Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea

by Jules Verne

  For an instant I thought the poor man entwined by the devilfish might be torn loose from its powerful suction. Seven arms out of eight had been chopped off. Brandishing its victim like a feather, one lone tentacle was writhing in the air. But just as Captain Nemo and his chief officer rushed at it, the animal shot off a spout of blackish liquid, secreted by a pouch located in its abdomen. It blinded us. When this cloud had dispersed, the squid was gone, and so was my poor fellow countryman.

  What rage then drove us against these monsters. We lost all self-control. Ten or twelve devilfish had overrun the Nautilus’s platform and sides. We piled helter-skelter into the thick of these sawed-off snakes, which darted over the platform amid waves of blood and sepia ink. It seemed as if these viscous tentacles grew back like the many heads of Hydra. At every thrust Ned Land’s harpoon would plunge into a squid’s sea-green eye and burst it. But my daring companion was suddenly toppled by the tentacles of a monster he could not avoid.

  Oh, my heart nearly exploded with horror. The squid’s fearsome beak was wide open over Ned Land. The man I loved was about to be cut in half. I ran to his rescue. But Captain Nemo got there first. His axe disappeared between the two enormous mandibles, and the Canadian, miraculously saved, stood and plunged his harpoon all the way into the devilfish’s triple heart.

  “Tit for tat,” Captain Nemo told the Canadian. “I owed it to myself.”

  Ned bowed without answering him.

  This struggle had lasted a quarter of an hour. Defeated, mutilated, battered to death, the monsters finally yielded to us and disappeared beneath the waves.

  Red with blood, motionless by the beacon, Captain Nemo stared at the sea that had swallowed one of his companions, and large tears streamed from his eyes.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Gulf Stream

  This dreadful scene on April 20 none of us will ever be able to forget. I wrote it up in a state of intense excitement. Later I reviewed my narrative. I read it to Conseil and the Canadian. They found it accurate in detail but deficient in impact. To convey such sights, it would take the pen of our most famous poet, Victor Hugo, author of The Toilers of the Sea.

  As I said, Captain Nemo wept while staring at the waves. His grief was immense. This was the second companion he had lost since we had come aboard. And what a way to die.

  Smashed, strangled, crushed by the fearsome arms of a devilfish, ground between its iron mandibles, this friend would never rest with his companions in the placid waters of their coral cemetery.

  As for me, what had harrowed my heart in the thick of this struggle was the despairing yell given by this unfortunate man, and the knowledge that Ned had come terrifyingly close to sharing his fate. That night, I clung to him in the privacy of my bed, nearly weeping as he held me. “You almost died.”

  “Ha! It will take more than that wretched beast to tear me from your arms.”

  “Don’t laugh, Ned. How many more times will you have to risk your life because of Nemo? It’s bad enough that he keeps you here, but to put you directly in harm’s way—”

  “Hush, Professor. I can put myself in harm’s way just fine on my own. Don’t give him all the credit.”

  “It’s not a joke!”

  But despite my distress, my brave Ned actually laughed the way he often did, loud and boisterously. He rubbed my back briskly, as if to wake me. “Don’t be upset about it.”

  “How can I not be? How can you not be?”

  “Because Professor, today I felt the sun and wind upon my face. I felt my blood pounding through my veins and a harpoon in my hand. Today, I know I’m alive! I prefer one day like this one to a hundred where I’m locked up inside this monstrosity with nothing to do but count my own breaths.”

  Still, I was not reassured. I couldn’t stop picturing the powerful beak of the beast, looming over my lover. I shuddered again, and Ned pulled me tighter against him. He rolled us over, pinning me beneath him. He was heavy, but it was a comfortable weight, familiar and soothing. He smelled like salt and sweat, and I couldn’t imagine a better way for a man to smell. He ducked his head to nuzzle my ear.

  “Stop thinking about it,” he chided.

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can.” He slid one strong hand down my back to grip my buttock. I felt his manhood swelling. “You will,” he said, his voice huskier. “I have plenty of ways to distract you.”

  “Then do so,” I begged. “Please.”

