivious to the glare and wind, I rarely left the deck. Sometimes I leaned over the fo’c’sle rail but sometimes on the poop-rail, my greedy eyes devouring the cottony wake that whitened the ocean as far as the horizon. And how often I shared the officers’ and men’s emotions when some whale capriciously raised its blackish back above the surface! The frigate’s deck would be crowded in an instant. The hatchways would throw up a torrent of officers and men. Panting for air, with restless eyes, all would watch the cetacean as it moved through the waves. I also looked, at the risk of wearing out my retinas and going blind — while Conseil, always phlegmatic, kept calmly repeating:
‘If monsieur would be so good as to open his eyes a little less, monsieur would see much better.’
But the excitement was invariably unrequited. The Abraham Lincoln would change its course towards the animal in question, a mere whale or common cachalot, which soon disappeared amidst a volley of curses.
For the moment the weather remained favourable. The voyage was taking place in perfect conditions. It was meant to be the stormy season, for July in the southern latitudes corresponds to our January in Europe, but the sea remained calm and could be observed over vast distances.
Ned still displayed the most unwavering scepticism. Except on his watch, he pretended not to examine the sea, at least when there were no whales in view. Even though his perfect eyesight would have rendered great service, the stubborn Canadian spent eight out of twelve hours reading or sleeping in his cabin. A hundred times I reproached his detachment.
‘Bah!’ he would reply. ‘There’s nothing there, Dr Aronnax, and even if there was, what chance would we have of seeing it? We’re wandering at random, aren’t we? People have seen this invisible beast on the high seas of the Pacific, or so they say, and I accept that; but two months have gone by since then, and to judge from your narwhal’s temperament, it doesn’t like hanging around the same area. It can move at outrageous speeds. Now you know as well as me, Dr Aronnax, that nature doesn’t do anything the wrong way round. So a naturally slow animal wouldn’t have been given a speed that it didn’t need. Therefore if the beast does exist, it’ll be hundreds of miles away by now!’
I had no reply. We were evidently travelling blind. But how else could we proceed? Our chances of success were very slim. However, no one gave up hope, and there wasn’t a sailor on board who would have laid odds against the narwhal making a new appearance.
We crossed the tropic of Capricorn at 105° W on 20 July, and on the 27th the equator at 110° W. Having taken its bearings, the frigate now set a more westerly course, heading into the middle of the Pacific. Captain Farragut thought, quite sensibly, that the monster would be most likely to frequent deeper waters. It would keep away from landmasses or islands, which it seemed reluctant to approach, ‘no doubt because there wasn’t enough water’, as the boatswain opined. The frigate passed by the Tuamotus, the Marquesas, and Hawaii, crossed the tropic of Cancer at 132° E, and then sailed on towards the China seas.
We had finally reached the scene of the monster’s latest antics. We lived for nothing else. Our hearts palpitated fearfully, laying the foundation for incurable aneurysms in the future. The entire ship’s company suffered from a nervous over-excitement that is impossible to describe.
No one ate, no one slept. Twenty times a day an optical illusion or a mistake by some sailor perched on the yardarms gave rise to unbearable aches and pains, and this emotion, repeated twenty times, kept us in a state of permanent erythrism,* one too overwhelming not to produce a reaction sooner or later.
And the reaction did eventually come. For three months — three months when each day lasted a century — the Abraham Lincoln had been sailing across every sea in the South Pacific, running up when a whale was signalled, making abrupt turns, sailing first on one tack then on the other, stopping suddenly, reversing then going ahead — all in swift succession and in a manner designed to put the engine entirely out of joint. The ship did not leave a single point unexplored between the shore of Japan and the west coast of America. But there was nothing there, nothing except the vastness of the watery wilderness. No sign of a giant narwhal, nor of a submerged islet, shipwrecked hulk, or shifting reef, and no sign whatsoever of anything remotely supernatural.
Then the reaction set in. First came discouragement, which permeated minds and prepared the way for scepticism. A new mood arose, made up of three-tenths shame and seven-tenths anger. Everyone on board felt very foolish, and all the more annoyed because we had been taken in by a mirage. The mountains of arguments that had piled up for a year crumbled away immediately, and the only idea in everybody’s head was to employ the hours for eating and sleeping, and so make up for all the time so stupidly lost.
With the fickleness of the human mind, we went from one extreme to the other. The keenest supporters of the enterprise inevitably became its most ardent detractors. The reaction came, starting from the depths, moving from the stokers’ hold to the officers’ watchroom; and had it not been for the uncommon obstinacy of Captain Farragut, the frigate’s prow would certainly have headed straight back south again.
In fact this fruitless search could not go on any longer. The Abraham Lincoln could have no reason to reproach itself, having done its utmost to ensure success. Never had an American Navy crew shown more patience or energy, and the failure could not be blamed on anyone. There now remained no choice but to go home.
