by Jules Verne
In addition, this plateau is very well chosen, and the cable is never submerged so deep that it could break. The Nautilus followed it to its lowest point at 4,431 metres, where it was still lying without undue stretching. Then we approached the spot where the 1863 accident happened.
The ocean floor formed a valley 120 kilometres wide: Mont Blanc could have been put in it without emerging from the surface of the water. This valley is enclosed to the east by a vertical wall 2,000 metres high. We arrived there on 28 May; the Nautilus was only 150 kilometres from Ireland.
Was Captain Nemo going to head north, so that he could land in the British Isles? No; to my great surprise, he went back down south again, heading for the seas of Europe. While we were working our way around the Emerald Isle, I briefly glimpsed Cape Clear and Fastnet lighthouse,* which provides light for thousands of ships from Glasgow and Liverpool.
An important question then arose in my mind. Would the Nautilus dare to venture into the English Channel? Ned Land had reappeared once we had come close to land, and never stopped asking me. How could I answer? Captain Nemo remained invisible. Having let the Canadian catch a glimpse of the shores of America, was he now going to show me the coasts of France?
The Nautilus was still heading south. On 30 May it came within sight of Land’s End, and passed between that extreme point of England and the Scilly Isles, on the starboard side.
If it wanted to go into the Channel, it would have to cut sharply to the east. It did not do so.
During the whole of 31 May the Nautilus described a series of circles on the surface, greatly intriguing me. It seemed to be looking for a spot it had difficulty in finding. At noon, Captain Nemo came to measure the position himself. He did not speak to me. He seemed more sombre than ever. What could be making him so unhappy? Was it being so close to European shores? Did he have memories of his abandoned homeland? In that case, what did he experience — remorse or regret? For a long time such thoughts filled my mind, and I had a hunch that chance would shortly betray the captain’s secrets.*
The following day, 1 June, the Nautilus performed the same manoeuvres. It was clear that it was trying to identify a precise point in the ocean. As on the day before, Captain Nemo came to take the height of the sun. The sea was fine, the sky pure. Eight miles to the east, a large steam-driven ship stood out on the line of the horizon. No flag was visible on its gaff and I could not identify its nationality.
A few moments before the sun passed the meridian, Captain Nemo took his sextant and made extremely precise observations. The absolute stillness of the water facilitated the operation, since the Nautilus lay motionless, neither pitching nor rolling.
I was on the platform. When he had taken our bearings, the captain said only these words:
‘It is here!’
He went back down through the hatch. Had he seen the vessel, which now changed direction and seemed to be coming nearer? I cannot say.
I went back to the salon. The hatch was closed, and I could hear the hissing of water in the tanks. The Nautilus began to sink — straight down, for its propeller was not operating and so did not affect its movement.
A few minutes later, it stopped at a depth of 833 metres, and came to rest on the seabed.
The salon’s luminous ceiling went out, the panels opened, and through the windows I could see the ocean brightly lit up by the searchlight for half a mile around.
I looked to port, but saw nothing but the immensity of the calm water.
On the seabed to starboard appeared a large extumescence which drew my attention. It resembled ruins buried under a coating of whitish shells like a cloak of snow. When I examined the shape more carefully, I thought I recognized the thickened forms of a demasted vessel, which must have sunk bow first. The wreck certainly dated from a long time before. Its hull must have spent many years on the ocean floor to be so encrusted with limestone from the water.
What was this ship? Why had the Nautilus come to visit its tomb? Was it not some shipwreck that had sunk the vessel?
