Nemo had little chance, a young man on his first voyage against a brutal-cutthroat who had no doubt slain hundreds of men. But he could not let the villain coolly march forward and murder Captain Grant. His lips curled back from his teeth in defiance.
Nemo yanked the other pistol out of his belt and pointed it at the hideously scarred pirate. Captain Noseless grinned at him, and his face looked even more like a skull. Nemo pointed the pistol at the pirate’s chest and pulled the trigger, feeling no remorse. “Die!”
The hammer clicked against the flint. Nemo’s stomach turned to ice as he recognized his mistake: When he had grabbed the two pistols, he had not loaded the second one. The pirate knew it.
With a brutal thrust, a sneering laugh on his face, Captain Noseless jabbed his cutlass hard into the young man’s chest. Nemo felt the point of the sword slam just below his sternum. The noseless pirate thrust, hard.
The force of the blow drove Nemo backward—and the next thing he knew, he lay senseless on his back, reeling, unable to breathe, trying to scream, unable to believe what had just happened to him . . . expecting to die.
But he wasn’t dead. Despite the pirate’s murderous intent, the cutlass had bit into the leather-bound journal that Jules Verne had given him. Nemo had stuffed it into his shirt before climbing down from the crow’s nest. The steel point had poked through half of the pages and hammered him backward, but the book had saved his life.
Another pirate, one whose face was horribly burned, strode toward Nemo. A massive flame-red beard protruded like a shovel from his chin. Astonished to see the young man still alive after the sword thrust, Redbeard intended to finish the job.
Nemo backed away, crouching and looking dangerous. He couldn’t catch his breath, or focus his thoughts. The deafening sounds of battle faded to a mere background hum as he concentrated on staying alive. Nemo took out his long knife to defend himself against the bearded pirate.
When he stepped on a fallen sword with a clatter, he bent to pick it up. His own two pistols were spent, so he threw them like metal cudgels at the pirate’s face. But Redbeard ducked from one side to the other, grinning. Nemo breathed hard, inhaling fire with each breath, hating the pirates, hating their thirst for mayhem and slaughter. He wanted to kill them all.
Near the bow, Ned Land fired a final shot from his rifle, blowing a pirate completely off the deck. Then the burly quartermaster grabbed the long barrel and flailed the rifle like a steel club. The oak stock splintered as he brought it down on the face of a charging pirate, smashing the man’s nose. A spray of blood, mucus, and teeth spewed from the pirate’s broken head.
Ned Land thrashed the rifle from side to side, biceps bulging, until the splintered wooden stock broke off . . . and a swarm of angry pirates converged on him. With dismay, Nemo saw the Canadian quartermaster go down under a flurry of long knives and sword thrusts.
Concentrating on his bearded attacker, Nemo backed against the deck rail with nowhere to go but the debris-filled ocean. Intent on venting his anger against this one opponent, dismayed at what had just happened to Ned Land, he thrust his sword toward Redbeard, but the pirate clashed his own sword against it. The jarring impact numbed the young man’s arm all the way up to the elbow, and the sword clattered from his throbbing grip. Nemo had only the long dagger in the other hand.
Redbeard raised his sword for the killing blow. Nemo glared at him, ready to jump and fight with his teeth and fingernails, if necessary. He wouldn’t give up, certainly not now.
Then a singularly loud pistol shot cracked over the din. Crimson splashed from a new hole beneath the bearded pirate’s breast. The marauder grunted and stopped, holding his sword high, still preparing for the thrust.
Nemo looked wildly to one side and saw that Captain Grant had fired his last shot. The captain, his mentor, had aimed and hit the murderous pirate to save the life of his cabin boy.
Before Nemo could react, the noseless pirate leader strode up to Captain Grant and brought the pommel of his dripping cutlass down on the captain’s head, driving him to the deck. A gasp of shame and despair rose like a banshee’s cry from the survivors of the Coralie.
“No!” Nemo cried.
Mortally wounded, Redbeard took one more staggering step forward, as if in death he meant to embrace the young man. He collapsed like an avalanche on top of Nemo, knocking him into the rail, which shattered. Both of them tumbled backward into the waves. . . .
