Captain Nemo

by Kevin J. Anderson

  He spat water and shook his head to clear his eyes. He could see Caroline’s pale face leaning over the edge of the balloon’s basket. She stretched out an arm as if to beseech him, but with its sudden increase in buoyancy, the Victoria rose again into a stiff breeze.

  All alone and lost in the water, Nemo watched the balloon, out of control now, rise up and glide away into the distance.

  VI

  More than an hour later, the remaining anchor snagged on a twisted acacia tree. The damaged Victoria clung desperately, as if it needed a rest as much as its two remaining passengers did.

  Drained and in shock, Caroline moved about like one of Mesmer’s entranced subjects. Ever since they had departed from France months before, she had secretly begun counting the days until she could declare Captain Hatteras lost at sea. Caroline knew that Nemo would wait as long as necessary. But he had thrown himself overboard to save her.

  Fergusson remained intent on the problem of the Victoria itself. His eyes were bright, and he tugged at his mustache as he pursed his lips and studied the gas-heating apparatus and the remaining inner balloon. “Our friend Nemo’s design was brilliant, eh? Even after such a horrendous attack, we have survived. Remarkable.”

  “But he did not survive,” Caroline whispered, her face pale and drawn. “André is gone.”

  Fergusson gave her shoulder a paternal pat. “There, there, Madame—that remains to be seen. We mustn’t underestimate our intrepid friend’s resourcefulness, must we?”

  She forced a smile at that, realizing that Fergusson had a point. Nemo had been lost before, and still he had made his way back to her. She hoped he would do the same now.

  As they bobbed on the end of the snagged anchor rope, Fergusson pored over his notes and charts, searching for an answer. A scrubby forest covered the ground around them, broken by grassy areas and standing ponds. Caroline could see no paths, no signs of even primitive civilization. She didn’t know where they were now, or how far they’d drifted from where Nemo had fallen into Lake Tchad.

  Caroline drew a deep breath. His quick, impulsive kiss still burned on her lips. She knew why he had sacrificed himself, but she would rather they had all crashed in the African wilderness; that way they could have worked together to make it to the coast.

  But if Nemo had done such a brave thing for her, then she vowed not to waste his sacrifice. By all that she loved in the world, Caroline would find a way to get them out of this—and she would find him. Somehow.

  Caroline looked up at the netting that enclosed the sagging silk envelope of the external balloon. “That outer fabric is doing us no good. If we strip away the cloth, we’ll get rid of a lot of dead weight.”

  “Indeed!” Fergusson said with sudden eagerness. “The outer bag is over six hundred pounds of gutta percha-covered silk. Removing it might give us enough buoyancy to continue our journey, eh?”

  Grim and numb, Caroline took one of their long hunting knives. “I’ll do it, Doctor. You go and find Nemo.” Her voice left no room for argument. Placing the knife between her teeth, she stood on the edge of the basket, then climbed the ropes to the outer webbing that held the balloon in place.

  Fergusson took his rifle and a pack, then descended the ladder to the thorny acacia. Soon, whistling a tune to himself, he had disappeared into the tangled forest below. . . .

  Caroline planted her feet in the squares of netting. The monstrous condors had torn a four-foot gash in the scarlet fabric and another in the green section. The outer balloon was irreparable, even if they’d had more hydrogen gas to refill it.

  Since they had already discarded most of their heavy objects into the lake, regaining six hundred pounds of lift required them to take on ballast again. That would also enable them to retrieve Nemo, if ever they managed to find him.

  She replaced the despair in the pit of her stomach with iron-hard determination. Caroline pressed her lips together and lost herself in work.

  She had to slice the silk into strips and pull wads through the gaps in the webbing, taking special care not to puncture the inner balloon with the dagger point.

  She thought of when she’d been younger, how she had enjoyed talking with Nemo from her window late at night, how she had flirted with him and strung him along . . . and Jules Verne as well. Because of her father’s successful business and social standing, Caroline would never have been allowed to marry either of the young men, though she’d made her promises to a young Nemo, and had meant them with all her heart.

