Captain Nemo

by Kevin J. Anderson

  And in the shadows behind her, Marie fussed about, trying to make the young lady look presentable while scolding her for unacceptable nocturnal activities, especially with two young men far beneath her station. She thought her mistress should have been looking ahead to a good marriage and fine prospects. With the significant dowry M. Aronnax could provide, Caroline would have her pick of all the suitable young men in Nantes.

  Caroline shushed her maidservant, though, and stepped out onto the tiled porch, pulling the door shut behind her and leaving Marie inside. She looked searchingly at Nemo, then over at Verne in outright surprise. “So you are really going, Jules? I hope you are not just doing this as a lark.”

  “We might not be back for three years.” Verne’s voice was raw, as if he could barely believe it himself. He squared his shoulders.

  She sighed and looked at Nemo. “André, I wish there was some other way to help you. I just could not think of—” Her voice broke as, leaning toward him, she whispered, “You must come back home.”

  He took one step closer. “Caroline, you have saved my life. You’ve given me a chance—and I promise I will come back to you.”

  “So will I!” Verne said.

  “I will remember you,” Caroline said, fighting back tears. “Both of you. That is a promise.” She embraced Verne and then Nemo—perhaps for just a little longer—and stepped back to take a long look at them, as if she were making a daguerreotype in her mind. On impulse, she snatched two ribbons from her hair. “Take these and think of me.” She handed a red one to Nemo, a green one to Verne. “I wish I had thought of something else to give you.”

  Nemo accepted his and kissed her on the cheek, feeling his lips burn; she moved, wanting more, but then Verne also tried to be gallant, taking her hand like a fancy lord and kissing it as he blushed.

  “Be safe, both of you, and watch over each other.” As if it required the last of her composure, she forced a smile. “Remember, you promised me a coral necklace.” Caroline hurried back inside her house before sorrow overwhelmed her, murmuring, “Oh, why did I not plan for this better?”

  Nemo and Verne stood disconcerted for several minutes before they walked together toward the docks. Each tied the precious hair-ribbon around his wrist, where he could see it every day. Verne sniffed it, trying to catch a scent of Caroline’s perfume.

  Passing the dock guard and stating their business, they crossed a creaking gangplank onto the deck of the ship that would be their world for the next several years.

  At dawn the Coralie weighed anchor, cast off her mooring ropes, and sailed down the Loire toward the ocean.

  X

  Pierre Verne awoke as usual, breakfasted on croissants, berries, and soft cheese served by his wife, and then strode off with a long-legged gait to his business offices. Every day the same, all of life in its place.

  At midmorning, though, his younger son Paul came running through town with an urgent message from Sophie Verne. Jules had disappeared. Pierre threw himself into the problem with all the forthrightness and sturdy determination reserved for his daily routine, his legal challenges, and any other business he conducted.

  At first, he believed it was a false alarm, that Jules had gotten some crazy notion into his head. The young man was flighty and irresponsible, with his head in the clouds; he would have to buckle down and get serious if ever he was to become an attorney. Today, Jules must have climbed out of bed at dawn and gone to follow his imagination without bothering to let anyone know. He often skipped his breakfast.

  Pierre didn’t doubt the scheme was some unwise idea concocted by that shipbuilder’s son. Despite Pierre Verne’s obvious disapproval, the two young men remained incomprehensibly attached to one another. And he understood even less why the daughter of M. Aronnax chose to associate with such a pair. Jules, at least, came from a respectable home—but that Nemo boy . . .

  With a scowl and a sigh, he shut the doors of his law offices, though he still had much to do, thanks to the legal matters attending the Cynthia disaster. Pierre suspected he would be back within an hour, Jules dragged home from his absentminded truancy and punished for his own good. Then Sophie would be calmed again, and all would return to normal.

  Scowling, he marched along the docks, brusquely interrogating sailors from one ship and another, asking if a red-headed young man, perhaps accompanied by a dark-haired boy of the same age, had been seen in the vicinity. Pierre Verne knew that the friends often played down here among the noise and the dirt and the smells.