In the water, Nemo struggled to take refuge in the scattered wreckage. A fan of red murk oozed from Redbeard’s body, and Nemo kicked his way free, pummeling the pirate’s lifeless body. Already the marauder sloop and the damaged Coralie were drifting away. Out in the open sea, a dazed Nemo had to tread water before trying to swim back toward the ships.
All the remaining pirates had swarmed from the sloop over to the Coralie. With the battle won, some went about extinguishing fires and minimizing further damage to the brig.
Nemo looked up from the water. At the tall quarterdeck, he watched the disfigured pirate leader haul Captain Grant to his feet. Noseless marched the stunned man to the tallest point, where everyone could see. By now, many of the Coralie survivors were surrendering to whatever fate awaited them.
Nemo’s ears were ringing, and he couldn’t make out the exact words that Noseless spoke—but he knew the speech was about Captain Grant, who stood reeling and barely conscious, still struggling to maintain his dignity. But he felt helpless, needing to do something. He swam harder, stroking toward the ships that continued to drift farther and farther from him.
Then the pirate leader pointed a pistol at Captain Grant’s chest and fired. The blast knocked the captain to the deck. Nemo gave a wordless shout that went unheard in the remaining din of the takeover. He choked on water that splashed into his gasping mouth. He swam harder, tears stinging his eyes with the saltwater from the sea.
Without ceremony, a pair of pirates picked up the captain’s body, swung him twice, then heaved him overboard. Captain Grant, Nemo’s friend and teacher, who had shown him the ways of the sea and the ways of science, fell dead into the water, among the other floating debris.
The pirates had taken complete control of the Coralie now, retying sails, regaining the brig’s maneuverability. Because it was far more powerful and more impressive than their sloop, they would no doubt repair the three-masted ship and make it one of their own vessels.
As the ships sailed away from him, Nemo knew he could never catch up, no matter how fast he swam. Devastated now, still reeling from the horror he had seen but not yet acknowledging the even worse straits in which he now found himself, Nemo clung to the wreckage that had spilled from the Coralie ’s cargo hold.
He screamed after the pirates, but they either did not hear him, or ignored his pitiful shouts. But Captain Grant had taught him to be resourceful. Nemo looked around at the splintered wood, the broken spars, and the few casks and crates of supplies. Perhaps he could construct some sort of a temporary raft. But he had to act quickly, for every moment the flotsam dispersed more and more. He could not lose vital resources now. Every scrap might make the difference between his survival or his death.
All around, the water was stained purplish from spilled blood. Corpses floated facedown like tiny islands, their gaping wounds washed clean by sea water. Somewhere in the distance, the body of Captain Grant lay among them.
The two ships dwindled to tiny specks, farther and farther away, until there was nothing else but the sea. Nemo was adrift and alone, lost and helpless.
Soon, the sharks would come.
V
Even before the still-smoking Coralie and the pirates’ sloop disappeared into the distance, Nemo realized how alone he was out in the South China Sea. To stand even the slimmest chance of surviving, he would have to rely on his own wits and everything he had learned. He thought of Captain Grant—and then Jules Verne, and Caroline Aronnax, and he strove for some way to keep himself alive.
Alert for the circling razor fi
ns of sharks, Nemo paddled toward the nearest crate. If he could assemble the drifting junk, he might find enough worthwhile components. Kicking hard with sore and exhausted legs, he pushed it closer to one of the others. Then, with the tangled end of a burned rigging line, he lashed them together into a crude raft. Next, breathless but refusing to think about his exhaustion or fear, he swam over to fetch a barrel bobbing in the waves. Hoping it would contain water or beer, he was dismayed to find that the keg held only damp black powder.
He did find a dead chicken, drowned inside its cage, already planning for when he would need food. Not knowing how long he might remain adrift, or what items he might require, he grabbed a waterlogged scrap of canvas from a torn sail, a long piece of wooden rail with a splintered end, a tangled mass of rigging rope, and someone’s bloodstained shirt. He still had the waterlogged journal that had saved his life from the pirate captain’s sword thrust, and he even kept the battered cage from the drowned chicken. Anything might prove invaluable.