I did not know what to think, when near me I heard Captain Nemo saying in a slow voice:
‘Formerly this ship was called the Marseillais. It carried seventy-four cannons and was launched in 1762. On 13 August 1778, commanded by La Poype-Vertrieux, it fought bravely against the Preston. On 4 July 1779, it took part in the capture of Grenada with the fleet of Admiral d’Estaing. On 5 September 1781, it participated in the fighting in Chesapeake Bay with the Count of Grasse. In 1794, the French Republic gave the ship a new name. On 16 April of the same year, it joined the fleet of Villaret de Joyeuse in Brest, charged with escorting a convoy of wheat from America under the command of Admiral Van Stabel.* On 11 and 12 Prairial of the year II, this fleet encountered British vessels. Monsieur, it is today 13 Prairial, 1 June 1868. Seventy-four years ago to the day, on this same spot of 47° 24´ N, 17° 28´ W, this ship lost two of its three masts in a heroic battle; it had taken on water and a third of its crew were out of action. It preferred to scuttle itself with its 356 crew rather than surrender.* Nailing its flag to the poop, it disappeared under the waves with the cry “Long live the Republic!” ’
‘The Vengeur!’* I exclaimed.
‘Yes, monsieur.* The Vengeur! A fine name!’* said Captain Nemo, crossing his arms.
21
A Massacre
The way he spoke, the unexpectedness of the scene, the recounting of the tale of the patriotic ship, and the vehemence with which this strange individual had pronounced the final words about the Vengeur, leaving me in no doubt about his meaning: everything combined to make a deep impression on me. My eyes no longer left the captain. Arm stretched out to sea, he was studying the glorious wreck* with glowing eyes. Perhaps I would never know who he was, where he came from, where he was going, but I could see the man more and more distinctly from the scientist. It was not common misanthropy that had enclosed Captain Nemo and his companions in the flanks of the Nautilus, but a monstrous or sublime hatred that time could not diminish.*
Was this hatred still seeking revenge? The future would soon show me.
Meanwhile the Nautilus was moving slowly up to the surface, and I could see the blurred form of the Vengeur disappearing little by little. Soon a slight rolling told me that we were floating in the open air.
Just then a dull explosion sounded. I looked at the captain. He did not move.
‘Captain?’ I said.
He made no reply.
I left him and went up to the platform. Conseil and the Canadian were already there.
‘Where did that explosion come from?’
‘A cannon being fired,’ Ned replied.
I looked in the direction of the ship I had seen. It had got closer and was clearly sailing at full steam. It was now six miles away.
‘What sort of vessel is it, Ned?’
‘From its rigging and its low masts, I would bet that it’s a warship. I hope it comes at us and sinks us if need be, our damned Nautilus!’
‘Ned, my friend,’ replied Conseil, ‘what harm can it do to the Nautilus? Will it come and attack underwater? Will it shell the bottom of the seas?’
‘Tell me, Ned,’ I said, ‘can you see the nationality of the vessel?’
The Canadian compressed his brow, lowered his eyelids, screwed up the corners of his eyes, and stared for a few moments at the ship with all the power of his vision.
‘No, monsieur, I can’t see what nation it belongs to. Its flag is not hoisted. But I can tell that it’s a warship, for there’s a long pennant at the end of the mainmast.’
For quarter of an hour we continued to observe the ship as it steamed towards us. I could not accept, however, that it had recognized the Nautilus at such a distance, still less that it knew what this submarine machine was.
Soon the Canadian announced to me that the vessel was a great warship with a ram: an armour-plated double-decker.* Thick black smoke was pouring from its two funnels. Its furled sails could not be distinguished from t
he yard line. Its gaff bore no flag. The distance still prevented the colours of its pennant from being identifiable, for they hung down in a thin ribbon.
It was coming nearer quickly. If Captain Nemo allowed it to approach, we stood a chance of being saved.
‘Monsieur, if this ship passes within a mile, I’m going to jump into the sea, and I urge you to do the same.’
I did not reply to the Canadian’s suggestion, but continued watching the ship as it got larger. Whether British, French, American, or Russian, it was certain that it would pick us up, if only we could reach it.
‘Monsieur should be so kind as to remember’, interjected Conseil, ‘that we have some experience of swimming. He can entrust me with the task of towing him to the ship, if it suits him to follow Ned, my friend.’
I was going to reply, when white smoke spurted from the stern of the warship. A few seconds later, the water was disturbed by the impact of a heavy body, splashing the stern of the Nautilus. Shortly afterwards, an explosion struck my ear.