  Yet now, with her father dead and her husband vanished somewhere in the Arctic . . . she knew she’d have been happier with Nemo after all. Angry, she tore strip after strip off the outer balloon, letting the tatters float away like colorful ribbons to adorn the top branches of the thorn trees.

  She heard a gunshot and then a second, but even from her high vantage she could see nothing, could not tell what Fergusson was doing. Caroline imagined the English explorer fighting off ferocious beasts to rescue Nemo . . . though somehow she doubted that was true.

  By the time she finished removing the outer balloon and climbed back into the Victoria ’s expansive basket, she heard a rustle in the branches and saw Fergusson returning. Tied to his belt were two ducks he had shot. “I’ve replenished our food supplies.” He tossed them into the basket as he climbed aboard himself.

  “But what about André?” she said.

  He blinked at her as if in surprise, then shook his head. “Ah! No sign of him.”

  VII

  Nemo managed to tread water long enough to catch his breath, and then he began to swim. The warm lake made him feel heavy and sluggish. He hoped to find an island in the huge shallow body, but low mists had risen from the surface of the water, and he could not see into the distance. He swam blindly, hoping he wasn’t heading farther from the safety of shore. Creatures moved within Lake Tchad—eels or snakes, even submerged crocodiles.

  Twice he called for help. His hoarse shout echoed in the air, reflected mockingly back at him. Finally, he heard soft sounds, a synchronous chant, and a splash of paddles in the water. He swam toward the noises. Before long, as the lake mists thickened, he spotted a long canoe filled with dark-skinned native fishermen gliding toward him. Nemo called out, hoping for rescue.

  With a flurry of dipped oars, the canoes drew up beside the strange white man who had fallen from the sky. The boatmen seemed very excited. Their skin was remarkably smooth and ebony-colored, their attractive faces like statues with wide mouths and flat noses; gold ornamentation pierced their ears. They spoke in a musical-sounding language unfamiliar to Nemo. His French and his English would do him no good here in the heart of Africa.

  Exhausted, drenched, and completely lost, he grasped the side of the canoe. The men said something to him, then consulted amongst themselves. Then, with such powerful muscles they seemed to be lifting a leaf, the fishermen hauled him out of the water and into their boat.

  Nemo lay panting among the nets and fish. The fishermen began to sing again, dipping their paddles in the water with even, effective strokes. The canoe shot across the lake.

  The boatmen made no threatening gestures with their fishing spears, though they could easily have clubbed him and thrown him back into Lake Tchad for the crocodiles. Even so, Nemo saw a hardness in their onyx eyes, a predatory gleam that made him suspicious.

  He knew there were many tribes, many nations in Africa, often at war with each other—some brave and honorable, some treacherous . . . just like all the other men he had known. He did not yet know to which category these fishermen belonged. Nemo drew a deep breath and coughed out water. At least his sacrifice had allowed the Victoria to fly on. No matter what happened, Caroline was safe.

  The fishermen took the canoe into channels through the swamps. The ground became drier, and real grasses and shrubs replaced the marshy reeds, until the channel became a stream flowing out of Lake Tchad. Ahead, Nemo saw a village of reed huts, thatched roofs, and stockades made of thorn branches.

&n
bsp; Women chattered with great enthusiasm, welcoming the return of the fishermen. The man at the prow of the canoe loosed a musical cry. Then Nemo heard a startling gunshot, which seemed out of place in this wilderness. In the canoe, the boatmen took on harder expressions, and he felt even more uneasy. Nemo wished he could speak to the natives and ask their intentions, but for now, he waited stoically to see what fate had in store for him.

  The canoe came to shore, and two boatmen leaped out to hold it steady while the others disembarked. Nemo climbed out after them, glad to stand on dry land again, though his knees quivered.

  The men surrounded Nemo, then led him roughly along a worn footpath to the center of the village. Other villagers stared at the strange, pale-skinned captive. Two zebras pranced inside a thorny stockade; Nemo had no idea whether they had been captured as riding animals or beasts of burden . . . or just for food. Children sat in the dirt playing with twigs. Women wove fabric or pounded millet into flour.