Soon, he saw shark fins cutting the surface, circling and approaching the floating bodies. Many of the fresh corpses were slain pirates, and he wanted nothing more than to see them devoured by the aquatic predators. But other human forms floating here—like Captain Grant himself—had been his mates aboard the Coralie. These brave men, his friends, his teachers, were now nothing more than fish food. Nemo hoped they gave the sharks indigestion. . . .
With so many sharks in the water, he didn’t dare leave his meager refuge on the tilted crates. Using a broken slat of wood, he paddled his cumbersome raft away from the scene of carnage. For hours, he watched as the voracious sharks fought over the floating casualties of the battle. Standing above the water, he shouted his rage and helplessness at them, but they ignored him. . . .
All that night Nemo huddled on the raft, knees drawn up against his chest in a darkness lit with silver light from the southern constellations Captain Grant had taught him. In the quiet darkness, he heard only the sounds of water lapping against his makeshift raft, and the ferocious tearing and splashing of sharks devouring the last scraps of human meat.
He sat and listened and thought about his boyhood in Nantes, his days exploring the world in his imagination with young Jules Verne . . . and flirting with Caroline Aronnax. Nemo kept seeing the face of kindly Captain Grant, thinking of how the man had used his last pistol shot to save him before falling prey to Captain Noseless.
Nemo spent the entire night wide awake in grief and despair. He faced the overwhelming fear that clamored to rule his consciousness, and by dawn he had come through the worst of it. After much contemplation, Nemo decided to live. Somehow.
During the worst heat of the blistering day, Nemo covered himself with the wet canvas and curled up under it.
Sometime during the second day he devoured the dead chicken raw. Hunger and weakness drove back his natural reluctance to eat the uncooked meat, since his survival was more important than his preferences. Before long, the chicken would rot and do him no good. So he sucked every drop of moisture from the flesh, chewed the fat for every scrap of energy it could provide.
Finished, he made the mistake of tossing the entrails over the side, which attracted the sharks again. One persistent shark circled, sensing more food atop the lashed crates. Its fin traced a spiral, coming closer and closer. Looking into the water, Nemo could see its sleek torpedo form; it reminded him of what Captain Grant had told him about Robert Fulton’s sub-marine boat, which had been designed to move underwater like an armor-plated fish.
The shark finally grew tired or impatient—and rammed Nemo’s rickety raft. Hastily knotted ropes strained as the crates lurched.
The impact nearly threw Nemo overboard, but he grabbed the rough ropes to keep his balance. His left foot splashed into the water, but he yanked it back onto the wooden raft. The shark returned for another lunge, its soulless black eyes filled with obsession and hunger.
The shark rammed again, cracking some of the boards. Knowing the crates wouldn’t last long under such an onslaught, Nemo spread his feet apart on the uneven surface and snatched up the splintered wooden pole. It wasn’t much of a spear, but it was the only weapon he had.
On the Coralie Ned Land had caught several sharks along the coast of Madagascar. Nemo knew that such a fish had tough hide, reminiscent of chain-mail armor with overlapping scales, rough like sandpaper. He also knew that the snout was the shark’s most sensitive spot.
As the killer fish came at him again, Nemo braced himself and jabbed with the spear. The jagged point scraped the shark’s head, missing the sensitive nose and sliding off the hard scales between its eyes. Startled, the fast-moving creature swerved, missed the crates, and dove deep before it could cause further damage to the raft. Nemo withdrew his spear, held it tighter . . . waiting.
The shark came up from below and rammed the crates. They creaked, but held. Nemo hoped the bottoms of the boxes hadn’t burst, or he would lose whatever resources he had managed to salvage.
Again, the shark returned. Its head and snout protruded from the water, jaws wide open like a two-man saw wrapped into a circle. Seeing the sharp teeth and wet, red mouth, Nemo fought off disorientation. One slip could send him headfirst into that hungry maw. With a weird clarity, he recalled the three-fingered sailor at the docks of Ile Feydeau whose shipmate had been swallowed whole. He forced the thought away.
