by Jules Verne
I went back down to the salon. The Nautilus was still on the surface. A few morning gleams were slipping into the liquid strata. As some of the waves rolled on, the windows were lit up by the red of the rising sun. That terrible day of 2 June was just beginning.
At five o’clock the log told me that the Nautilus was slowing.* I realized that it was allowing itself to be approached.* The explosions were getting louder. The shells were ploughing into the surrounding water, moving through it with a strange hissing sound.
‘My friends,’ I said, ‘the time has come. Let’s shake hands and God be with us!’
Ned Land was determined, Conseil calm, and I on edge, hardly able to control my nerves.
We went into the library. Just as I opened the door giving on to the well of the central staircase, I heard the hatch slam shut.
The Canadian rushed towards the steps, but I held him back. A familiar hissing sound told me that water was flooding into the tanks. Within seconds, the Nautilus had sunk a few metres below the surface.
I understood then what was happening. It was too late to do anything. The Nautilus was not planning to strike the impenetrable armour of the double-decker, but the section below its flotation line, where a metal sheath no longer protected the planking.
We were prisoners once more — forced witnesses to the sinister drama being prepared. In any case, we hardly had time to think. Taking refuge in my room, we looked at each other without a single word. A profound stupor had invaded my brain. My mind had stopped working. I found myself in that uncomfortable state of waiting for a frightening explosion. I waited and listened, my sense of hearing the only part of me alive!
Meanwhile the speed of the Nautilus had noticeably increased as it gathered momentum. Its hull trembled.
Suddenly, I gave a cry. A jolt had occurred, but a relatively slight one. I could feel the strength of penetration of the steel ram. I could hear scraping noises. The Nautilus, carried on by its propulsive force, was passing clean through the vessel,* like a sailmaker’s needle through canvas!
I could no longer keep still. Maddened, bewildered, I rushed out of my room and into the salon.
Captain Nemo stood there. Silent, sombre, implacable, he was watching the port window.
An enormous object was sinking into the water; and, so as to follow every detail of its death-throes, the Nautilus was descending into the abyss with it. Ten metres away, I could see a hull torn open, water rushing in with the sound of thunder, then the twin ranks of cannons and bulwarks. The deck was covered with black shadows, all moving.
The water was rising. The wretches rushed up the rigging, clung on to the masts, twisted under the waters. It was a human ant-heap caught out by the invasion of a sea.
Paralysed, stiff with anguish, hair standing on end, eyes unnaturally wide, hardly able to breathe, without air, without voice, I was watching too! An irresistible attraction glued me to the glass.
The enormous vessel slowly sank. The Nautilus followed it, watching for its slightest movements. Suddenly, an explosion occurred. The pressure made the decks* of the vessel fly off, as if fire had broken out in its magazine. The thrust of the water was such that the Nautilus was pushed aside.
Now the unhappy ship sank more quickly. Its crow’s nests, laden with victims, went down, next its crosstrees, bending under the weight of the clusters of men, and finally the tip of its mainmast. Then the sombre mass disappeared, and with it the crew of human forms, carried down in a formidable undertow . . .
I turned to Captain Nemo. That terrible lawgiver, that archangel of hatred, was watching still. When everything was finished, Captain Nemo headed for the door of his room, opened it, and went in. My eyes followed him.
On the far wall, below the pictures of his heroes, I saw the portrait of a woman, still young, with two small children. Captain Nemo looked at them for a few moments, stretched out his arms to them, and knelt down sobbing.*
22
Captain Nemo’s Last Words
The panels had closed again over this frightening vision, but the light had not been switched on again in the salon. Inside the Nautilus there reigned only darkness and silence. It was leaving that place of destruction, 100 feet beneath the water, at prodigious speed. In what direction was it heading? North or south? Where was this man fleeing after his terrible reprisal?