  He seemed almost to take the words as a challenge. He growled as he kissed my neck, grinding his erection against me. I closed my eyes and surrendered myself to his demands.

  He gripped my thigh in one strong hand, squeezing hard enough to make me wince, parting my legs, wedging himself between them. I gasped as his hand gripped my ass. His fingers massaged my entrance. With is other hand, he grabbed a handful of my hair and pulled, angling my head back so he could attack my neck.

  He was as wild as any of the untamed beasts in the sea, and as strong. His passions always ran hot, but the adrenaline and the excitement of facing death had sparked his lust for life, and for me. His passion hadn’t yet been slaked. Yes, he had killed the beast, but he wasn’t finished yet.

  I gave myself up to his demands. I wrapped my arms around him and surrendered to his need. He ravished me, kissing me so hard my lips felt bruised, sucking at my neck and my nipples until they ached. He pushed his greased fingers into me and fucked me with them until I could take no more. Finally, he pulled his fingers out and replaced them with his cock, slamming himself into me, burying his manhood to its hilt. I tilted my hips. I arched my back until I found the spot I sought, that white hot centre of pleasure that sent me tumbling over the edge, not caring if or how I landed.

  I’d be fine, so long as he was there when this journey was done.

  I saw no more of Captain Nemo for a good while. But how sad, despairing, and irresolute he must have felt, to judge from this ship whose soul he was, which reflected his every mood. The Nautilus no longer kept to a fixed heading. It drifted back and forth, riding with the waves like a corpse. Its propeller had been disentangled but was barely put to use. It was navigating at random. It couldn’t tear itself away from the setting of this last struggle, from this sea that had devoured one of its own.

  Ten days went by in this way. It was only on May 1 that the Nautilus openly resumed its northbound course, after raising the Bahamas at the mouth of Old Bahama Channel. We then went with the current of the sea’s greatest river, which has its own banks, fish, and temperature. I mean the Gulf Stream.

  It was on this oceanic river that the Nautilus was then navigating. Leaving Old Bahama Channel, which is fourteen leagues wide by three-hundred and fifty metres deep, the Gulf Stream moves at the rate of eight kilometres per hour. Its speed steadily decreases as it advances northward, and we must pray that this steadiness continues, because, as experts agree, if its speed and direction were to change, the climates of Europe would undergo disturbances whose consequences are incalculable.

  Near noon I was on the platform with Conseil. I shared with him the relevant details on the Gulf Stream. When my explanation was over, I invited him to dip his hands into its current.

  Conseil did so, and he was quite astonished to experience no sensation of either hot or cold.

  “That comes,” I told him, “from the water temperature of the Gulf Stream, which, as it leaves the Gulf of Mexico, is barely different from your blood temperature. This Gulf Stream is a huge heat generator that enables the coasts of Europe to be decked in eternal greenery.

  And if Commander Maury is correct, were one to harness the full warmth of this current, it would supply enough heat to keep molten a river of iron solder as big as the Amazon or the Missouri.”

  Just then the Gulf Stream’s speed was 2.25 metres per second. So distinct is its current from the surrounding sea, its confined waters stand out against the ocean and operate on a different level from the colder waters. Murky as well, and very rich in saline ma
terial, their pure indigo contrasts with the green waves surrounding them. Moreover, their line of demarcation is so clear that abreast of the Carolinas, the Nautilus’s spur cut the waves of the Gulf Stream while its propeller was still churning those belonging to the ocean.

  This current swept along with it a whole host of moving creatures. Argonauts, so common in the Mediterranean, voyaged here in schools of large numbers. Among cartilaginous fish, the most remarkable were rays whose ultra slender tails made up nearly a third of the body, which was shaped like a huge diamond twenty-five feet long, then little one-metre sharks, the head large, the snout short and rounded, the teeth sharp and arranged in several rows, the body seemingly covered with scales.