Marshalling his strength, Nemo raised the splintered end of his spear—and jabbed. The sharp wooden point plunged deep into the fish’s nose. The rough spear gouged a jagged wound in its tough skin.
The shark thrashed, tearing the weapon from Nemo’s grip. Splinters sliced open the young man’s slick palms, but he felt no pain. Not yet. The wooden rod clattered onto the crates, and he scrabbled for it, but the spear bounced off into the sea.
Without thinking, heedless of the blood on his own hand, Nemo dropped to his belly and snatched the wooden pole back out of the water. He dared not lose his only weapon. The shark flailed about in pain, bleeding into the water.
Just then the other sharks converged on it, sensing more food. Smelling fresh blood.
Shuddering with adrenaline and exhaustion, Nemo watched five of the predators tear the wounded shark into strips of meat, devouring it alive. Nemo huddled on the raft without moving, clutching his spear as if it were a religious artifact. Even with his ordeal, though, he had enough presence of mind to press part of his torn shirt against the cuts on his palm, slowing the blood, keeping it from dripping into the water, which would send the sharks into a greater frenzy. He sat for so long his joints seized up and his muscles cramped until the turmoil in the reddened water faded away.
He didn’t move for the rest of that afternoon. After many drawn-out hours, the ocean became quiet and empty again. The sharks had gone, every scrap of food consumed.
And Nemo was more alone than ever.
The vast blue sea stretched forever around him, for days and miles. He had no maps, no idea of his position. The nearest land could be just over the horizon, or it could be a thousand miles away. Nemo had no way of knowing. On his voyage with Captain Grant, he had already seen the immensity of the Earth.
The sun went down, and the sky was as empty as the sea. Curling his fingers in the water, Nemo caught a few scraps of floating seaweed. He chewed on it, but the leaves tasted bitter. Later, he endured abdominal cramps that could have come from the seaweed, or just from deep hunger.
He thought of how the sharks had fed and wished that he had managed to rip some scraps of meat from the shark he had injured. He deserved some of the spoils of his hunt, but the other predators had consumed the entire carcass.
Nemo looked in vain over the edge of his raft. He trailed the empty chicken cage like a sieve, trying to catch an unlucky, curious fish. He ended up with only a few more strips of seaweed and one tiny crab, which he ate in an eyeblink, crunching the shell and swallowing before he could taste anything.
Desperately thirsty, still huddled under the canvas
, he finally spotted a line of clouds at the horizon. He sat up sluggishly, shading his eyes. Over hours, he realized this was no illusion, that he was indeed seeing a blurry line. A circling bird high overhead reassured him that he must indeed be close to land.
His weary heart swelled. With a glimmer of hope, he realized he had to set course for this distant strip of dry ground. He planted his wooden spear in the crack between the crates and threaded the tattered canvas onto the pole like a crude sail. He tugged on one side, using his weight and shifting position until he managed to catch a few breaths of wind. Though he couldn’t see any change in his position, Nemo knew he had begun to move. Toward the island, he hoped. He tilted the makeshift raft, used the sail to tack in the proper direction, and aimed for the misty gray clouds and the land that seemed infinitely far away.
Now that he had a goal, he could focus his being. Nemo lost all sense of time. The sun passed in a parabola overhead from an undistinguished horizon in the east, hovering overhead with pounding rays, and then falling toward the west. All the while, Nemo grasped the shreds of the sail in his raw fingers and rode the raft onward behind whatever power the wind could give him.
The clouds gradually thickened, rising taller in the air. At first, Nemo took great delight in recognizing that he was moving closer to the land mass. Then he also realized that the clouds were getting larger. Darker.
Before long, the wind began gusting, and the sea grew choppier. With the sky so dark, he could no longer see the distant island. When the clouds finally burst, Nemo stared into the downpour, turning his face toward the sky in ecstasy as cool water poured onto his cracked lips, filling his parched throat. He swallowed every drop as if it were a pearl, lapping the little bit that managed to pool in the cracks on the crates, and turned up to drink more. He took off his shirt, wrung the moisture into his mouth, and tried to sop up every drop of rain.
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