Captain Nemo

by Kevin J. Anderson

  One of the white-haired soldiers hollered from the bow, and Verne heard the thump of running feet on deck. Someone retrieved the three flintlock weapons from the locker. Ragged voices issued orders, while others countermanded them.

  Verne groaned. With a heavy sigh, he imagined it must be another false sighting. He closed his notebook and left his cabin, striding up to the main deck just in time to see two old veterans fiddling with the tiny cannon. They lit the fuse. Verne raised his hand, demanding to know what they were doing, but it was too late.

  The small gun fired its two-pound ball with a sound like a child’s oversized popgun. The men cheered and raised their fists into the air, hurling obscenities and insults across the water. They pointed and danced and waved their hands.

  Then Verne looked into the gathering dusk to see a three-masted enemy warship approaching, its gunports open and full-sized cannons emerging. Prussian navy men swarmed about like ants on the deck, preparing to capture or destroy the Saint Michel.

  And his men had fired the tiny cannon in defiance.

  “What have you done?” Verne gasped in horror. “You fools!”

  The Prussian warship launched a broadside at them. All the cannons on its starboard hull blazed orange spitfire. Though the range was still great, cannonballs rained like meteorites into the water between the two ships. The warship adjusted her sails and bore down on Verne’s minuscule yacht.

  “Turn us about, men,” he said. “Turn us about! Run for the shore.”

  One of the wrinkled veterans pulled out his flintlock to fire a wild shot at the enemy, but others quickly realized the rashness of their action. The small yacht turned toward the haven of the shore, which was merely a misty blur in the distance . . . much too far away. Verne shouted orders, but these men were not sailors, and they responded with less speed and efficiency than a captain would expect on a true war vessel.

  “We are doomed,” Verne muttered.

  As the Saint Michel began to flee, the Prussian warship closed the gap.

  Within an hour, the enemy vessel had approached close enough that the Prussians let loose another volley of cannon fire. The terrible balls struck closer, splashing all around the yacht. Miraculously, they did no more damage than splintering one of the yacht’s top deck rails.

  Next time, the cannonballs would probably sink them.

  “We will have to surrender,” Verne said, groaning in despair. “Raise our white flag.”

  “But Captain Verne, we are defending the French coast!”

  Verne’s voice cracked in abject panic. “Have you men bothered to look at our little boat? We can do nothing against that monstrous vessel. Just look at all of her cannon!”

  “Oh.”

  Even as they hoisted the white rag, hoping for mercy from the enemy captain, the big warship turned about, bringing her portside cannons to bear. Verne stared, appalled. There was nothing he could do, no means of escape. Even if he should dive overboard, he could never swim all the way to shore in the cold winter ocean.

  He was about to die.

  Then, as he faced the oncoming battleship, he saw a golden glow in the sea behind the Prussian vessel—the luminous yellow eyes of a deep-sea leviathan rising to the surface as it picked up speed.

  Verne put a hand over his mouth and saw the great armored vessel breach the surface just enough so that its razor ridge of reinforced steel cut a vicious wake like a shark’s fin. The Nautilus.

  The veterans onboard the Saint Michel were appalled. “It’s a monster!” At the bow, Verne gripped the side of his yacht close to the tiny cannon and shook his head, unable to believe his eyes.

  The men aboard the Prussian battleship gave brusque orders to ready the cannon—just as he heard the growl and hum of the sub-marine boat. The armored vessel leaped forward at top ramming speed and crashed into the warship. Too late, the Prussian cannons fired, intending to sink the Saint Michel. But with their aim thrown off, the weapons blasted harmlessly into the sky.

  Verne watched, stunned, as the Nautilus plowed through the lower hull of the Prussian vessel with a rending crunch. The sailing ship canted to one side, taking in huge amounts of water.

  Sparks from the cannon torches ignited black powder that had spilled onto the decks. Enemy sailors ran about, trying to escape from the unexpected attack by the sub-marine vessel. Then the warship exploded.

  Verne’s heart pounded in his chest, and he found himself short of breath. He couldn’t believe Nemo’s timely appearance. “Old friend, you always did manage to defeat impossible odds.”