I had returned to my room where Ned and Conseil were silently waiting. I felt an invincible horror for Captain Nemo. Whatever he had suffered at the hands of men, he did not have the right to inflict punishment in this way. He had made me the witness to his acts of revenge, if not the accomplice. That was already too much.
At eleven o’clock the electric light came on again. I went into the salon. It was deserted. I consulted the various instruments. The Nautilus was fleeing north at a speed of 25 knots, sometimes on the surface of the water, sometimes 30 feet below.
Our bearings having been marked on the map, I realized that we were passing near the mouth of the English Channel, and that our movement was taking us towards the Arctic seas at unsurpassed speed.*
I could barely identify the quickly passing long-nosed sharks, hammerheads, or spotted dogfish of these waters; nor the great eagle rays, the clouds of sea-horses like knights in chess sets, the eels wiggling like firework squibs, the armies of crabs fleeing obliquely while crossing their pincers over their shells, nor finally the schools of porpoise racing the Nautilus. I did not even think of observing, studying, or classifying them.
By evening, we had covered 200 leagues of the Atlantic. Shadows fell, and the sea was cloaked in darkness; but then the moon rose.*
I went back to my room. I could not sleep. I was assailed by nightmares. The terrifying scene of destruction was repeating over and over in my mind.
Starting from that day, who could have said where the Nautilus took us through that basin of the North Atlantic? Always at a speed that could not be guessed! Always through the Arctic fogs. Did it put in at the tip of Spitsbergen, or on the shores of Novaya Zemlya? Did it go through those unknown waters, the White Sea, the Kara Sea, the Gulf of Ob, the Lyakhov Islands, or along the unexplored shores of the Asian coast? I could not say. Days and hours went by without me being able to calculate them. The time of the clocks on board had been suspended.* As in the polar regions, it was as if day and night no longer followed their regular course. I felt myself carried off to the realm of the extra-natural, where Poe’s overworked imagination moved at ease. At each moment I expected to see, like the fabulous Gordon Pym, ‘a shrouded human figure, very far larger in its proportions than any dweller among men, thrown across the cataract which defends the approaches to the Pole’!*
I estimate — but am perhaps mistaken — that this wild movement of the Nautilus continued on for two or three weeks; and I do not know how long it would have lasted had it not been for the catastrophe that terminated our voyage. Of Captain Nemo there was no longer any sign. Nor of his first officer. Not one crew member appeared for a single moment.* The Nautilus navigated almost permanently underwater. When it went up again to replenish its air, the hatches opened and closed automatically.* The position was no longer plotted on the planisphere. I had no idea where we were.
I must also say that the Canadian was at the end of his patience and tether, and no longer left his cabin. Conseil could no longer drag a single word out of him, and feared that he might kill himself in a fit of madness or devastating homesickness. He devotedly watched over him every second of the day.
It will be understood that in such circumstances the situation was no longer tenable.*
One morning — what date I cannot say* — I had started dozing in the first few hours of the day. An uncomfortable and unhealthy doze. When I awoke, I found Land leaning over me and saying in a low voice:
‘We’re going to escape!’
I sat up.
‘When?’
‘Tonight. All surveillance appears to have vanished from the Nautilus. There seems to be a tot
al stupor on board. Will you be ready?’
‘I will. But where are we?’
‘In sight of some land that I glimpsed through the fog this morning, 20 miles east.’
‘What land?’
‘Not the foggiest, but whatever country it is, we will find shelter there.’*
‘Yes, Ned! We will try to escape tonight, even if the sea does swallow us up!’
‘The sea is stormy, the wind strong, but covering 20 miles in the Nautilus’s boat doesn’t frighten me. I have been able to put some food in, plus a few bottles of water, without the crew realizing.’*
‘I will follow you.’
‘In any case, if I’m caught, I’ll fight back, I’ll give up my life.’
‘We’ll die together, Ned, my friend.’