  Among bony fish, I noted grizzled wrasse unique to these seas, deep-water gilthead whose iris has a fiery gleam, one-metre croakers whose large mouths bristle with small teeth and which let out thin cries, black rudderfish like those I’ve already discussed, blue dorados accented with gold and silver, rainbow-hued parrotfish that can rival the loveliest tropical birds in colouring, banded blennies with triangular heads, bluish flounder without scales, toadfish covered with a crosswise yellow band in the shape of a Τ, swarms of little freckled gobies stippled with brown spots, lungfish with silver heads and yellow tails, various specimens of salmon, mullet with slim figures and a softly glowing radiance that Lacépède dedicated to the memory of his wife, and finally the American cavalla, a handsome fish decorated by every honorary order, bedizened with their every ribbon, frequenting the shores of this great nation where ribbons and orders are held in such low esteem.

  I might add that during the night, the Gulf Stream’s phosphorescent waters rivalled the electric glow of our beacon, especially in the stormy weather that frequently threatened us.

  On May 8, while abreast of North Carolina, we were across from Cape Hatteras once more. There the Gulf Stream is seventy-five miles wide and two-hundred and ten metres deep. The Nautilus continued to wander at random. Seemingly, all supervision had been jettisoned. Under these conditions I admit that we could easily have got away. In fact, the populous shores offered ready refuge everywhere. The sea was ploughed continuously by the many steamers providing service between the Gulf of Mexico and New York or Boston, and it was crossed night and day by little schooners engaged in coastal trade over various points on the American shore. We could hope to be picked up. So it was a promising opportunity, despite the thirty miles that separated the Nautilus from these Union coasts.

  But one distressing circumstance totally thwarted the Canadian’s plans. The weather was thoroughly foul. We were approaching waterways where storms are commonplace, the very homeland of tornadoes and cyclones specifically engendered by the Gulf Stream’s current. To face a frequently raging sea in a frail skiff was a race to certain disaster. Ned Land conceded this himself. So he champed at the bit, in the grip of an intense homesickness that could be cured only by our escape.

  “Sir,” he told me that day, “it’s got to stop. I want to get to the bottom of this. Your Nemo’s veering away from shore and heading up north. But believe you me, I had my fill at the South Pole and I’m not going with him to the North Pole.”

  “What can we do, Ned, since it isn’t feasible to escape right now?”

  “I keep coming back to my idea. We’ve got to talk to the captain. When we were in your own country’s seas, you didn’t say a word. Now that we’re in mine, I intend to speak up.

  Before a few days are out, I figure the Nautilus will lie abreast of Nova Scotia, and from there to Newfoundland is the mouth of a large gulf, and the St. Lawrence empties into that gulf, and the St. Lawrence is my own river, the river running by Quebec, my hometown—and when I think about all this, my gorge rises and my hair stands on end. Honestly, sir, I’d rather jump overboard. I can’t stay here any longer. I’m suffocating.”

  I knew better than to take this outburst personally. The Canadian was obviously at the end of his patience. His vigorous nature couldn’t adapt to this protracted imprisonment. His facial appearance was changing by the day. His moods grew gloomier and gloomier, although he did his best to remain cheerful with me. In truth, I had a newfound empathy for his suffering. For the first time in our long voyage, I also was gripped by homesickness.

  Nearly seven months had gone by without our having any news from shore. Moreover, Captain Nemo’s reclusiveness, his changed disposition, and especially his total silence since the battle with the devilfish all made me see things in a different light. I no longer felt the enthusiasm of our first days on board. You needed to be Flemish like Conseil to accept these circumstances, living in a habitat designed for cetaceans and other denizens of the deep.

  Truly, if that gallant lad had owned gills instead of lungs, I think he would have made an outstanding fish.

  “Well, sir?” Ned Land went on, seeing that I hadn’t replied.

  “Well, Ned, you want me to ask Captain Nemo what he intends to do with us?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Even though he has already made that clear?”

  “Yes. I want it settled once and for all. Speak just for me, strictly on my behalf, if you want.”

  “But I rarely encounter him. He positively avoids me.”

  “All the more reason you should go look him up.”

  “I’ll confer with him, Ned.”

  “When?” the Canadian asked insistently.

  “When I encounter him.”

  “Professor Aronnax, would you like me to go find him myself?”