  Pierre shook his head as he strode along. Such activities made perfect sense for André Nemo, since his father had been a shipbuilder and the boy could hope for nothing better in his life. For Jules, though, there could be no benefit in understanding ships if he intended to practice law in Nantes.

  Shielding his eyes from the hot sun and wrinkling his nose at the smell of fish and the sluggish summer river, he saw one of the sailors whose papers he had filed after the Cynthia disaster. This man had worked with Nemo’s father; perhaps he had seen the two. Pierre strode up and introduced himself briskly, while the sailor continued to repair frayed rope and lash heavy cords into knots.

  “I remember ye,” the sailor said.

  “And you certainly knew Jacques Nemo, who died aboard the Cynthia.”

  “Aye. A good man, he was.”

  “And his son. Do you know his son André, as well? André Nemo?”

  The sailor turned his head, scratching tangled gray hair on a sunburned scalp, then he reached into his belt to withdraw a long dagger with which he trimmed the rope’s frayed end. “O’ course. I was there when André climbed his first ratlines, right to the top o’ the mast. Boy has spunk and a good head about ’im. Even with the world against him, he’ll still make his way, that one. I wish ’im all the best, now that he’s gone.”

  “Gone?” The elder Verne stiffened. “Where did he go?”

  Surprised, the sailor set the rope in his lap. “Why, he set sail this mornin’, sir. Off to sea. Cabin boy for Captain Grant’s explorin’ ship, the Coralie.”

  Pierre frowned. He didn’t recall the ship, but then so many came and went in the port. “What about my son Jules?” He frowned at the sailor as he tugged on his own grayish sideburns, trying not to show his growing uneasiness. “A redheaded young man who often plays with the Nemo boy? They’re also frequently seen with the daughter of that merchant, Aronnax.”

  The sailor blinked at him in perplexity. “Ye mean ye don’t know, sir?”

  “Know? Know what?”

  “Shipped out together, as mates, they did. The two lads sailed off at dawn.”

  Pierre Verne gave a strangled cry. The sailor bent back to work on the rope to hide a smug grin over this supercilious man’s look of horror.

  Mme. Aronnax could not understand why M. Verne, a local lawyer, would be pounding on their door at noon, or why he would insist on speaking with her daughter. But Caroline answered the summons herself, straight-backed, her mouth a firm line, dressed in the daily finery her mother demanded.

  “My son Jules is gone,” Pierre said, looking into the girl’s blue eyes, shattering the porcelain composure of her expression. “Did you know that he boarded an English ship, the Coralie ?”

  Caroline drew a deep breath. “It is possible, Monsieur. My father arranged for André Nemo to take passage aboard Captain Grant’s ship, and I believe your son joined him. They told me their intentions last night.”

  “And you didn’t think to inform me, the boy’s own father? You could have written a message, sent out one of your servants—”

  “It is not my place to tell you, Monsieur.” She used all the hauteur her mother had taught her. “It was a matter given to me in confidence.”

  An appalled Mme. Aronnax looked on, but Caroline held her ground. “Your son and André Nemo talk a great deal and have big ideas. Jules Verne is known for the stories he likes to tell.” She sniffed. “Should I come running to you each time they make up a wild scheme, Monsieur
? I would be at your doorstep every afternoon.”

  Pierre seethed, but he could not take out his anger on the daughter of a wealthy and politically powerful merchant in Nantes. “Do you know where this ship is going? When does it come back?”

  Mme. Aronnax gave a stern glance to her daughter, and Caroline’s lips trembled. “The Coralie is sailing around the world to a hundred exotic places. She is not expected back for three years, perhaps.” Her voice cracked.

  “Three years . . . around the world?” Pierre shot up from the chair that Mme. Aronnax had politely offered him.

  “The ship went down the river to Paimboeuf.” Caroline remembered the schedules she had studied in her father’s shipping offices. “She will tie up for the day, making final preparations, and will set off again at dusk with the tide.”

  “Paimboeuf,” Pierre said, suddenly intent. “Thirty miles from here.” Then he marched to the door of the Aronnax home. “I must find a carriage.”

  XI

  While the three-masted ship traveled downriver into the wide estuary, Verne and Nemo stood on the scrubbed deck in exhilaration. They whistled to people on shore; some waved back, but most had seen so many ships go along the Loire that they found nothing special about it anymore.

