Part 1 out of 10
An Underwater Tour of the World
Translated from the Original French
by F. P. Walter
With the Paintings of Milo Winter
CEDAR POST PUBLISHING * HOUSTON, TEXAS
Text Prepared by: F. P. Walter, 1433 Cedar Post, No. 31,
Houston, Texas 77055. (713) 827-1345
A complete, unabridged translation of Vingt milles lieues sous les
mers by Jules Verne, based on the original French texts published
in Paris by J. Hetzel et Cie. over the period 1869-71.
The paintings of Illinois watercolorist Milo Winter (1888-1956) first
appeared in a 1922 juvenile edition published by Rand McNally & Company.
The French title of this novel is Vingt mille lieues sous les mers.
This is accurately translated as Twenty Thousand Leagues Under
the SEAS--rather than the SEA, as with many English editions.
Verne's novel features a tour of the major oceans, and the term Leagues
in its title is used as a measure not of depth but distance. Ed.
Color Plates vii
Units of Measure xii
1. A Runaway Reef 1
2. The Pros and Cons 6
3. As Master Wishes 10
4. Ned Land 14
5. At Random! 19
6. At Full Steam 24
7. A Whale of Unknown Species 30
8. "Mobilis in Mobili" 35
9. The Tantrums of Ned Land 41
10. The Man of the Waters 46
11. The Nautilus 53
12. Everything through Electricity 58
13. Some Figures 63
14. The Black Current 68
15. An Invitation in Writing 76
16. Strolling the Plains 82
17. An Underwater Forest 86
18. Four Thousand Leagues Under the Pacific 91
19. Vanikoro 96
20. The Torres Strait 103
21. Some Days Ashore 109
22. The Lightning Bolts of Captain Nemo 117
23. "Aegri Somnia" 126
24. The Coral Realm 132
1. The Indian Ocean 138
2. A New Proposition from Captain Nemo 145
3. A Pearl Worth Ten Million 152
4. The Red Sea 160
5. Arabian Tunnel 170
6. The Greek Islands 176
7. The Mediterranean in Forty-Eight Hours 184
8. The Bay of Vigo 191
9. A Lost Continent 199
10. The Underwater Coalfields 206
11. The Sargasso Sea 214
12. Sperm Whales and Baleen Whales 220
13. The Ice Bank 228
14. The South Pole 236
15. Accident or Incident? 246
16. Shortage of Air 252
17. From Cape Horn to the Amazon 259
18. The Devilfish 266
19. The Gulf Stream 274
20. In Latitude 47? 24' and Longitude 17? 28' 282
21. A Mass Execution 287
22. The Last Words of Captain Nemo 294
23. Conclusion 299
The Bay of Vigo. iii
Ned Land stayed at his post. 28
"I've collected every one of them." 56
We walked with steady steps. 84
The dugout canoes drew nearer. 122
A dreadful battle was joined. 158
Picturesque ruins took shape. 202
"Farewell, O sun!" he called. 244
The poor fellow was done for. 272
An engaving by Guillaumot.
"The deepest parts of the ocean are totally unknown to us,"
admits Professor Aronnax early in this novel. "What goes on in
those distant depths? What creatures inhabit, or could inhabit,
those regions twelve or fifteen miles beneath the surface of the water?
It's almost beyond conjecture."
Jules Verne (1828-1905) published the French equivalents of these words
in 1869, and little has changed since. 126 years later, a Time
cover story on deep-sea exploration made much the same admission:
"We know more about Mars than we know about the oceans."
This reality begins to explain the dark power and otherworldly
fascination of Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Seas.
Born in the French river town of Nantes, Verne had a lifelong
passion for the sea. First as a Paris stockbroker, later as a
celebrated author and yachtsman, he went on frequent voyages--
to Britain, America, the Mediterranean. But the specific stimulus
for this novel was an 1865 fan letter from a fellow writer,
Madame George Sand. She praised Verne's two early novels Five Weeks
in a Balloon (1863) and Journey to the Center of the Earth
(1864), then added: "Soon I hope you'll take us into the ocean depths,
your characters traveling in diving equipment perfected by your
science and your imagination." Thus inspired, Verne created one
of literature's great rebels, a freedom fighter who plunged beneath
the waves to wage a unique form of guerilla warfare.
Initially, Verne's narrative was influenced by the 1863 uprising of
Poland against Tsarist Russia. The Poles were quashed with a violence
that appalled not only Verne but all Europe. As originally conceived,
Verne's Captain Nemo was a Polish nobleman whose entire family
had been slaughtered by Russian troops. Nemo builds a fabulous
futuristic submarine, the Nautilus, then conducts an underwater
campaign of vengeance against his imperialist oppressor.
But in the 1860s France had to treat the Tsar as an ally,
and Verne's publisher Pierre Hetzel pronounced the book unprintable.
Verne reworked its political content, devising new nationalities for
Nemo and his great enemy--information revealed only in a later novel,
The Mysterious Island (1875); in the present work Nemo's background
remains a dark secret. In all, the novel had a difficult gestation.
Verne and Hetzel were in constant conflict and the book went
through multiple drafts, struggles reflected in its several
working titles over the period 1865-69: early on, it was variously
called Voyage Under the Waters, Twenty-five Thousand Leagues Under
the Waters, Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Waters,
and A Thousand Leagues Under the Oceans.