‘What! Are they firing at us?’ I cried.
‘Good for them,’ murmured Ned.
‘So they are not taking us for shipwrecked people clinging to a wreck!’
‘With respect, monsieur . . . oh!’ said Conseil, shaking off the water that a new shell had splashed on him. ‘With respect, monsieur, they have seen a narwhal and are firing their cannon at the narwhal.’
‘But they must see full well’, I expostulated, ‘that they are dealing with people!’
‘Perhaps for that very reason!’ said Land staring at me.
A sudden revolution took place in my mind. The existence of the so-called monster must have been cleared up. When the Canadian struck it with his harpoon during the encounter with the Abraham Lincoln, Captain Farragut must have realized that the narwhal was a submarine boat, more dangerous than any supernatural cetacean.
Yes, that had to be the case, and this terrible machine of destruction was evidently being pursued over every ocean!
It would indeed be awful if Captain Nemo was using the Nautilus for the sake of revenge, as now seemed plain. During that night in the middle of the Indian Ocean when he had us locked up in the cell, had he not attacked some ship?* That man buried in the coral cemetery, had he not been a victim of a collision that the Nautilus had caused? Yes, I repeat, it had to be that. Part of Captain Nemo’s mysterious life had been unveiled, and if his identity was still not clear, at least the coalition of nations against him were no longer pursuing a fantastic being, but a man who had sworn implacable hatred against them!
All this formidable past appeared before my eyes. Instead of encountering friends on the approaching ship, we could only find merciless enemies.
Meanwhile the shells were increasing around us. Some of them hit the surface of the sea, bounced off, and covered considerable distances. But none touched the Nautilus.
The armour-plated ship was no more than three miles away now. In spite of the violent cannon attack, Captain Nemo did not appear on the platform, and yet if one of those conical projectiles had struck the hull of the Nautilus head on, it would have been fatal.
The Canadian then said:
‘Monsieur, we must try everything to get out of this situation we’re in. Let’s make signals! Heck! Perhaps they’ll realize that we’re honest men!’
Ned Land took out his handkerchief and began to wave it in the air. But he had hardly raised it when, despite his tremendous strength, he was floored by an iron hand and thrown to the deck.*
‘Wretch!’ exclaimed the captain. ‘Do you want me to nail your miserable carcass to the ram of the Nautilus when it is launched at that ship!’
Captain Nemo, terrible to hear, was yet more terrifying to behold. His face had grown pale: his heart must have undergone spasms and stopped beating for a moment. His pupils were severely contracted. His mouth no longer spoke, it roared. With his body bent forward, he was twisting the Canadian’s shoulders in his hands.
Then, letting go and turning again to the warship, whose shells were raining down around him:
‘Ah, you know who I am, ship of an accursed nation!’* he declaimed in a powerful voice. ‘As for me, I do not need your colours to identify you! Look, I am going to show you mine!’
And Captain Nemo unfurled a black flag at the front of the platform, identical to the one he had planted on the South Pole.
At that moment, a shell obliquely struck the hull of the Nautilus, but without making a hole, ricocheted near the captain, and finished up in the sea.
Captain Nemo shrugged his shoulders. Then, addressing me:
‘Go inside,’ he said curtly. ‘Go inside, you and your companions.’
‘Monsieur!’ I cried. ‘Are you going to attack this ship?’
‘I am going to sink it.’
‘You are not!’
‘I am,’ he coldly replied. ‘Do not take it on yourself to judge me, monsieur. Fate is showing you what you should not have seen. The attack has come* and the response will be terrible. Go back down.’
‘What ship is this?’
‘You do not know? Well, so much the better! Its nationality will remain a secret for you. Go down.’*
The Canadian, Conseil, and I could only obey. About fifteen sailors from the Nautilus stood around the captain, staring with implacable hatred at this ship bearing down on them. The same thought of revenge was clearly filling each of their souls.
I went back in, just as another projectile grazed the Nautilus’s hull. I could hear the captain exclaiming:
‘Strike, crazy ship! Waste your useless shells. You shall not escape from the Nautilus’s ram. But it is not on this spot that you shall perish! I do not want your carcass to sully the remains of the Vengeur!
