by Jules Verne
Twenty minutes later we climbed on board. The hatches remained open. We made the boat fast and went inside.
I went down to the salon, where music was playing. Captain Nemo was bent over his organ, deep in musical ecstasy.
‘Captain?’
He did not hear.
‘Captain!’ I repeated, touching him.
He shivered, and turned round.
‘Ah, it’s you, doctor?’ he said. ‘Well, how was your hunting? Did you gather any interesting plant specimens?’
‘Yes, captain,’ I replied. ‘But unfortunately we also brought back a pack of bipeds, whose proximity worries me somewhat.’
‘What sort of bipeds?’
‘Savages.’
‘Savages!’ retorted Captain Nemo in a sarcastic tone. ‘And you’re surprised, Dr Aronnax, that when you set foot on one of the lands of this globe, you find savages? Where are there not savages, and are those that you call savages any worse than the others?’*
‘But, captain . . .’
‘For my part, sir, I have encountered them everywhere.’
‘But’, I replied, ‘if you don’t want to have them on board the Nautilus you should take some precautions.’
‘Calm yourself, sir, there is nothing to worry about.’
‘But there are a lot of natives.’
‘How many did you see?’
‘At least a hundred.’
‘Dr Aronnax,’ replied Captain Nemo, whose hands had gone back to the keyboard, ‘even if all the natives in New Guinea were assembled on the beach, the Nautilus would still have nothing to fear from their attack.’
The captain’s fingers then ran over the instrument; I noticed that he only used the black keys, giving his melodies an essentially Scottish tonality. Soon he had forgotten I was there, and was deep in a reverie that I did not try to interrupt.
I went back to the platform. Night had already fallen, for at these latitudes the sun goes down quickly and there is no dusk. I could make out Gueboroar Island only vaguely now. But a large number of fires on the beach showed that the natives had not yet decided to leave.
I remained alone for several hours, sometimes musing about the natives, but without really being afraid of them. The captain’s imperturbable confidence had won me over, and sometimes forgetting all about them and admiring the splendour of the tropical night, my memory flew back to France, following the stars in the sky which would shine over it in a few hours’ time. The moon was radiant amid the constellations of the zenith. My thoughts then returned to this faithful and obliging satellite, which would come back to the same spot the day after tomorrow to raise the waves and pluck the Nautilus from its coral bed. At about midnight, seeing that everything was quiet on the darkened waters and beneath the trees on shore, I returned to my cabin and fell into a deep sleep.
The night went by without incident. The Papuans undoubtedly felt frightened at the mere view of the monster lying grounded in the bay, for its open hatches would have granted them easy access to the Nautilus.
At 6 a.m. on 8 January, I went back up to the platform. The shadows were lifting. Through the disappearing mists the island revealed its beaches and then its peaks.
The natives were still there, but more than the day before — perhaps five or six hundred. Some of them had taken advantage of the low tide to come forward on the coral heads to very near the Nautilus. I could easily make them out. They were true Papuans, men of athletic build and fine stock, with broad high foreheads, large noses, not flattened, and white teeth. Their woolly hair, dyed red, contrasted with their bodies, as black and shiny as Nubians’. Their earlobes were cut and stretched, with bone beads hanging from them. These savages were generally naked. Amongst them I noticed a few women, clothed from the haunches to the knees with real grass skirts, held up by belts made of plants. Some of the chiefs had adorned their necks with crescents and necklaces of red and white glass beads. Nearly all of them were armed with bows, arrows, and shields, and carried on their shoulders a sort of net containing those rounded stones that they throw accurately with their slings.
One of the chieftains closest to the Nautilus was studying it with great attention. This was clearly a mado of high rank, for he was dressed in plaited banana leaves, finely worked on the edges and picked out in dazzling colours.
I could easily have shot this native, within close range, but I believed it better to wait for real hostile behaviour. When dealing with savages, it is better for Europeans to riposte, rather than attack first.