  “We did it, Monsieur Captain Verne,” one of the old veterans said, grabbing his arm with joy. “We have sunk that Prussian ship!”

  Verne scowled at the ancient soldier. The other eleven men jabbered amongst themselves, not sure what had just happened. The dusk had deepened enough to make details in the water uncertain.

  “What if the sea monster attacks us next?” another one said.

  “It won’t,” Verne answered, leaning over the side of the boat and searching the waters. “He won’t.”

  As the Prussian vessel collapsed into a sinking mass of broken debris and flaming timbers, Verne wondered if he should take the Saint Michel over and rescue any survivors. He had only a small yacht, a few weapons, and just twelve crewmen. If he took aboard too many prisoners, they could easily overpower their captors—and then what would he do?

  Verne had no stomach for an actual fight. He had never expected to be this close to the realities of war. He scratched his beard, struggling to reach a decision. The Prussian warship had meant to sink them without remorse, to kill him and his crew in cold blood, even after they had raised a white flag. They could all swim to shore, for all he cared.

  Another wake curled up beside the Saint Michel, and a great metal shape appeared beneath the water. Demonic yellow eyes sent beams of light into the depths. With a hiss and trickle of shed water, the armored craft rose next to the yacht. The scrawny veterans scrambled to the opposite side of the boat, ready to jump into the cold Atlantic, if necessary.

  The Nautilus floated like a dragon, water dripping off its hullplates. While waiting for the upper hatch to open, Verne gripped the railing of his yacht, swung himself over, and dropped onto the outer deck of the sub-marine vessel. The veterans gasped, marveling at their captain’s bravery, wondering if he meant to kill the monster.

  Verne heard movement below, footsteps on the metal ladder. The hatch opened to reveal an older-looking Nemo, his trim, dark beard etched with a few strands of gray. Nemo raised a hand. “Jules, I was surprised to find you out here. Quite a good thing I chose a course along the coast.”

  “I’m certainly glad you did,” Verne answered. “Thank you, André.”

  “I cannot stop a war, but I can come to the aid of a friend.” Nemo gestured.

  “Come aboard the Nautilus, for one last time. We need to say our goodbyes, you and I.”

  Without hesitation, Verne climbed down the metal rungs and once again entered the marvelous undersea boat. The old veterans could handle the Saint Michel for a little while; in fact, they would need some time to recover from their astonishment and the unexpected victory over the Prussian warship.

  Inside the vessel, Verne stood in a daze. He recognized Cyrus Harding, the British second-in-command, and some of the other crewmen. Embarrassed, he wondered if these people were aware of his novel 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, in which he had adapted their activities for the sake of his fiction. His greatest surprise, though, was to see Caroline aboard the sub-marine with Nemo. “Hello, Jules,” she said. “I have missed you.”

  He froze, speechless and confused. By her expression, he knew that she had read his face, knew the pain in his heart. Nemo had no doubt rescued her from the siege of Paris, and despite his unrequited feelings for her, Verne was thankful that Caroline was safe. It was time he remembered the truly important things.

  Even since their younger days on Ile Feydeau, Caroline had always preferred Nemo, had a
lways wanted to be with him. She had waited for him when he was lost. Because of Nemo, she had refused to remarry, even long after Captain Hatteras had vanished at sea. Now, Verne’s two friends were finally together. How could he not be happy for them?

  “I’m glad that you are safe, Jules,” Caroline said. “Paris is burning. I was not sure if you had managed to get out before the Prussians came. . . .” She shook her head. “It is a terrible place these days. I have lost everything: the merchant offices, my accounts, my papers.”

  “You haven’t lost everything.” Nemo touched her arm and looked toward Verne. “We must bid you farewell, though—this time we will not come back. Have a glass of wine with us. I’ll tell you what has happened since our last meeting . . . and then we must be on our way. The rest of the world is yours, Jules Verne. I want only my small, private part of it.”