Verne is often dubbed, in Isaac Asimov's phrase, "the world's
first science-fiction writer." And it's true, many of his
sixty-odd books do anticipate future events and technologies:
From the Earth to the Moon (1865) and Hector Servadac (1877) deal
in space travel, while Journey to the Center
of the Earth features travel to the earth's core. But with Verne
the operative word is "travel," and some of his best-known titles
don't really qualify as sci-fi: Around the World in Eighty Days
(1872) and Michael Strogoff (1876) are closer to "travelogs"--
adventure yarns in far-away places.
These observations partly apply here. The subtitle of the present
book is An Underwater Tour of the World, so in good travelog style,
the Nautilus's exploits supply an episodic story line.
Shark attacks, giant squid, cannibals, hurricanes, whale hunts,
and other rip-roaring adventures erupt almost at random. Yet this loose
structure gives the novel an air of documentary realism. What's more,
Verne adds backbone to the action by developing three recurring motifs:
the deepening mystery of Nemo's past life and future intentions,
the mounting tension between Nemo and hot-tempered harpooner Ned Land,
and Ned's ongoing schemes to escape from the Nautilus. These unifying
threads tighten the narrative and accelerate its momentum.
Other subtleties occur inside each episode, the textures sparkling
with wit, information, and insight. Verne regards the sea from
many angles: in the domain of marine biology, he gives us thumbnail
sketches of fish, seashells, coral, sometimes in great catalogs
that swirl past like musical cascades; in the realm of geology,
he studies volcanoes literally inside and out; in the world of commerce,
he celebrates the high-energy entrepreneurs who lay the Atlantic Cable
or dig the Suez Canal. And Verne's marine engineering proves
especially authoritative. His specifications for an open-sea submarine
and a self-contained diving suit were decades before their time,
yet modern technology bears them out triumphantly.
True, today's scientists know a few things he didn't: the South Pole
isn't at the water's edge but far inland; sharks don't flip
over before attacking; giant squid sport ten tentacles not eight;
sperm whales don't prey on their whalebone cousins. This notwithstanding,
Verne furnishes the most evocative portrayal of the ocean depths
before the arrival of Jacques Cousteau and technicolor film.
Lastly the book has stature as a novel of character. Even the
supporting cast is shrewdly drawn: Professor Aronnax, the career
scientist caught in an ethical conflict; Conseil, the compulsive
classifier who supplies humorous tag lines for Verne's fast facts;
the harpooner Ned Land, a creature of constant appetites,
man as heroic animal.
But much of the novel's brooding power comes from Captain Nemo.
Inventor, musician, Renaissance genius, he's a trail-blazing creation,
the prototype not only for countless renegade scientists in
popular fiction, but even for such varied figures as Sherlock Holmes
or Wolf Larsen. However, Verne gives his hero's brilliance
and benevolence a dark underside--the man's obsessive hate for his
old enemy. This compulsion leads Nemo into ugly contradictions:
he's a fighter for freedom, yet all who board his ship are imprisoned
there for good; he works to save lives, both human and animal,
yet he himself creates a holocaust; he detests imperialism,
yet he lays personal claim to the South Pole. And in this last action
he falls into the classic sin of Pride. He's swiftly punished.
The Nautilus nearly perishes in the Antarctic and Nemo sinks into
a growing depression.
Like Shakespeare's King Lear he courts death and madness in a great storm,
then commits mass murder, collapses in catatonic paralysis,
and suicidally runs his ship into the ocean's most dangerous whirlpool.
Hate swallows him whole.
For many, then, this book has been a source of fascination,
surely one of the most influential novels ever written, an inspiration
for such scientists and discoverers as engineer Simon Lake,
oceanographer William Beebe, polar traveler Sir Ernest Shackleton.
Likewise Dr. Robert D. Ballard, finder of the sunken Titanic,
confesses that this was his favorite book as a teenager,
and Cousteau himself, most renowned of marine explorers, called it
his shipboard bible.
The present translation is a faithful yet communicative rendering
of the original French texts published in Paris by J. Hetzel et Cie.--
the hardcover first edition issued in the autumn of 1871,
collated with the softcover editions of the First and Second Parts
issued separately in the autumn of 1869 and the summer of 1870.
Although prior English versions have often been heavily abridged,
this new translation is complete to the smallest substantive detail.
Because, as that Time cover story suggests, we still haven't caught
up with Verne. Even in our era of satellite dishes and video games,
the seas keep their secrets. We've seen progress in sonar, torpedoes,
and other belligerent machinery, but sailors and scientists--
to say nothing of tourists--have yet to voyage in a submarine
with the luxury and efficiency of the Nautilus.
F. P. WALTER
University of Houston
Units of Measure
CABLE LENGTH In Verne's context, 600 feet
CENTIGRADE 0 degrees centigrade = freezing water
37 degrees centigrade = human body temperature
100 degrees centigrade = boiling water
FATHOM 6 feet
GRAM Roughly 1/28 of an ounce
- MILLIGRAM Roughly 1/28,000 of an ounce
- KILOGRAM (KILO) Roughly 2.2 pounds
HECTARE Roughly 2.5 acres
KNOT 1.15 miles per hour
LEAGUE In Verne's context, 2.16 miles
LITER Roughly 1 quart
METER Roughly 1 yard, 3 inches
- MILLIMETER Roughly 1/25 of an inch
- CENTIMETER Roughly 2/5 of an inch
- DECIMETER Roughly 4 inches
- KILOMETER Roughly 6/10 of a mile
- MYRIAMETER Roughly 6.2 miles
TON, METRIC Roughly 2,200 pounds viii
A Runaway Reef
THE YEAR 1866 was marked by a bizarre development, an unexplained
and downright inexplicable phenomenon that surely no one has forgotten.