  “No, let me do it. Tomorrow—”

  “Today,” Ned Land said.

  “So be it. I’ll see him today,” I answered the Canadian, who, if he took action himself, would certainly have ruined everything.

  I was left to myself. His request granted, I decided to dispose of it immediately. I like things over and done with.

  I re-entered my stateroom. From there I could hear movements inside Captain Nemo’s quarters. I couldn’t pass up this chance for an encounter. I knocked on his door. I received no reply. I knocked again, then tried the knob. The door opened.

  I entered. The captain was there. He was bending over his worktable and hadn’t heard me. Determined not to leave without questioning him, I drew closer. He looked up sharply, with a frowning brow, and said in a pretty stern tone, “Oh, it’s you. What do you want?”

  “To speak with you, Captain.”

  “But I’m busy, sir, I’m at work. I give you the freedom to enjoy your privacy, can’t I have the same for myself?”

  This reception was less than encouraging. But I was determined to give as good as I got.

  “Sir,” I said coolly, “I need to speak with you on a matter that simply can’t wait.”

  “Whatever could that be, sir?” he replied sarcastically. “Have you made some discovery that has escaped me? Has the sea yielded up some novel secret to you?”

  We were miles apart. But before I could reply, he showed me a manuscript open on the table and told me in a more serious tone, “Here, Professor Aronnax, is a manuscript written in several languages. It contains a summary of my research under the sea, and God willing, it won’t perish with me. Signed with my name, complete with my life story, this manuscript will be enclosed in a small, unsinkable contrivance. The last surviving man on the Nautilus will throw this contrivance into the sea, and it will go wherever the waves carry it.”

  The man’s name. His life story written by himself. So the secret of his existence might someday be unveiled? But just then I saw this announcement only as a lead-in to my topic.

  “Captain,” I replied, “I’m all praise for this idea you’re putting into effect. The fruits of your research must not be lost. But the methods you’re using strike me as primitive. Who knows where the winds will take that contrivance, into whose hands it may fall? Can’t you find something better? Can’t you or one of your men—”

  “Never, sir,” the captain said, swiftly interrupting me.

  “But my co
mpanions and I would be willing to safeguard this manuscript, and if you give us back our freedom—”

  “Your freedom,” Captain Nemo put in, standing up.

  “Yes, sir, and that’s the subject on which I wanted to confer with you. For seven months we’ve been aboard your vessel, and I ask you today, in the name of my companions as well as myself, if you intend to keep us here forever.”

  “Professor Aronnax,” Captain Nemo said, “I’ll answer you today just as I did seven months ago—whomever boards the Nautilus must never leave it.”

  “What you’re inflicting on us is outright slavery.”

  “Call it anything you like.”

  “But every slave has the right to recover his freedom. By any worthwhile, available means!”

  “Who has denied you that right?” Captain Nemo replied. “Did I ever try to bind you with your word of honour?”

  The captain stared at me, crossing his arms.

  “Sir,” I told him, “to take up this subject a second time would be distasteful to both of us. So let’s finish what we’ve started. I repeat, it isn’t just for myself that I raise this issue. To me, research is a relief, a potent diversion, an enticement, a passion that can make me forget everything else. Like you, I’m a man neglected and unknown, living in the faint hope that someday I can pass on to future generations the fruits of my labours—figuratively speaking, by means of some contrivance left to the luck of winds and waves. In short, I can admire you and comfortably go with you while playing a role I only partly understand, but I still catch glimpses of other aspects of your life that are surrounded by involvements and secrets that, alone on board, my companions and I can’t share. And even when our hearts could beat with yours, moved by some of your griefs or stirred by your deeds of courage and genius, we’ve had to stifle even the slightest token of that sympathy that arises at the sight of something fine and good, whether it comes from friend or enemy. All right then. It’s this feeling of being alien to your deepest concerns that makes our situation unacceptable, impossible, even impossible for me but especially for Ned Land. Every man, by virtue of his very humanity, deserves fair treatment. Have you considered how a love of freedom and hatred of slavery could lead to plans of vengeance in a temperament like the Canadian’s, what he might think, attempt, endeavour…?”