During the entire low tide the natives prowled near the Nautilus, but without making a great commotion. I heard them frequently repeating the word assai, and I understood from their gestures that they were inviting me to come ashore, an invitation I felt it better to decline.
So the dinghy did not leave the vessel that day, to the great displeasure of Master Land, unable to complete his provisions. The talented Canadian used the time to prepare the meat and flour he had brought back from Gueboroar. As for the savages, they went ashore again at about eleven in the morning, as soon as the tops of the coral began to disappear under the rising tide. But I could see that there were even more of them collecting on the beach. They had probably come from the neighbouring islands, or from New Guinea itself. I had not, however, noticed a single native dugout.
Having nothing better to do, I thought I would dredge these fine clear waters, where there could be seen a profusion of shells, zoophytes, and open-sea plants. This was in any case the last day the Nautilus would spend on these shores, that is if it floated at high tide the following day as Captain Nemo had promised.
I therefore called for Conseil, who brought me a small, light dredge, more or less like those used for collecting oysters.
‘What about the savages?’ asked Conseil. ‘If monsieur pleases, they do not seem to me to be very ill-intentioned after all.’
‘They are cannibals, my good fellow.’
‘One can be a cannibal and a good man,’ replied Conseil, ‘just as one can be a glutton and honest. One does not exclude the other.’
‘All right, Conseil, I concede that they are honest cannibals, and that they eat their prisoners honourably. However, I do not wish to be devoured, even honestly, so will remain on my guard, for the captain of the Nautilus does not seem to be taking any precautions. And now to work.’
For a couple of hours we worked hard at our fishing, but without bringing in anything rare. The dredge filled with Midas’s ears, harp shells, Melaniae, but also the finest hammer-shells I had ever seen. We also took some sea slugs, pearl oysters, and a dozen small turtles, which were set aside for the pantry.
But at the moment I least expected it, I found a marvel, or rather I should say, a very rarely encountered natural deformity. Conseil had just used the dredge, and his net was coming up laden with various quite ordinary shells, when all of a sudden he saw me quickly plunge my arm into the net, pull a shell out, and give a conchologist’s whoop, the most piercing cry the human throat is capable of.
‘Is monsieur all right?’ asked Conseil, startled. ‘Has monsieur been bitten?’
‘No, my good fellow, but I would have willingly given a finger for my discovery.’
‘What discovery?’
‘This shell,’ I said, showing the reason for my triumph.
‘But it’s simply a porphyry olive shell, of the genus Oliva, order of pectinibranchiates, class of gastropods, branch of molluscs . . .’
‘Yes, yes, Conseil, but instead of turning clockwise, this olive goes from left to right!’
‘It can’t do!’
‘It can and it does, my good fellow, it’s a left-handed shell!’
‘A left-handed shell?’ repeated Conseil, his heart beating madly.
‘Just look at its convolution!’
‘Ah, monsieur can believe me,’ said Conseil, taking the precious shell in his trembling hands, ‘never have I experienced such emotion before.’
And there was good reason to be
excited. As naturalists have pointed out, right-handedness is a law of nature. In their movements of translation and rotation, stars and their satellites move from right to left. Man uses his right hand more than his left, and consequently his instruments and his machines, his staircases, locks, watch-springs, etc., are all designed to be used in the same direction. Now nature has generally followed this law in the winding of her shells. They are all right-handed, with rare exceptions; and when by chance their convolution is left-handed, collectors pay their weight in gold.*
Conseil and I remained plunged in contemplation of our treasure, and I had promised myself to enrich the Museum with it, when an ill-fated stone, projected by one of the natives, arrived and broke the precious object in Conseil’s hand.
I uttered a cry of despair. Conseil threw himself on his gun, and took aim at a savage raising his sling about ten metres away. I tried to stop him but the shot went off and broke the bracelet of amulets on the native’s arm.
‘Conseil,’ I shouted. ‘Conseil!’