I went back to my room. The captain and his first officer remained on the platform. The propeller started up. The Nautilus moved away at speed, and was soon out of reach of the vessel’s shells. But the pursuit continued, with Captain Nemo content merely to maintain his distance.
At about four in the afternoon, unable to contain the impatience and worry devouring me, I returned to the central staircase. The hatch was open. I ventured out. The captain was still agitatedly pacing up and down. He was looking at the ship, five or six miles to leeward. He was moving back and forth like a wild animal, as he allowed himself to be pursued, drawing it eastwards. However, he did not attack. Perhaps he was still hesitating?
I tried one last time to intervene, but I had hardly addressed Captain Nemo before he imposed silence on me.
‘I am the law, I am the justice!’* he said. ‘I am the oppressed, and they are the oppressor! It is because of them that everything I loved, cherished, venerated — country, wife, children, parents — perished as I watched!* Everything I hate is there! Keep quiet!’
I cast a last glance at the warship, which was straining at full steam. Then I rejoined Ned and Conseil.
‘We’re going to escape!’ I cried.
‘Well,’ said Ned, ‘what ship is it?’
‘I don’t know, but whatever it is, it will be sunk before nightfall.* It would be better to perish with it than be involved in reprisals, whose fairness we cannot judge.’
‘That is also my opinion,’ Ned coldly replied. ‘Let’s wait for darkness.’
Night fell. A deep silence reigned on board. The compass showed that the Nautilus had not changed direction. I could hear the beating as its propeller struck the waves with a quick rhythm. It remained on the surface and the slight rolling took it now to one side, now to the other.
My companions and I resolved to attempt an escape as soon as the vessel was close enough for us to make ourselves heard or seen, for it was three days to the full moon, and the light was bright. Once on board the ship, if we could not prevent it being attacked, at least we would have tried everything that circumstances allowed. Several times I thought that the Nautilus was getting ready for an assault, but it would merely let its adversary come closer, and then shortly after
wards accelerate away again.
Part of the night went by without incident. We watched out for a chance to act. We said little, for we were too much on edge. Ned would have liked to throw himself into the sea. I forced him to wait. I thought the Nautilus would surely attack the double-decker on the surface of the waves, and it would then be not only possible but easy to escape.*
At three in the morning, feeling rather worried, I went back up to the platform. Captain Nemo was still there. He stood at the front near his flag, which a light breeze unfurled above his head. His eyes no longer left the vessel. His extraordinarily intense gaze seemed to be attracting it, beguiling it, dragging it in more surely than if he had winched it!
The moon was at its zenith. Jupiter was rising in the east. In the midst of this peaceful nature, sky and sea vied in serenity, and the water offered the moon the most beautiful mirror that had ever reflected it.
But when I thought of the deep calm of the elements, compared to all the angers growing in the flanks of the imperceptible Nautilus, I felt my whole being quake.
The vessel remained two miles from us. It had come closer, moving towards that phosphorescent light which indicated the Nautilus’s presence. I could see its green and red position lights and its white navigation light on the main foresail stay. A vague glow lit up its rigging, and showed that the boiler was being pushed to the very limit. Sheaves of sparks and cinders of burning coal escaped its funnels, producing stars in the air.
I remained until 6 a.m., without Captain Nemo seeming to have noticed me. The vessel stayed a mile and a half away, and as soon as the first gleams of dawn began to appear, it started firing its cannons again. The time could not be far off when the Nautilus would start attacking its adversary, and my companions and I would leave once and for all this man that I dared not judge.
I was getting ready to go below and tell them, when the first officer came out. Several sailors were with him. Captain Nemo did not see them, or perhaps did not wish to. Preparations were being made to the Nautilus as if for action stations. They were very simple. The jackstay forming the handrail around the platform was lowered. The domes for the searchlight and the pilot-house slid into the hull so as to form a unified line with it.* The surface of the long metal cigar no longer offered a single point to interfere with its operation.