A representation to this effect was addressed to the captain. He stood firm. The sailors did not conceal their discontent, and the service deteriorated. I do not mean that there was actually a mutiny, but after a reasonable period of perseverance Captain Farragut asked for three more days, like Columbus before him.* If in that time the monster had still not appeared, the helmsman would receive orders to put about, and the Abraham Lincoln would head for the North Atlantic.
This promise was made on 2 November. Its immediate effect was to restore the crew’s failing courage. The ocean was scanned with fresh zeal. Everyone wished to take that one last look wherein memory lies. Telescopes were feverishly employed. This was the final challenge hurled at the giant narwhal: he couldn’t now refuse to reply to this taunt to show himself!
Two days went by. The Abraham Lincoln stayed on low pressure. The crew employed a thousand ways of catching the attention or stirring the apathy of the animal, should he happen to be passing by. Enormous quantities of bacon were trailed from the stern — to the great satisfaction of the sharks, I may add. While the frigate lay hove to
, the boats rowed in all directions round it, not leaving a single spot of the ocean unexplored. But the evening of 4 November arrived without any elucidation of the submarine mystery.
The grace period was due to expire at noon the following day. After determining his position, Captain Farragut, faithful to his promise, would have to give orders to head south-east and abandon the northern Pacific.
The frigate was at 3° 15´ N, 136° 42´ E. The landmass of Japan lay less than 200 miles to leeward. Night was coming down. Eight bells had just rung out. Heavy clouds veiled the moon, now in its first quarter. The sea rose and fell calmly below the stern.
I was for’ard, leaning over the starboard rail. Conseil was beside me, staring ahead. The ship’s crew, perched in the shrouds, were scanning the horizon, which was closing in as it got darker. The officers, equipped with night glasses, peered into the increasing gloom. The sombre sea would at times scintillate from the moonlight darting between the edges of the clouds. Then all luminous trace would be swallowed up again by the darkness.
Observing Conseil, I noticed that the good fellow was yielding ever so slightly to the general mood. Or at least I thought so. Perhaps, for the first time in his life, his nerves were tingling with a feeling of curiosity. ‘Well, Conseil,’ said I; ‘here is our last chance to pocket the $2,000.’
‘Monsieur must permit me to say that I have never counted on winning this sum; and the government of the Union might have promised $100,000 and been none the poorer.’
‘You’re right, Conseil. This has turned out to be a crazy business that we rushed into without aforethought. Consider how much time we’ve wasted! Worrying about nothing! We could have been back in France a full six months ago.’
‘In monsieur’s little apartment, in monsieur’s museum. I would already have classified monsieur’s fossils, and the babirusa would be settled in his cage in the Jardin des Plantes, attracting all the inquisitive people of Paris.’
‘Exactly, Conseil, and no doubt they will all laugh at us.’
‘Yes,’ he said quietly, ‘I do think they may laugh at monsieur. And may I add . . .?’
‘You may.’
‘Well, monsieur will only be getting what monsieur deserves.’
‘Indeed!’
‘When one has the honour of being a scholar like monsieur, one does not expose oneself . . .’
But Conseil was never to finish his compliment. A voice had just rung out through the surrounding silence. It was Ned Land’s, shouting: ‘Ahoy! The thing itself, to leeward on the weather beam!’
6
Full Steam Ahead
At this cry the whole crew ran towards the harpooner: captain, officers, mates, seamen, and cabin boys — even the engineers abandoned the engine-room, and the stokers the boilers. The order ‘Stop her!’ was heard, and now the frigate was gliding over the water under its own momentum.
It was very dark: however good the Canadian’s eyes might be, I wondered exactly what he had seen and how he had been able to see it. My heart was pounding as if to burst.
But Ned Land had not been mistaken, and we all soon spotted the object he was pointing at.
Not far from the Abraham Lincoln, on the starboard quarter, the sea seemed to be illuminated from below. There could be no mistake, for this was no ordinary phosphorescence. Several fathoms below the surface, the monster gave forth a very strong, inexplicable light, as described in the reports of several captains. This fantastic irradiation must have been produced by some tremendously powerful illuminating agent. The luminous area on the surface formed a huge, highly elongated ellipse, whose centre was a burning, concentrated focus of unbearable intensity, but which gradually faded further from the centre.
‘It’s just a mass of phosphorescent organisms!’ cried one of the officers.
‘No, sir,’ I replied with conviction. ‘Neither the common piddock nor the salpa produces such a powerful light. This brilliance is essentially electric . . . In any case look, look! It’s moving, moving forward — going back — coming straight at us!’
A cry rose from the frigate.
‘Quiet!’ shouted Captain Farragut. ‘Put the helm up hard! Ship astern!’