I was ready for anything. The Canadian left me. I went out on to the platform, although I could scarcely stand up due to the shaking from the waves. The sky was threatening, but since there lay land behind that fog, we had to try to escape. We could not wait a day or even an hour.*
I went back to the salon, fearing and at the same time longing to meet Captain Nemo, wanting and not wanting to see him. What could I say to him? Would I be able to hide the involuntary horror he inspired in me? No, better not to come face to face with him! Better to forget him! And yet!
How this day dragged on, the last I was ever to spend on board the Nautilus! I remained alone. Ned and Conseil avoided speaking to me for fear of giving themselves away.
At six o’clock I dined, but did not feel hungry. In spite of my distaste, I forced myself to eat, wishing to maintain my strength.
At half past six, Ned Land came into my room:
‘We won’t see each other again before we go. At ten o’clock, the moon won’t be up yet. The darkness will help us. Come to the boat. Conseil and I’ll be waiting for you there.’
Then the Canadian went out without giving time for a reply.
I wished to know the Nautilus’s direction. I made for the salon. We were heading north-north-east at frightening speed and 50 metres’ depth.
I made a final inspection of the wonders of nature and treasures of art amassed in the museum, at this unrivalled collection destined to perish one day at the bottom of the seas, together with the man who had assembled it. I wanted to engrave one last memory in my mind. I remained an hour thus, bathed in the emanations from the luminous ceiling, reviewing the resplendent treasures behind the panes. Then I returned to my room.
I put on strong sea clothing. I gathered my notes together, and tied them with great care to my body. My heart was beating violently. I could not reduce its throbbing. My trouble and unease would certainly have given me away before Captain Nemo.
What was he doing at this moment? I listened at the door of his room. I heard footsteps, telling me Captain Nemo was there. He had not gone to bed.* With each step I thought he would appear and ask me why I wished to escape. Feelings of alarm kept gripping me. My imagination magnified them. The impression became so strong that I wondered if it would not be better to march into the captain’s room, look him in the face, and defy him with my attitude and my eyes!
These were the promptings of a madman. Fortunately I held back, and went back to stretch out on my bed so as to reduce the agitation in my body. My nerves calmed down a little, but in a swift vision of my overexcited brain I relived my whole life on board, all the happy and unhappy incidents that had marked the Nautilus following my disappearance from the Abraham Lincoln: underwater hunting, the Torres Strait, the savages of Papua, running aground, the coral cemetery, the route under Suez, the island of Santorini, the Cretan diver, Vigo Bay, Atlantis, the ice-cap, the South Pole, imprisonment in the ice, the battle with the squid, the storm on the Gulf Stream, the Vengeur, and that terrible scene of the sinking of the vessel with all hands. All these events passed before my eyes like minor scenes taking place on the backdrop of a stage. Then against this strange setting Captain Nemo grew out of all proportion. His character was accentuated and took on superhuman dimensions. He was no longer a fellow human, but a marine being, a spirit of the seas.
It was half past nine. I took my head in my hands to stop it exploding. I closed my eyes. I no longer wanted to think. Still half an hour to wait! Half an hour of a nightmare that might send me mad!
Suddenly I heard distant chords from the organ, the sad harmony of an indefinable melody, the veritable complaint of a soul yearning to break all ties with earth. I listened with all my senses, hardly breathing, plunged like Captain Nemo into musical ecstasies that carried him beyond the limits of this world.
Then a new thought terrified me. Captain Nemo had obviously left his room. He was in that salon I had to cross to escape. There I would meet him one last time. He would see me, perhaps even speak! A sign from him could destroy me, a single word chain me to his ship!
Meanwhile ten o’clock was about to strike. The time had come to leave my room and join my companions.
There was no time to hesitate, even were Captain Nemo to surge up before me. I carefully opened my door. And yet it seemed that as it moved on its hinges, it made a frightening sound. Perhaps the sound existed only in my imagination! I crawled forward through the dark gangways of the Nautilus, stopping after each step to compress the beatings of my heart.