  Then with a chill he saw a group of narrow-faced men with pointed beards. They wore billowy garments with flowing burnouses, and swords thrust into sashes at their waists. By their lighter skin, Nemo recognized them as notorious slavers from northern Africa.

  At the edge of the village, he saw dozens of people, obviously from a different tribe, chained together and tethered to the thick trees. Some of them huddled in the shade, others sat miserably in the hot, equatorial sun.

  Before he could struggle, the fishermen grabbed Nemo’s arms. He thrashed and kicked and yelled, to no avail. One of them cuffed him on the side of the head, making his vision spin. The slavers looked over at Nemo and raised their eyebrows in curiosity. They nodded with appreciation, then spoke in a guttural language which some of the natives seemed to understand.

  One of the fishermen held out his hand for payment while the rest threw Nemo inside a small hut. He surged to his feet, fists clenched to attack, but the natives barricaded the door in his face.

  Seeing red, Nemo growled through the thin walls, “I am not a slave.” He didn’t know if any of the others understood him, but he certainly comprehended their sharp, nasal laughter from outside.

  VIII

  When the stripped-down balloon was ready to fly again, Caroline and Dr. Fergusson waited for a day, hoping Nemo would somehow make his way to them. The Victoria bobbed in the sky like a beacon; he should have been able to see them even from a great distance.

  But still, he didn’t arrive.

  Caroline scanned the trees, the lake, the horizon, yet saw no sign of him. So, when the breezes changed and tugged them back in the opposite direction, she made up her mind. “If we take advantage of these winds, we shall drift back to Lake Tchad. It’s our only chance.”

  “We no longer have the means to control our direction, Madame,” Fergusson pointed out. “We cannot easily find new air currents. Indeed, we must go wherever the breezes take us.”

  Caroline’s eyes were set with determination. “And now the breezes will blow us toward where we need to be. Nemo should spot us, and I know he can find a way to draw attention to himself . . . somehow.”

  Seeing her forceful expression, Dr. Fergusson climbed down the ladder to disengage the grappling hook. The Victoria, as if anxious to be off, sprang into the sky as he climbed back up, mopping sweat from his brow.

  Free again, the balloon wandered eastward across the sky like a drunkard, following the vagaries of breezes. Caroline refused to relinquish her grip on the spyglass, scanning for any sign of her lost Nemo. She knew that if they didn’t find him soon, before the prevailing winds began pushing them the opposite direction, she and the doctor would have no opportunity to return here.

  At last, she made out the metal-blue haze of Lake Tchad on the horizon.

  Now they merely had hundreds of uncharted miles to search for one lone man.

  IX

  Nemo stared through the cracks in the dry thatch of his prison hut. The cruelty and injustice he saw made his blood simmer, and he focused his iron thoughts on escaping.

  The other slaves, taken as spoils of battle in intertribal warfare, seemed crushed in spirit and unwilling to escape. Heartbroken, their villages destroyed, their relatives murdered in battle, they had nothing left to run to, no possibility for peace even if they escaped. The slavers had destroyed their very will to live.

  But Nemo could still think, and he could still fight.

  Ruthless slave merchants took captives to the coast, where they were sold in great markets such as the one at Zanzibar. The practice was so prevalent that the western edge of Africa bore the label “ebony coast,” a euphemism for the slaves sold to Portuguese and Dutch ships.

  Here, many of the hopeless women and children tied to the thorn trees were emaciated from a long trek across the wilderness. But Nemo was still healthy and strong. He would never be more fit. If he had to fight his way out, there could be no better time.

  The hut enclosing him was not sturdy, with a floor of pounded earth—as if the slavers expected no outright resistance. Though Nemo had no knife, he knew he could break out. The main question was where he would go afterward. Where could he run? By now, if his sacrifice had meant anything, the Victoria would be long gone, far away . . . and Caroline would be safe.