The sailors rushed to the wheel; the engineers to the engine-room. The power was immediately reversed and the Abraham Lincoln paid off, describing a semicircle to port.
‘Helm straight . . . go ahead!’ cried Farragut.
As these orders were executed, the frigate moved swiftly away from the luminous centre.
I am wrong. The frigate tried to move away, but the supernatural animal closed in at twice our speed.
We could hardly breathe. Astonishment rather than fear kept us silent as if transfixed. The animal caught up with us with the greatest of ease. It swam round the frigate, which was making 14 knots, and bathed us in its electric beams like luminous dust. It then moved two or three miles off, leaving a phosphorescent trail, like the spirals of steam behind the locomotive of an express train. All of a sudden, from the dark limits of the horizon, the monster accelerated and rushed at the Abraham Lincoln at frightening speed, then stopped abruptly only 20 feet from the frigate’s wales and extinguished its light — not by plunging beneath the surface, since the brilliance did not disappear gradually — but suddenly, as if the source of the brilliant discharge had instantly dried up! It then appeared on the other side, meaning it had either gone round or underneath. At every moment a collision seemed imminent: one which could easily be fatal to us.
I was puzzled by the frigate’s behaviour. It was running away and not fighting. It was being hunted when it was meant to be the hunter — and I said as much to Captain Farragut. His normally impassive face betrayed an indefinable astonishment.
‘Dr Aronnax,’ he replied, ‘I do not know what formidable creature I am dealing with — and I do not want to risk my ship needlessly in this darkness. In any case, how can one attack an unidentified object, or even defend oneself? Let’s wait for daylight, when the tables will be turned.’
‘So you have no doubts about the nature of the animal?’
‘It’s obviously a giant narwhal, but an electric one too.’
‘Perhaps it is just as dangerous to approach as an electric eel or ray?’
‘Quite possibly. And if it does have the ability to give an electric shock, then it will be the most terrible beast ever to have sprung from the Creator’s hand. That is why, sir, I must remain on my guard.’
That night the entire crew stayed at action stations. Nobody thought of going to bed. Unable to outrun the creature, the Abraham Lincoln had first decreased its pace, and then stayed on easy steam. For its part, the narwhal lay rocking on the waves, just like the frigate: it seemed to have decided to remain at the scene of battle.
At about midnight, however, it disappeared, or rather ‘went out’ like an enormous glow-worm. Had it left? This was to be feared, rather than hoped for. But then at 12.53 a deafening hissing sound came, like the one produced by a head of water escaping with tremendous force.
Captain Farragut, Ned, and I were on the poop. We intently searched the deep darkness.
‘Ned Land,’ said the captain, ‘have you often heard whales blowing?’
‘Yes, sir, but never whales that pay $2,000 when you sight them.’
‘You have indeed earned the prize. But tell me, is this the same noise cetaceans make when they eject water from their blowholes?’
‘It’s the same sound, sir, but much, much louder. I’m certain it’s a whale astern. With your permission, sir, we’ll have a word or two with him at first light.’
‘If he is in a mood to listen, Master Land,’ I said in a sceptical tone.
‘If I get within four harpoons’ distance,’ riposted the Canadian, ‘he’ll have to listen!’
‘But for you to get near must I give you a whaling-boat?’ enquired the captain.
‘Obviously, sir.’
‘And in so doing, risk the lives of my men?’
&nbs
p; ‘And mine too,’ replied Land simply.
At about two in the morning, the light came back, just as bright but five miles to windward of the Abraham Lincoln. Despite the distance and the noise from the wind and waves, the formidable beating of the monster’s tail could distinctly be heard, even its hoarse respiration. When the huge narwhal came to the surface to breathe, the air rushing into its lungs was just like the steam in the massive pistons of a 2,000-horsepower engine.
‘H’m,’ I thought, ‘a whale with the horsepower of a whole regiment of cavalry must be a fine specimen!’
Everyone remained active until daybreak, getting ready for battle. The fishing tackle was laid out along the rails. The first mate ordered the loading not only of the blunderbusses that could throw a harpoon a distance of a mile but also of the long punt-guns for firing exploding bullets which are fatal to the most powerful of animals. Ned Land merely sharpened his harpoon, a terrible weapon in his hands.
At six o’clock dawn began to break, and with the first gleams, the narwhal’s electric light went out. At seven the sun was high enough, but visibility was destroyed by a thick fog which the best glasses could not pierce. Hence considerable disappointment and exasperation.
I climbed the mizzenmast. A few officers were already perched around the masthead.
At eight o’clock the fog began to roll heavily over the waves, as its thick spirals dissipated. Our horizon gradually expanded as the mists cleared.
Ned’s voice rang out, just like the day before.
‘The thing in question, port astern!’