I arrived at the angled door to the salon. I slowly opened it. The room was plunged in deep darkness. The chords of the organ were still faintly echoing. Captain Nemo was there. He did not see me. I think that even in full light he would not have noticed me, so much did his ecstasy absorb him.
I dragged myself across the carpet, avoiding the slightest contact whose sound might have betrayed my presence. It took me five minutes to reach the far door leading into the library.
I was going to open it, when a sigh from Captain Nemo nailed me to the spot. I realized that he was getting up. I even caught sight of him, for a few rays from the lights in the library were filtering as far as the salon. He came towards me, his arms crossed, silently gliding rather than walking, like a ghost. His oppressed breast heaved with sobbings, and I heard him murmuring. The closing words reached my ear:
‘God almighty! Enough! Enough!’*
Was it an admission of remorse, escaping thus from the conscience of this man . . .?
Bewildered, I rushed into the library. I climbed the central staircase, followed the upper gangway, and reached the boat. I went through the opening which had already afforded access to my two companions.
‘Let’s go! Let’s go!’ I cried.
‘Straightaway,’ replied the Canadian.
The opening in the metal skin of the Nautilus was closed and bolted using an adjustable spanner Ned had brought with him. The cover of the boat itself was then put in place, and the Canadian began to undo the bolts still attaching us to the submarine vessel.
Suddenly a sound could be heard inside. Voices were sharply answering each other. What was it? Had our escape been discovered? I could feel Ned Land sliding a knife into my hand.
‘Yes,’ I murmured, ‘we are ready to die!’
The Canadian had stopped his work. But one word, repeated many times, a terrifying word, told me the reason for the agitation spreading through the Nautilus. It was not us the crew were upset with.
They were exclaiming ‘Maelstrom! Maelstrom!’*
The Maelstrom! Could a more frightening word reach our ears in a more desperate situation? Were we off the Norwegian coast, in its dangerous waters? Was the Nautilus being sucked down into that vortex at the very moment our boat prepared to cast off?
It is known that, at the greatest flow, the waters caught between Vaeroy and the Lofoten Islands* move with irresistible violence. They form a whirlpool from which no ship has ever been able to escape.* Monstrous waves rush in from all points of the horizon. They form a funnel fittingly called the ‘navel of the ocean’,* with a power of attraction stretching over a distance of 15 kilometres. Not only are ships sucked in, but also whales and even polar bears from t
he Arctic.
It was here that the Nautilus had involuntarily — or perhaps not — been engaged by its captain.* It was describing a spiral whose radius was decreasing all the time. The boat, still attached, was being transported with it at a dizzying speed. I could feel it. I was experiencing the turning feeling caused by a rotation that goes on for too long. We were in a state of terror! Terror of the highest degree! Our blood was no longer circulating, our nervous systems had closed down. We were covered in cold sweat, as if on a deathbed. What a noise all round our frail boat! What moanings echoed from miles around! What a din from the waters smashed on the sharp rocks of the bottom, where the hardest bodies break up, where tree-trunks wear themselves out, where they produce a ‘fur of hair’, as the Norwegian expression has it!*
What a situation! We were being shaken frightfully. The Nautilus was fighting like a human being. Its steel muscles were cracking. Sometimes it stood up, and us with it.*
‘We need to hold on’, said Ned, ‘and screw the bolts back on. If we stay with the Nautilus, we can still get out alive . . .!’*
He had not finished speaking, when a cracking noise resounded. The bolts gave way; and the dinghy was torn from its recess and launched into the midst of the whirlpool like a stone from a sling.
My head struck an iron spar, and the forceful impact knocked me unconscious.
23
Conclusion
This is the conclusion of our journey under the seas. What happened that night, how the boat escaped from the formidable undertow of the Maelstrom, how Ned, Conseil, and I emerged from the deep, I cannot say. But when I came to, I was lying in the hut of a Lofoten Islands fisherman. My two companions were safe and sound beside me, squeezing my hands. We embraced warmly.*