  The slavers gathered their horses and paid the villagers, making ready to depart at dawn the next day. Accompanying them, Nemo would be shackled and dragged along. Though he was a white-skinned Frenchman, they would take him deep into the interior, sell him to a mine or horrible work camp. Once the slavers put him in chains with the others and set off for the slave markets, he would never have a chance. It had to be tonight.

  He sat motionless, studying everything around him, until he developed his plan. He didn’t have the luxury of choosing among options.

  At nightfall, the women built large cooking fires, and the visiting slavers feasted with their allies. Though the narrow-faced slavers restrained themselves, the fishermen drank millet beer from clay urns. Nemo ate the watery fish soup an old village woman gave him through the door of his prison hut.

  During the loudest part of the revels, he found a sharp stone on the floor of his hut and sawed at the vine lashings holding the back wall together. Then Nemo waited until well past midnight, when silence hung thick around the village. Hoping he could move quietly enough to get away, he parted the back joinings of the hut. With a loud crackling noise, he pushed through and stood in the open again. Free.

  If he ran on foot into the jungle, though, he would not get far. Instead, Nemo made his way to the crude stockade, where he inspected the two captive zebras. The animals twitched their tails and snorted, moving back and forth. Knowing he could be caught at any second, Nemo removed the thorny bars from the corral’s closure. The striped animals backed away from him, but he approached slowly, trying to be calm. Not daring to risk even a soothing whisper, Nemo crept closer to one of them. In the starlight, the animal’s black and white markings rippled like an apparition. Its mane was short and bristly.

  The first animal trotted away, discovered the opening in the corral, and bolted out into the open. The second zebra, seeing its companion flee, decided to do the same. Nemo sprang toward it, throwing his arms around its muscular neck. He had no halter or saddle, but he had desperation. He grasped the stiff hair of its mane and hauled himself onto its back.

  The zebra squealed as if a lion had clawed it, then bounded forward with the speed of terror. Nemo held on, low over the zebra’s neck, squeezing its ribs with his thighs. He had no way to exert control—so the zebra just ran, galloping out of the village.

  Behind him came the outcries of the wakened villagers. Gunshots barked into the night. Hunched low, Nemo kept riding, slapping the animal into greater speed, until the turmoil faded into the distance. The zebra plunged into the tree shadows and tall grasses, fleeing the marsh onto solid ground, toward the plains where it knew to roam. . . .

  Several hours later, while Nemo still clung to the zebra, the sun rose over the hor
izon, spilling golden light upon the grasslands. He cast a glance over his shoulder—and saw to his dismay a line of mounted dark-garbed raiders galloping after him. Though Nemo was only one slave, he had infuriated and shamed these men by escaping; he was an affront to these cruel people who expected all to tremble in fear of them.

  The slavers’ mounts were larger and stronger than his zebra, and they would catch up soon. Nemo swatted the animal’s rump. Though its nose and mouth were flecked with foam, the zebra put on a burst of speed, charging across the plain.

  Raising an angry fist at his pursuers, Nemo saw no place to hide in the great open space, no refuge. Then he looked up into the brightening sky and saw to the north a heavenly object, like a man-made moon drifting there.

  The Victoria!

  With a cry, he turned the zebra’s head, changing its direction. The mount galloped blindly across the grasses. Behind him he could hear the thundering hooves of pursuing horses. One of the slavers fired a shot, though Nemo was still too far ahead to worry about any stray bullet.

  When he heard a second shot from a different direction, he looked up and saw a tiny puff of smoke come from the balloon. Caroline had seen him. Fergusson had fired his rifle as a signal. Nemo raced forward on the zebra, but still the slavers came closer. Though frightened of the Victoria, still they would not let their escaped captive go free.

  The zebra stumbled, nearly throwing its rider. The animal had very little-strength left . . . but Nemo was so close now. He gasped a burning breath, raising one hand to wave at the balloon. The Victoria seemed to be descending. The anchor fell over the side and then the long ladder.

  Nemo fought with the zebra, trying to influence its course, but the enormous balloon spooked it. He grasped its mane and squeezed with his thighs, trying to urge just a little more cooperation and speed from his mount. Then he hurled a curse back at the slavers.