‘What, did monsieur not see that it was the cannibal’s fault?’
‘But a shell is not worth a man’s life!’
‘Oh, the rogue! I would have preferred if he had broken my shoulder.’
Conseil was sincere, although I could not share his opinion. However, the situation had changed in the last few moments without our noticing. About twenty dugout canoes had surrounded the Nautilus. These boats, hollowed out of tree-trunks, were long, narrow, and quite fast: they kept their balance by means of two bamboo outriggers floating on the surface. They had skilful half-naked paddlers in them, and it was not without trepidation that I saw them advancing.
It was evident that these Papuans had already had dealings with Europeans, and were familiar with their ships. But what could they possibly make of this long iron cylinder stretched out in the bay with neither masts nor funnels? Nothing good, for they had kept a respectful distance at first. But seeing it motionless, they slowly regained confidence, and were now trying to familiarize themselves. Now it was precisely this familiarity which needed to be prevented. Our guns, lacking detonations, could merely make a moderate impression on these indigenous people, who only respect noisy devices. Lightning without claps of thunder would frighten people little, although the danger is in the lightning not the sound.
Suddenly the canoes came nearer and a cloud of arrows rained down on the Nautilus.
‘Good heavens, it’s hailing,’ said Conseil, ‘and perhaps with poisoned hail!’
‘We’d better go and tell Captain Nemo,’ I said, disappearing through the hatch.
I went into the salon. No one was there. I ventured to knock on the door of the captain’s bedroom.
I heard a ‘Come in’ and entered, finding Captain Nemo plunged in calculations filled with x’s and algebraic signs.
‘Am I disturbing you?’ I said out of politeness.
‘A little, Dr Aronnax,’ replied the captain; ‘but I assume you must have a serious reason to wish to see me.’
‘Very serious. We are surrounded by native canoes, and will certainly be attacked by several hundred savages within minutes.’
‘I see,’ said Captain Nemo calmly; ‘they have come with their canoes?’
‘Yes, they have.’
‘Well, all that is needed is to close the hatches.’
‘Precisely, and I came to say . . .’
‘Nothing could be simpler,’ said Captain Nemo.
He pressed an electric button to transmit an order to the crew room. ‘It is now taken care of,’ he said after a pause, ‘the dinghy is secured and the hatches closed. You are not afraid, I hope, that these gentlemen might pierce the walls that your frigate’s shells could not dent?’
‘No, captain, but there is still a danger.’
‘Yes?’
‘Tomorrow at the same time, we will need to open the hatches again to replenish the air inside the Nautilus.’
‘That is true, since our vessel breathes like the cetaceans.’
‘And if the Papuans are on the platform at that moment, I am unable to see how you can prevent them coming in.’
‘So, sir, you think they will venture on board?’
‘I’m certain of it.’
‘Well, doctor, let them. I can see no reason to prevent them. These Papuans are poor wretches after all, and I do not want my visit to Gueboroar Island to cost the life of a single one of such unfortunates!’
I was going to withdraw at that point, but Captain Nemo detained me and invited me to sit near. He asked with interest about our land excursions and hunting, but did not seem to understand the need for meat that drove the Canadian. The conversation then touched on various other subjects, and Captain Nemo showed himself most kind, although not any more communicative.
Amongst other things, we got to talking about the Nautilus’s situation, aground at precisely the same spot where Dumont d’Urville got into great difficulty. On this subject:
‘D’Urville was one of your great sailors, one of your most intelligent navigators! He was France’s Captain Cook. Unfortunate savant! To have braved the ice-floes of the South Pole, the corals of the South Seas, the cannibals of the Pacific, only to perish miserably in a train accident! If this tireless man was able to reflect in his final moments, imagine what his last thoughts must have been.’
Speaking in this way Captain Nemo seemed moved, and his emotion was, I thought, to his credit.