Without getting into those rumors that upset civilians
in the seaports and deranged the public mind even far inland,
it must be said that professional seamen were especially alarmed.
Traders, shipowners, captains of vessels, skippers, and master mariners
from Europe and America, naval officers from every country, and at
their heels the various national governments on these two continents,
were all extremely disturbed by the business.
In essence, over a period of time several ships had encountered
"an enormous thing" at sea, a long spindle-shaped object,
sometimes giving off a phosphorescent glow, infinitely bigger
and faster than any whale.
The relevant data on this apparition, as recorded in various logbooks,
agreed pretty closely as to the structure of the object or creature
in question, its unprecedented speed of movement, its startling
locomotive power, and the unique vitality with which it seemed
to be gifted. If it was a cetacean, it exceeded in bulk any whale
previously classified by science. No naturalist, neither Cuvier nor
Lacépède, neither Professor Dumeril nor Professor de Quatrefages,
would have accepted the existence of such a monster sight unseen--
specifically, unseen by their own scientific eyes.
Striking an average of observations taken at different times--
rejecting those timid estimates that gave the object a length
of 200 feet, and ignoring those exaggerated views that saw it
as a mile wide and three long--you could still assert that this
phenomenal creature greatly exceeded the dimensions of anything
then known to ichthyologists, if it existed at all.
Now then, it did exist, this was an undeniable fact; and since
the human mind dotes on objects of wonder, you can understand
the worldwide excitement caused by this unearthly apparition.
As for relegating it to the realm of fiction, that charge had
to be dropped.
In essence, on July 20, 1866, the steamer Governor Higginson,
from the Calcutta & Burnach Steam Navigation Co., encountered this
moving mass five miles off the eastern shores of Australia.
Captain Baker at first thought he was in the presence of an unknown reef;
he was even about to fix its exact position when two waterspouts
shot out of this inexplicable object and sprang hissing into the air
some 150 feet. So, unless this reef was subject to the intermittent
eruptions of a geyser, the Governor Higginson had fair and honest
dealings with some aquatic mammal, until then unknown, that could
spurt from its blowholes waterspouts mixed with air and steam.
Similar events were likewise observed in Pacific seas, on July 23
of the same year, by the Christopher Columbus from the West India
& Pacific Steam Navigation Co. Consequently, this extraordinary
cetacean could transfer itself from one locality to another with
startling swiftness, since within an interval of just three days,
the Governor Higginson and the Christopher Columbus had observed
it at two positions on the charts separated by a distance of more
than 700 nautical leagues.
Fifteen days later and 2,000 leagues farther, the Helvetia from
the Compagnie Nationale and the Shannon from the Royal Mail line,
running on opposite tacks in that part of the Atlantic lying
between the United States and Europe, respectively signaled each
other that the monster had been sighted in latitude 42 degrees 15'
north and longitude 60 degrees 35' west of the meridian
of Greenwich. From their simultaneous observations, they were able
to estimate the mammal's minimum length at more than 350 English
feet;* this was because both the Shannon and the Helvetia were of
smaller dimensions, although each measured 100 meters stem to stern.
Now then, the biggest whales, those rorqual whales that frequent
the waterways of the Aleutian Islands, have never exceeded a length
of 56 meters--if they reach even that.
*Author's Note: About 106 meters. An English foot is
only 30.4 centimeters.
One after another, reports arrived that would profoundly affect
public opinion: new observations taken by the transatlantic
liner Pereire, the Inman line's Etna running afoul of the monster,
an official report drawn up by officers on the French frigate Normandy,
dead-earnest reckonings obtained by the general staff of
Commodore Fitz-James aboard the Lord Clyde. In lighthearted countries,
people joked about this phenomenon, but such serious, practical countries
as England, America, and Germany were deeply concerned.
In every big city the monster was the latest rage; they sang
about it in the coffee houses, they ridiculed it in the newspapers,
they dramatized it in the theaters. The tabloids found it a fine
opportunity for hatching all sorts of hoaxes. In those newspapers
short of copy, you saw the reappearance of every gigantic
imaginary creature, from "Moby Dick," that dreadful white whale from
the High Arctic regions, to the stupendous kraken whose tentacles
could entwine a 500-ton craft and drag it into the ocean depths.
They even reprinted reports from ancient times: the views
of Aristotle and Pliny accepting the existence of such monsters,
then the Norwegian stories of Bishop Pontoppidan, the narratives
of Paul Egede, and finally the reports of Captain Harrington--
whose good faith is above suspicion--in which he claims he saw,
while aboard the Castilian in 1857, one of those enormous
serpents that, until then, had frequented only the seas of France's
old extremist newspaper, The Constitutionalist.
An interminable debate then broke out between believers and
skeptics in the scholarly societies and scientific journals.