  The night before, in the deep darkness before dawn, the two had caught a few hours sleep on the Coralie ’s deck, and they awoke feeling stiff and sore. But their excitement at setting out from Nantes filled them with energy. Verne couldn’t believe they were underway, plying the winds and currents. Each moment, he grew farther from his family and home as the breeze freshened and the sails strained like the belly of a gluttonous man.

  After the bustle of early morning duties, Captain Grant came to introduce himself, shaking Verne’s hand and giving him an assessing look. The English captain had close-cropped brown hair, broad shoulders, and thin and wiry arms. His wide-set eyes were surrounded by a deep set of crow’s feet, as if he had spent too many years gazing into sunrises and sunsets. He wore a mustache in the English style and spoke stilted French with a strong accent, though Verne and Nemo could understand him well enough.

  “I warrant we’ll spend plenty of time together while we sail. ’Tisn’t often I’m called upon to educate such fine young men as cabin boys.” He patted the two on their bony shoulders. “I’ve got no children of mine own—so you two must substitute on this voyage.” Grant’s voice was gentle and intelligent, but when he barked orders at his sailors, the long-practiced tone of command invited no questions.

  When the ship tied up at Paimboeuf just past noon, some sailors went ashore to procure last-minute supplies, while another part of the crew worked on board. Here on the Atlantic coast of France, the ships were larger. Some of the huge four-masters boasted spacious cargo holds larger than the Cynthia and the Coralie combined.

  Captain Grant pointed to the new cabin boys. “You two better go ashore while you’re still able—and mark the feel of solid ground under your feet. I warrant it’ll be some time before you do it again.” He marched down the creaking gangplank. “See that you return in an hour, lads, and be ready to sail.” The captain tipped his hat at two young ladies strolling by, then headed for the harbormaster’s offices to fill out final paperwork and enter his logs.

  As they departed from the ship, Verne thought of his mother’s cooking and the well-guarded secret recipe of her special omelet. He smiled at the memory of how his sisters played the pianoforte, how he often recited poetry or made up impromptu verses after dinner.

  Then he thought of exotic countries, strange animals, and mysterious cultures. He wanted see them all. In time, his family would get over their shock at his departure, and he would become a man, more rounded than he could ever be if he spent his life on Ile Feydeau.

  Verne vowed never to regret his decision. Even though Nemo’s father had been killed and Verne was leaving his own father behind, the two young men could now become surrogate sons, children of Captain Grant.

  He followed Nemo through the dockside markets, wandering down the rows of carts where women sold fresh shellfish. Merchants tallied colorful bolts of silk from China, tusks of ivory from Africa, jaguar pelts from Central America, monkeys in cages, parrots with brilliant plumage, dried shark fins, drinking cups made of rhinoceros horn (guaranteed to shatter at the touch of poison). Though they had little money, he and Nemo moved from stall to stall, eyeing the wares with fascination. Verne kept his eyes open for something special to bring back for Caroline.

  He fingered the green ribbon tied at his wrist, which only last night had held back the lush hair of Caroline Aronnax. Then Verne remembered the tinkling melodies she composed in secret; by the time he returned, perhaps Caroline could compose an entire symphony to celebrate their triumphs. . . .

  XII

  Though the driver was not a man to hurry his horses, he cracked his whip when Pierre Verne promised him a gold-piece bonus if they made it to Paimboeuf before the Coralie sailed. The brougham rattled down the river road, bouncing on rocks and splashing through mud.

  Any other time, M. Verne would have complained about the rough ride and the lack of padding on the carriage seats. But today he didn’t care.

  Up ahead, a lad no older than Jules, wearing a floppy hat and carrying a willow frond three feet taller than himself, shooed seven sheep along the road. The driver hollered while urging his horses ahead, and the lad scattered his sheep out of the way before they were run down.

  Six miles farther along, the path drove into steep highlands above the river estuary where the road was blocked by a cart whose wheel had broken. An old farmer sat next to the sagging wagon, watching his mule munch on a sack of grain. He seemed unconcerned that he had stalled all travel while waiting for someone to help him replace the wheel.