  In the gathering dark, the Nautilus floated motionless beside the Saint Michel. After an awkward embrace, Nemo, Verne, and Caroline sat in the salon. It was a bittersweet reunion for three friends who had known each other most of their lives.

  Nemo explained about the death of his wife and son, about his declared vendetta against ships of war, and even about Phileas Fogg’s quest to travel around the world in eighty days.

  “But we have had enough of such experiences with the cruelty of humans,” Nemo said. He offered Verne one of his seaweed cigars. “From this point on, I will not bother with civilization. We will find a quiet place and make our own lives, live by our own rules.” His heavy sigh spoke of a lifetime of struggles. “I tried my best to make the world a better place. But mankind does not wish to change.”

  “Is this fair to her, my friend?” Verne kept his eyes fixed on Nemo’s.

  “Taking Caroline away from—”

  “Yes,” Nemo interrupted without hesitation. “More than you can ever understand, Jules.”

  Verne looked from Nemo to Caroline. Something in his chest constricted so tightly that he wondered if his heart might have stopped beating. “You . . . both . . . intend to stay together? Go off to some isolated, primitive place?”

  “I have to, Jules,” Caroline answered. “Please understand. All your life you wanted to write books and plays—and you have succeeded. Who could deny it? But all of my life I have dreamed of the freedom to write and play my own music, the freedom to choose.” She took a deep breath. “You have not had to live with the accusations and scorn of civilized society. This is my chance, Jules.” She took Nemo’s hand in hers. “This is my choice.” Verne felt his heart pounding, the breath heavy in his chest. With tears in his eyes, he finally—honestly—spoke with true sincerity. “I wish you both the very best.”

  Nemo looked at her, then back at Verne, looking both relieved and eager. “A world of adventure is waiting.”

  Late at night, Jules Verne took his leave of the Nautilus, knowing he would never see either of his old friends again. He returned to his own yacht, where the agitated veterans received him as if he were a tortured and ill-treated prisoner of war. Verne refused to answer their questions, brushing them aside as he withdrew, sick at heart. The old men asked if he wanted to fire the little cannon himself, to celebrate, but he brushed them aside. He watched the Nautilus cruise away from the Saint Michel. With bubbles of released air, the sub-marine sank out of sight and sailed away beneath the seas.

  VII

  At last, after waiting for most of their lives, Caroline and Nemo basked in the warmth of each other’s company.

  They spoke little of their feelings at first, allowing themselves time to become reacquainted. They shared stories about their lives, the years they had spent apart. And as they talked, every movement, every expression or touch, communicated in a language more eloquent than words how much they cared for each other.

  Their love, hidden for so long, had formed both a bond and a wall between them for most of their lives. The Nautilus crew, all of whom had known Nemo’s wife and son at Rurapente, kept their distance, but welcomed their captain’s restored spirits. Nemo’s heart had been in pain for years, ever since he had learned of Auda’s death.

  But Caroline still did not know the fate of her husband.

  Nemo guided the Nautilus north, beyond the coast of England and Scotland and into the Arctic Circle.

  Gazing through the broad salon windows, Caroline recovered from her ordeal in the siege of Paris, nourished by a daily routine of calm and peace and rest. The lines of strain smoothed themselves from her face and, within days, she began to laugh again. To Nemo, her voice and her laughter was beautiful music aboard the sub-marine. Soon she even played on a wooden flute he gave her, performing some of her own melodies. Nemo vowed to obtain a pipe organ or pianoforte for her, so that she could play and play to her heart’s content. Perhaps he could even install it here in the salon. . . .

  When they reached the frigid polar seas, the Nautilus dove beneath the shimmering icepack that surrounded the North Pole, and he ordered all the Nautilus ’s powerful front lights turned on. Nemo called for Caroline to join him at the bridge.

  “This may sadden you, but you have needed to see it for many years. I have no choice. You deserve to know, and without it, you and I will never be truly free to—” He paused, at a loss for words, and then simply took her hand. “Will you gaze with me upon one more secret?”

  Her blue eyes widened with concern, but she squeezed his hand. He guided the Nautilus down to deep outcroppings of rock. As they came around a bend, the yellow cones of light fell upon the skeleton of a ship’s wooden hull like a beached whale. Caroline stiffened.