The "monster question" inflamed all minds. During this
memorable campaign, journalists making a profession of science
battled with those making a profession of wit, spilling waves of ink
and some of them even two or three drops of blood, since they went
from sea serpents to the most offensive personal remarks.
For six months the war seesawed. With inexhaustible zest,
the popular press took potshots at feature articles from
the Geographic Institute of Brazil, the Royal Academy of Science
in Berlin, the British Association, the Smithsonian Institution
in Washington, D.C., at discussions in The Indian Archipelago,
in Cosmos published by Father Moigno, in Petermann's Mittheilungen,*
and at scientific chronicles in the great French and foreign newspapers.
When the monster's detractors cited a saying by the botanist Linnaeus
that "nature doesn't make leaps," witty writers in the popular
periodicals parodied it, maintaining in essence that "nature doesn't
make lunatics," and ordering their contemporaries never to give
the lie to nature by believing in krakens, sea serpents, "Moby Dicks,"
and other all-out efforts from drunken seamen. Finally, in a much-feared
satirical journal, an article by its most popular columnist finished
off the monster for good, spurning it in the style of Hippolytus
repulsing the amorous advances of his stepmother Phaedra, and giving
the creature its quietus amid a universal burst of laughter.
Wit had defeated science.
*German: "Bulletin." Ed.
During the first months of the year 1867, the question seemed to
be buried, and it didn't seem due for resurrection, when new facts
were brought to the public's attention. But now it was no longer
an issue of a scientific problem to be solved, but a quite real and
serious danger to be avoided. The question took an entirely new turn.
The monster again became an islet, rock, or reef, but a runaway reef,
unfixed and elusive.
On March 5, 1867, the Moravian from the Montreal Ocean Co., lying
during the night in latitude 27 degrees 30' and longitude 72
degrees 15', ran its starboard quarter afoul of a rock marked on no
charts of these waterways. Under the combined efforts of wind and
400-horsepower steam, it was traveling at a speed of thirteen knots.
Without the high quality of its hull, the Moravian would surely have
split open from this collision and gone down together with those 237
passengers it was bringing back from Canada.
This accident happened around five o'clock in the morning, just as day was
beginning to break. The officers on watch rushed to the craft's stern.
They examined the ocean with the most scrupulous care.
They saw nothing except a strong eddy breaking three cable
lengths out, as if those sheets of water had been violently churned.
The site's exact bearings were taken, and the Moravian continued on
course apparently undamaged. Had it run afoul of an underwater rock
or the wreckage of some enormous derelict ship? They were unable to say.
But when they examined its undersides in the service yard,
they discovered that part of its keel had been smashed.
This occurrence, extremely serious in itself, might perhaps have
been forgotten like so many others, if three weeks later it hadn't
been reenacted under identical conditions. Only, thanks to the
nationality of the ship victimized by this new ramming, and thanks
to the reputation of the company to which this ship belonged,
the event caused an immense uproar.
No one is unaware of the name of that famous English shipowner,
Cunard. In 1840 this shrewd industrialist founded a postal service
between Liverpool and Halifax, featuring three wooden ships with
400-horsepower paddle wheels and a burden of 1,162 metric tons.
Eight years later, the company's assets were increased by four
650-horsepower ships at 1,820 metric tons, and in two more years,
by two other vessels of still greater power and tonnage.
In 1853 the Cunard Co., whose mail-carrying charter had just been renewed,
successively added to its assets the Arabia, the Persia, the China,
the Scotia, the Java, and the Russia, all ships of top speed and,
after the Great Eastern, the biggest ever to plow the seas.
So in 1867 this company owned twelve ships, eight with paddle wheels
and four with propellers.
If I give these highly condensed details, it is so everyone can fully
understand the importance of this maritime transportation company,
known the world over for its shrewd management. No transoceanic
navigational undertaking has been conducted with more ability,
no business dealings have been crowned with greater success.
In twenty-six years Cunard ships have made 2,000 Atlantic crossings
without so much as a voyage canceled, a delay recorded, a man, a craft,
or even a letter lost. Accordingly, despite strong competition
from France, passengers still choose the Cunard line in preference
to all others, as can be seen in a recent survey of official documents.
Given this, no one will be astonished at the uproar provoked by this
accident involving one of its finest steamers.
On April 13, 1867, with a smooth sea and a moderate breeze,
the Scotia lay in longitude 15 degrees 12' and latitude 45 degrees
37'. It was traveling at a speed of 13.43 knots under the thrust
of its 1,000-horsepower engines. Its paddle wheels were churning
the sea with perfect steadiness. It was then drawing 6.7 meters
of water and displacing 6,624 cubic meters.
At 4:17 in the afternoon, during a high tea for passengers gathered
in the main lounge, a collision occurred, scarcely noticeable
on the whole, affecting the Scotia's hull in that quarter a little
astern of its port paddle wheel.
The Scotia hadn't run afoul of something, it had been fouled,
and by a cutting or perforating instrument rather than a blunt one.
This encounter seemed so minor that nobody on board would have been
disturbed by it, had it not been for the shouts of crewmen in the hold,
who climbed on deck yelling:
"We're sinking! We're sinking!"
At first the passengers were quite frightened, but Captain Anderson
hastened to reassure them. In fact, there could be no immediate danger.
Divided into seven compartments by watertight bulkheads, the Scotia
could brave any leak with impunity.
Captain Anderson immediately made his way into the hold.