  The carriage driver leaned back and called to M. Verne, “If you want to move ahead, we’ll have to help him change his wheel.”

  “All right. Be quick about it,” Pierre said impatiently.

  The wagon owner and his mule appeared to be in no hurry, but Pierre scolded both drivers until they set to the task. So great was Pierre’s urgency that even he, dressed in fine business clothes, knelt in the mud and helped use a lever and boulders to lift the cart and replace the wheel. Then, before the farmer could casually pull in front of the brougham, Pierre shouted for the driver to hurry. The horses got up to a gallop again, and the carriage thundered past the rickety cart.

  The sun lowered toward the horizon, spilling golden rays in a spectacular Atlantic sunset. Other carts and horses and wagons began to fill the road as they approached Paimboeuf. M. Verne saw dozens of ships on the docks. He didn’t know how he would ever find the Coralie. It might take an hour to talk to the harbormasters and study docking records—and by that time the ship would have sailed with the outgoing tide.

  Instead, he instructed the driver to take the brougham down to the quays. The impatient attorney leaned out the window, questioning sailors. “Where’s the Coralie ?” He asked seven times until finally he said, “She’s about to sail. Which one is the Coralie ?”

  A young seaman with tanned skin and a wispy beard sat on a crate munching an apple. He looked up, unconcerned with M. Verne’s urgency, and gestured down the docks. “Fourth one. You’d better hurry. They’re casting off.”

  The driver whipped his horses. People on the docks scattered, much as the sheep had scattered on the highland road. The carriage rattled across the boardwalk, iron-shod wheels thundering like drumbeats. At last, Pierre caught sight of a three-masted ship with her sails furled to catch the wind and the outgoing tide. He saw the markings, the name Coralie, and—with horror—realized that sailors were already working to untie the brig from the pier.

  With a rattling clangor, the heavy chains were drawn up into the hawse holes. The sailors raised the anchor.

  XIII

  Because Verne and Nemo were both good with figures and arithmetic, Captain Grant had sent them down into the cargo hold with ledger sheets. After the
ir brief respite that afternoon, the two young men spent hours tediously marking the inventory of everything the Coralie would take along to circumnavigate the globe.

  The larder was filled with forty-five fresh hams, sixty slabs of bacon, seventy-one wax-covered cheeses, and sacks and sacks of flour, cornmeal, coffee beans, sugar, and potatoes. The diet of salt meats and ship’s biscuit would be relieved by fresh eggs from caged chickens, as well as milk (so long as the cow didn’t go dry from seasickness). Pigs and goats—which would eat all sorts of refuse including wood shavings, dirty straw, and even old newspapers—also provided occasional fresh meat.

  Experienced sailors worked hard with the ropes, lashing crates into spaces and storing barrels of water, beer, and black powder. Heavy cannon barrels were tied in the lowest decks for ballast, spares in case a cannon should explode during firing.

  Some of the crew had already noticed that the two cabin boys were favorites of the captain. Verne hoped the special treatment wouldn’t cause problems later, since he expected to put in his share of hard work. In theory at least. He already dreaded the uncomfortable conditions he would have to endure from storm-churned seas or long hot passages in the tropic doldrums.

  At sunset and the outflowing tide, the crew prepared to set off from Paimboeuf and head out to sea at last. A full moon would light their way, laying a path like molten silver across the calm Atlantic. Verne had seen the big wall chart in Captain Grant’s quarters. How many places had the captain seen? How many did he intend to visit during this voyage? Verne wanted to do it all. He just hoped there weren’t too many storms.

  Just as he and Nemo finished their last check, the ship’s bell sounded, signaling departure. With heavy thumping steps, the ship’s quartermaster climbed down the ladder into the cargo hold.

  The quartermaster was a broad-shouldered Upper Canadian named Ned Land, who had sailed with the English captain on other journeys. His chest was as broad and as hard as one of the kegs in the larder, and his curly blond hair looked disheveled no matter how often he wetted or greased it down. His striped shirt had been painstakingly mended with Ned’s own sewing skills during long hours aboard ship.