  Preserved by the icy waters and the depths to which it had sunk, a wrecked sailing vessel had come to rest on the silty ocean floor. They could see the outline of its keel, the tall columns of its masts, even a few rotted shreds of sail and rigging rope.

  “I’m sorry, Caroline,” Nemo said.

  The Nautilus cruised around the sunken wreck. After so much time, they could not determine exactly what had happened. Part of the hull had caved in, as if crushed in massive jaws of ice. They passed the muck-covered masthead figure, and finally drifted over the barnacle-encrusted nameplate. Under the blaze of light, letters stood out despite the stains and grime of decades: Forward.

  “I don’t know if your Captain Hatteras was close to discovering a Northwest Passage. All I know is that we found this vessel here. Perhaps it isn’t the answer you had hoped for . . . but it is finally an answer.”

  Caroline fixed her gaze on Nemo for a long moment, avoiding the sunken hulk of Captain Hatteras’s exploration ship. “It is an answer I wish I had known years ago. Then our situation . . . might have been different.”

  “Things can still be different,” Nemo said, taking her hand again.

  “Yes,” she answered with a long slow sigh, a gentle smile touching the corners of her mouth. “Things can finally be different . . . between us.”

  The past, for both of them, now lay at a safe distance—not forgotten, but no longer a wall.

  E PILOGUE

  M OBILIS IN M OBILI

  Paris, 1874

  After the war, Jules Verne and his family settled into their new summer house at Amiens, but he still made regular trips to Paris to meet with his publisher. He was a famous writer, after all, and in much demand.

  Verne dined with Hetzel at a well-known restaurant not far from the Louvre. Each man ordered roast herbed quail with potato-cheese soufflé, and they shared an expensive bottle of wine. Since his publisher insisted on paying for the extravagance, Verne savored every bite. His father, now two years in his grave, would never have approved. . . .

  After the grueling siege had been lifted from Paris and the Peace of Frankfurt ended the Franco-Prussian War, life began its painful journey back to normalcy. Following a few abortive starts, Hetzel got his publishing company running again—and Jules Verne continued to be the star performer.

  Around the World in Eighty Days was a smash hit, Verne’s most popular “Extraordinary Voyage” so
far. He was now considered an international celebrity, badgered for interviews and opinions on numerous subjects. At first the accolades had been amusing, and the bearded author had reveled in his fame . . . but now he felt bothered by it all. He wanted nothing more than quiet time to continue his writing. But it was so much more difficult, now that Nemo was gone . . .

  He produced A Floating City (written on board his yacht while patrolling the coast for Prussian warships) and Measuring a Meridian. Like clockwork, Verne’s novels once again came out from Hetzel, first serialized in the children’s magazine, then in bound volumes for the holidays. Indeed, life in France had returned to normal. . . .

  After their fine meal, the two men returned to Hetzel’s courtyard offices on rue Jacob and spent an hour scrutinizing the galleys of a forthcoming story, the first installment in The Fur Country. But Hetzel was not quite as enthusiastic about the work as he’d been in previous times. “I am sorry to say this, Jules,” the publisher ventured, “but we need to think ahead and consider perhaps a little more . . . variety in your subject matter.”

  “Variety?” Verne’s mind raced. He had to rely solely on his own imagination now, since he doubted he would ever see Nemo again, or hear of his continued exploits. “In every extraordinary voyage I have explored different subjects and different places—”

  “Yes, and with quite some success,” Hetzel added, looking down his large nose as if it were an insurmountable obstacle. He gave his author a paternal smile. “But of late I have noticed a certain, shall we say, sameness to these journeys. What will you do when the Earth has been completely mapped?”

  “There will always be places to explore, always new adventures to tell.” Verne gave his publisher a reassuring smile, careful to add just the right amount of confidence to his voice. Even without Nemo, Verne felt his imagination was up to the task; after all, he had exercised it enough. He pursed his lips. “What, exactly, did you have in mind?”