He discovered that the fifth compartment had been invaded by the sea,
and the speed of this invasion proved that the leak was considerable.
Fortunately this compartment didn't contain the boilers,
because their furnaces would have been abruptly extinguished.
Captain Anderson called an immediate halt, and one of his sailors
dived down to assess the damage. Within moments they had
located a hole two meters in width on the steamer's underside.
Such a leak could not be patched, and with its paddle wheels
half swamped, the Scotia had no choice but to continue its voyage.
By then it lay 300 miles from Cape Clear, and after three days
of delay that filled Liverpool with acute anxiety, it entered
the company docks.
The engineers then proceeded to inspect the Scotia, which had
been put in dry dock. They couldn't believe their eyes.
Two and a half meters below its waterline, there gaped
a symmetrical gash in the shape of an isosceles triangle.
This breach in the sheet iron was so perfectly formed, no punch
could have done a cleaner job of it. Consequently, it must
have been produced by a perforating tool of uncommon toughness--
plus, after being launched with prodigious power and then piercing
four centimeters of sheet iron, this tool had needed to withdraw
itself by a backward motion truly inexplicable.
This was the last straw, and it resulted in arousing public passions
all over again. Indeed, from this moment on, any maritime casualty
without an established cause was charged to the monster's account.
This outrageous animal had to shoulder responsibility for all
derelict vessels, whose numbers are unfortunately considerable,
since out of those 3,000 ships whose losses are recorded annually
at the marine insurance bureau, the figure for steam or sailing
ships supposedly lost with all hands, in the absence of any news,
amounts to at least 200!
Now then, justly or unjustly, it was the "monster" who stood accused
of their disappearance; and since, thanks to it, travel between
the various continents had become more and more dangerous,
the public spoke up and demanded straight out that, at all cost,
the seas be purged of this fearsome cetacean.
The Pros and Cons
DURING THE PERIOD in which these developments were occurring,
I had returned from a scientific undertaking organized to explore
the Nebraska badlands in the United States. In my capacity as
Assistant Professor at the Paris Museum of Natural History, I had
been attached to this expedition by the French government.
After spending six months in Nebraska, I arrived in New York laden
with valuable collections near the end of March. My departure
for France was set for early May. In the meantime, then, I was busy
classifying my mineralogical, botanical, and zoological treasures
when that incident took place with the Scotia.
I was perfectly abreast of this question, which was the big news
of the day, and how could I not have been? I had read and reread every
American and European newspaper without being any farther along.
This mystery puzzled me. Finding it impossible to form any views,
I drifted from one extreme to the other. Something was out there,
that much was certain, and any doubting Thomas was invited to place
his finger on the Scotia's wound.
When I arrived in New York, the question was at the boiling point.
The hypothesis of a drifting islet or an elusive reef, put forward
by people not quite in their right minds, was completely eliminated.
And indeed, unless this reef had an engine in its belly, how could
it move about with such prodigious speed?
Also discredited was the idea of a floating hull or some other
enormous wreckage, and again because of this speed of movement.
So only two possible solutions to the question were left,
creating two very distinct groups of supporters: on one side,
those favoring a monster of colossal strength; on the other,
those favoring an "underwater boat" of tremendous motor power.
Now then, although the latter hypothesis was completely admissible,
it couldn't stand up to inquiries conducted in both the New World
and the Old. That a private individual had such a mechanism at his
disposal was less than probable. Where and when had he built it,
and how could he have built it in secret?
Only some government could own such an engine of destruction,
and in these disaster-filled times, when men tax their ingenuity to
build increasingly powerful aggressive weapons, it was possible that,
unknown to the rest of the world, some nation could have been testing
such a fearsome machine. The Chassepot rifle led to the torpedo,
and the torpedo has led to this underwater battering ram,
which in turn will lead to the world putting its foot down.
At least I hope it will.
But this hypothesis of a war machine collapsed in the face of formal
denials from the various governments. Since the public interest
was at stake and transoceanic travel was suffering, the sincerity
of these governments could not be doubted. Besides, how could
the assembly of this underwater boat have escaped public notice?
Keeping a secret under such circumstances would be difficult enough
for an individual, and certainly impossible for a nation whose
every move is under constant surveillance by rival powers.
So, after inquiries conducted in England, France, Russia, Prussia,
Spain, Italy, America, and even Turkey, the hypothesis of an underwater
Monitor was ultimately rejected.
And so the monster surfaced again, despite the endless witticisms
heaped on it by the popular press, and the human imagination soon
got caught up in the most ridiculous ichthyological fantasies.
After I arrived in New York, several people did me the honor
of consulting me on the phenomenon in question. In France I had
published a two-volume work, in quarto, entitled The Mysteries
of the Great Ocean Depths. Well received in scholarly circles,
this book had established me as a specialist in this pretty obscure field
of natural history. My views were in demand. As long as I could deny
the reality of the business, I confined myself to a flat "no comment."
But soon, pinned to the wall, I had to explain myself straight out.
And in this vein, "the honorable Pierre Aronnax, Professor at
the Paris Museum," was summoned by The New York Herald to formulate
his views no matter what.
I complied. Since I could no longer hold my tongue, I let it wag.
I discussed the question in its every aspect, both political
and scientific, and this is an excerpt from the well-padded article
I published in the issue of April 30.