Then, map in hand, we retraced what the French navigator had achieved: his voyages of circumnavigation; his two attempts to reach the South Pole, leading to the discovery of Adélie Land and Louis-Philippe Land; and finally his hydrographical surveys of the main islands of the South Pacific.
‘What your d’Urville did on the surface of the seas,’ Captain Nemo said, ‘I have done in the interior of the oceans, but more easily, more completely than he could. The Astrolabe and the Zélée, always pushed hither and thither by hurricanes, could not equal the Nautilus, a peaceful base for study, truly at ease in the heart of the waters!’
‘There is one point of resemblance, however, between Dumont d’Urville’s corvettes and the Nautilus.’
‘Which one, sir?’
‘It is that the Nautilus has run aground like them!’
‘The Nautilus is not aground!’ Captain Nemo coldly replied. ‘The Nautilus is designed to rest on the seabed; and I do not have to undertake the demanding work and manoeuvres that d’Urville had to perform to refloat his corvettes. The Astrolabe and Zélée nearly perished, but my Nautilus is in no danger. At the said hour tomorrow, the tide will lift it calmly up, to continue its navigation through the seas.’
‘Captain,’ I said, ‘I do not doubt . . .’
‘Tomorrow,’ Captain Nemo added as he got up, ‘at 2.40 p.m., the Nautilus will float and leave Torres Strait unharmed.’
Having pronounced these words in a slightly sharp tone, Captain Nemo bowed slightly. This was to take leave of me, and so I went back to my room.
There I found Conseil, keen to know the outcome of my conversation with the captain.
‘My good fellow, when I implied that his Nautilus was in danger from the Papuan natives, the captain replied very ironically. So I only have one thing to say to you: have confidence in him and go to sleep without worrying unduly.’
‘Monsieur has no need of my services?’
‘No, my friend. What is Ned Land doing?’
‘With all due respect, monsieur,’ replied Conseil, ‘my friend Ned is making a kangaroo pie that will be an absolute wonder.’
I remained alone and went to bed, but slept quite badly. I could hear the savages, who were stamping about on the platform uttering deafening cries. But the night wore on without the crew abandoning its usual inertia. They were no more worried by the presence of these cannibals than the soldiers inside a strong fort by ants running over their battlements.
I got up at 6 a.m. The hatches had not been opened, and so the air inside had not been renewe
d. But the tanks, designed to cope with any eventuality, were functioning properly, pumping a few cubic metres of oxygen into the thin atmosphere of the Nautilus.
I worked in my room until midday but without seeing Captain Nemo for a single moment. Apparently no preparations for leaving were being made on board.
I waited a while longer, then went into the salon. The clock read half past two. In ten minutes the sea would have reached its maximum height, and if Captain Nemo had not made a rash promise, the Nautilus would immediately be freed. If not, many months would pass before it could leave its coral bed.
Soon a few preliminary vibrations could be felt in the hull of the vessel. I could hear its plates grinding against the hard limestone of the coral underneath.
At 2.35, Captain Nemo appeared in the salon.
‘We’re about to leave,’ he said.
‘Ah!’ I said.
‘I have given the order to open the hatches.’*
‘But what about the Papuans?’
‘The Papuans?’ replied Captain Nemo, shrugging his shoulders slightly.
‘Won’t they come inside the Nautilus?’
‘But how?’
‘By coming down the hatches that you are opening.’
‘Dr Aronnax,’ he calmly replied, ‘it is not that easy to enter the hatches of the Nautilus, even when open.’
I stared at the captain.
‘You do not understand?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘Well, come and you will see.’
I headed for the central stairwell. There, Ned and Conseil, puzzled and fascinated, were watching a few of the crewmen opening the hatches, whilst cries of anger and blood-curdling howls could be heard outside.
The hatch covers opened outwards. Twenty horrible faces appeared. But the first of these natives to put his hand on the handrail of the stairs* was thrown backwards by some invisible force and ran off, uttering awful cries and making exaggerated leaps.