"Therefore," I wrote, "after examining these different hypotheses one
by one, we are forced, every other supposition having been refuted,
to accept the existence of an extremely powerful marine animal.
"The deepest parts of the ocean are totally unknown to us.
No soundings have been able to reach them. What goes on in
those distant depths? What creatures inhabit, or could inhabit,
those regions twelve or fifteen miles beneath the surface
of the water? What is the constitution of these animals?
It's almost beyond conjecture.
"However, the solution to this problem submitted to me can take
the form of a choice between two alternatives.
"Either we know every variety of creature populating our planet,
or we do not.
"If we do not know every one of them, if nature still keeps
ichthyological secrets from us, nothing is more admissible than to accept
the existence of fish or cetaceans of new species or even new genera,
animals with a basically 'cast-iron' constitution that inhabit
strata beyond the reach of our soundings, and which some development
or other, an urge or a whim if you prefer, can bring to the upper
level of the ocean for long intervals.
"If, on the other hand, we do know every living species, we must
look for the animal in question among those marine creatures
already cataloged, and in this event I would be inclined to accept
the existence of a giant narwhale.
"The common narwhale, or sea unicorn, often reaches a length of
sixty feet. Increase its dimensions fivefold or even tenfold, then give
this cetacean a strength in proportion to its size while enlarging
its offensive weapons, and you have the animal we're looking for.
It would have the proportions determined by the officers of the Shannon,
the instrument needed to perforate the Scotia, and the power
to pierce a steamer's hull.
"In essence, the narwhale is armed with a sort of ivory sword,
or lance, as certain naturalists have expressed it.
It's a king-sized tooth as hard as steel. Some of these teeth have
been found buried in the bodies of baleen whales, which the narwhale
attacks with invariable success. Others have been wrenched,
not without difficulty, from the undersides of vessels that narwhales
have pierced clean through, as a gimlet pierces a wine barrel.
The museum at the Faculty of Medicine in Paris owns one of these
tusks with a length of 2.25 meters and a width at its base
of forty-eight centimeters!
"All right then! Imagine this weapon to be ten times stronger and
the animal ten times more powerful, launch it at a speed of twenty
miles per hour, multiply its mass times its velocity, and you get
just the collision we need to cause the specified catastrophe.
"So, until information becomes more abundant, I plump for a sea
unicorn of colossal dimensions, no longer armed with a mere lance
but with an actual spur, like ironclad frigates or those warships called
'rams,' whose mass and motor power it would possess simultaneously.
"This inexplicable phenomenon is thus explained away--unless it's
something else entirely, which, despite everything that has
been sighted, studied, explored and experienced, is still possible!"
These last words were cowardly of me; but as far as I could,
I wanted to protect my professorial dignity and not lay myself open
to laughter from the Americans, who when they do laugh, laugh raucously.
I had left myself a loophole. Yet deep down, I had accepted
the existence of "the monster."
My article was hotly debated, causing a fine old uproar.
It rallied a number of supporters. Moreover, the solution
it proposed allowed for free play of the imagination.
The human mind enjoys impressive visions of unearthly creatures.
Now then, the sea is precisely their best medium, the only setting
suitable for the breeding and growing of such giants--next to which
such land animals as elephants or rhinoceroses are mere dwarves.
The liquid masses support the largest known species of mammals and perhaps
conceal mollusks of incomparable size or crustaceans too frightful
to contemplate, such as 100-meter lobsters or crabs weighing 200
metric tons! Why not? Formerly, in prehistoric days, land animals
(quadrupeds, apes, reptiles, birds) were built on a gigantic scale.
Our Creator cast them using a colossal mold that time has gradually
made smaller. With its untold depths, couldn't the sea keep alive
such huge specimens of life from another age, this sea that never
changes while the land masses undergo almost continuous alteration?
Couldn't the heart of the ocean hide the last-remaining
varieties of these titanic species, for whom years are centuries
and centuries millennia?
But I mustn't let these fantasies run away with me! Enough of these
fairy tales that time has changed for me into harsh realities.
I repeat: opinion had crystallized as to the nature of this phenomenon,
and the public accepted without argument the existence of a prodigious
creature that had nothing in common with the fabled sea serpent.
Yet if some saw it purely as a scientific problem to be solved,
more practical people, especially in America and England,
were determined to purge the ocean of this daunting monster, to insure
the safety of transoceanic travel. The industrial and commercial
newspapers dealt with the question chiefly from this viewpoint.
The Shipping & Mercantile Gazette, the Lloyd's List, France's Packetboat
and Maritime & Colonial Review, all the rags devoted to
insurance companies--who threatened to raise their premium rates--
were unanimous on this point.
Public opinion being pronounced, the States of the Union were
the first in the field. In New York preparations were under way for
an expedition designed to chase this narwhale. A high-speed frigate,
the Abraham Lincoln, was fitted out for putting to sea as soon
as possible. The naval arsenals were unlocked for Commander Farragut,
who pressed energetically forward with the arming of his frigate.
But, as it always happens, just when a decision had been made to chase
the monster, the monster put in no further appearances. For two months
nobody heard a word about it. Not a single ship encountered it.
Apparently the unicorn had gotten wise to these plots being woven
around it. People were constantly babbling about the creature,
even via the Atlantic Cable! Accordingly, the wags claimed that this
slippery rascal had waylaid some passing telegram and was making
the most of it.
So the frigate was equipped for a far-off voyage and armed
with fearsome fishing gear, but nobody knew where to steer it.
And impatience grew until, on June 2, word came that the Tampico,
a steamer on the San Francisco line sailing from California to Shanghai,
had sighted the animal again, three weeks before in the northerly
seas of the Pacific.
This news caused intense excitement. Not even a 24-hour breather was
granted to Commander Farragut. His provisions were loaded on board.
His coal bunkers were overflowing. Not a crewman was missing
from his post. To cast off, he needed only to fire and stoke
his furnaces! Half a day's delay would have been unforgivable!
But Commander Farragut wanted nothing more than to go forth.
I received a letter three hours before the Abraham Lincoln left
its Brooklyn pier;* the letter read as follows:
*Author's Note: A pier is a type of wharf expressly set aside
for an individual vessel.
Professor at the Paris Museum
Fifth Avenue Hotel
If you would like to join the expedition on the Abraham Lincoln,
the government of the Union will be pleased to regard you as France's
representative in this undertaking. Commander Farragut has a cabin
at your disposal.
Very cordially yours,
J. B. HOBSON,
Secretary of the Navy.
As Master Wishes
THREE SECONDS before the arrival of J. B. Hobson's letter,
I no more dreamed of chasing the unicorn than of trying for
the Northwest Passage. Three seconds after reading this letter
from the honorable Secretary of the Navy, I understood at last that
my true vocation, my sole purpose in life, was to hunt down this
disturbing monster and rid the world of it.
Even so, I had just returned from an arduous journey, exhausted and badly
needing a rest. I wanted nothing more than to see my country again,
my friends, my modest quarters by the Botanical Gardens,
my dearly beloved collections! But now nothing could hold me back.
I forgot everything else, and without another thought of exhaustion,
friends, or collections, I accepted the American government's offer.
"Besides," I mused, "all roads lead home to Europe, and our unicorn
may be gracious enough to take me toward the coast of France! That fine
animal may even let itself be captured in European seas--as a personal
favor to me--and I'll bring back to the Museum of Natural History
at least half a meter of its ivory lance!"
But in the meantime I would have to look for this narwhale in
the northern Pacific Ocean; which meant returning to France by way
of the Antipodes.
"Conseil!" I called in an impatient voice.
Conseil was my manservant. A devoted lad who went with me on all
my journeys; a gallant Flemish boy whom I genuinely liked and who
returned the compliment; a born stoic, punctilious on principle,
habitually hardworking, rarely startled by life's surprises,
very skillful with his hands, efficient in his every duty, and despite
his having a name that means "counsel," never giving advice--
not even the unsolicited kind!
From rubbing shoulders with scientists in our little universe
by the Botanical Gardens, the boy had come to know a thing or two.
In Conseil I had a seasoned specialist in biological classification,
an enthusiast who could run with acrobatic agility up and down
the whole ladder of branches, groups, classes, subclasses,
orders, families, genera, subgenera, species, and varieties.
But there his science came to a halt. Classifying was everything
to him, so he knew nothing else. Well versed in the theory
of classification, he was poorly versed in its practical application,
and I doubt that he could tell a sperm whale from a baleen whale!
And yet, what a fine, gallant lad!
For the past ten years, Conseil had gone with me wherever
science beckoned. Not once did he comment on the length or the hardships
of a journey. Never did he object to buckling up his suitcase for any
country whatever, China or the Congo, no matter how far off it was.
He went here, there, and everywhere in perfect contentment.
Moreover, he enjoyed excellent health that defied all ailments,
owned solid muscles, but hadn't a nerve in him, not a sign of nerves--
the mental type, I mean.
The lad was thirty years old, and his age to that of his employer
was as fifteen is to twenty. Please forgive me for this underhanded
way of admitting I had turned forty.
But Conseil had one flaw. He was a fanatic on formality,
and he only addressed me in the third person--to the point where
it got tiresome.
"Conseil!" I repeated, while feverishly beginning my preparations
To be sure, I had confidence in this devoted lad. Ordinarily, I never
asked whether or not it suited him to go with me on my journeys;
but this time an expedition was at issue that could drag on indefinitely,
a hazardous undertaking whose purpose was to hunt an animal that could
sink a frigate as easily as a walnut shell! There was good reason
to stop and think, even for the world's most emotionless man.
What would Conseil say?
"Conseil!" I called a third time.
"Did master summon me?" he said, entering.
"Yes, my boy. Get my things ready, get yours ready.
We're departing in two hours."
"As master wishes," Conseil replied serenely.
"We haven't a moment to lose. Pack as much into my trunk as you can,
my traveling kit, my suits, shirts, and socks, don't bother counting,
just squeeze it all in--and hurry!"
"What about master's collections?" Conseil ventured to observe.
"We'll deal with them later."
"What! The archaeotherium, hyracotherium, oreodonts, cheiropotamus,
and master's other fossil skeletons?"
"The hotel will keep them for us."
"What about master's live babirusa?"
"They'll feed it during our absence. Anyhow, we'll leave instructions
to ship the whole menagerie to France."
"Then we aren't returning to Paris?" Conseil asked.
"Yes, we are . . . certainly . . . ," I replied evasively,
"but after we make a detour."
"Whatever detour master wishes."
"Oh, it's nothing really! A route slightly less direct, that's all.
We're leaving on the Abraham Lincoln."
"As master thinks best," Conseil replied placidly.
"You see, my friend, it's an issue of the monster,
the notorious narwhale. We're going to rid the seas of it!
The author of a two-volume work, in quarto, on The Mysteries
of the Great Ocean Depths has no excuse for not setting sail
with Commander Farragut. It's a glorious mission but also a
dangerous one! We don't know where it will take us! These beasts
can be quite unpredictable! But we're going just the same!
We have a commander who's game for anything!"
"What master does, I'll do," Conseil replied.
"But think it over, because I don't want to hide anything from you.
This is one of those voyages from which people don't always come back!"
"As master wishes."
A quarter of an hour later, our trunks were ready. Conseil did
them in a flash, and I was sure the lad hadn't missed a thing,
because he classified shirts and suits as expertly as birds and mammals.
The hotel elevator dropped us off in the main vestibule on the mezzanine.
I went down a short stair leading to the ground floor.
I settled my bill at that huge counter that was always under siege
by a considerable crowd. I left instructions for shipping my containers
of stuffed animals and dried plants to Paris, France. I opened a line
of credit sufficient to cover the babirusa and, Conseil at my heels,
I jumped into a carriage.
For a fare of twenty francs, the vehicle went down Broadway
to Union Square, took Fourth Ave. to its junction with Bowery St.,
turned into Katrin St. and halted at Pier 34. There the Katrin ferry
transferred men, horses, and carriage to Brooklyn, that great New York
annex located on the left bank of the East River, and in a few
minutes we arrived at the wharf next to which the Abraham Lincoln
was vomiting torrents of black smoke from its two funnels.
Our baggage was immediately carried to the deck of the frigate.
I rushed aboard. I asked for Commander Farragut. One of the sailors led
me to the afterdeck, where I stood in the presence of a smart-looking
officer who extended his hand to me.
"Professor Pierre Aronnax?" he said to me.
"The same," I replied. "Commander Farragut?"
"In person. Welcome aboard, professor. Your cabin is waiting for you."
I bowed, and letting the commander attend to getting under way,
I was taken to the cabin that had been set aside for me.
The Abraham Lincoln had been perfectly chosen and fitted out
for its new assignment. It was a high-speed frigate furnished
with superheating equipment that allowed the tension of its steam
to build to seven atmospheres. Under this pressure the Abraham Lincoln
reached an average speed of 18.3 miles per hour, a considerable
speed but still not enough to cope with our gigantic cetacean.
The frigate's interior accommodations complemented its nautical virtues.
I was well satisfied with my cabin, which was located in the stern
and opened into the officers' mess.
"We'll be quite comfortable here," I told Conseil.
"With all due respect to master," Conseil replied, "as comfortable
as a hermit crab inside the shell of a whelk."
I left Conseil to the proper stowing of our luggage and climbed
on deck to watch the preparations for getting under way.
Just then Commander Farragut was giving orders to cast off the last
moorings holding the Abraham Lincoln to its Brooklyn pier.
And so if I'd been delayed by a quarter of an hour or even less,
the frigate would have gone without me, and I would have missed
out on this unearthly, extraordinary, and inconceivable expedition,
whose true story might well meet with some skepticism.
But Commander Farragut didn't want to waste a single day,
or even a single hour, in making for those seas where the animal
had just been sighted. He summoned his engineer.
"Are we up to pressure?" he asked the man.
"Aye, sir," the engineer replied.
"Go ahead, then!" Commander Farragut called.
At this order, which was relayed to the engine by means of a
compressed-air device, the mechanics activated the start-up wheel.
Steam rushed whistling into the gaping valves. Long horizontal
pistons groaned and pushed the tie rods of the drive shaft.
The blades of the propeller churned the waves with increasing speed,
and the Abraham Lincoln moved out majestically amid a spectator-laden
escort of some 100 ferries and tenders.*
*Author's Note: Tenders are small steamboats that assist
the big liners.
The wharves of Brooklyn, and every part of New York bordering
the East River, were crowded with curiosity seekers.
Departing from 500,000 throats, three cheers burst forth in succession.
Thousands of handkerchiefs were waving above these tightly packed masses,
hailing the Abraham
Lincoln until it reached the waters of the Hudson River, at the tip
of the long peninsula that forms New York City.
The frigate then went along the New Jersey coast--the wonderful
right bank of this river, all loaded down with country homes--
and passed by the forts to salutes from their biggest cannons.
The Abraham Lincoln replied by three times lowering and hoisting
the American flag, whose thirty-nine stars gleamed from the gaff of
the mizzen sail; then, changing speed to take the buoy-marked channel
that curved into the inner bay formed by the spit of Sandy Hook,
it hugged this sand-covered strip of land where thousands of spectators
acclaimed us one more time.
The escort of boats and tenders still followed the frigate and only
left us when we came abreast of the lightship, whose two signal
lights mark the entrance of the narrows to Upper New York Bay.
Three o'clock then sounded. The harbor pilot went down into his
dinghy and rejoined a little schooner waiting for him to leeward.
The furnaces were stoked; the propeller churned the waves more swiftly;
the frigate skirted the flat, yellow coast of Long Island;
and at eight o'clock in the evening, after the lights of Fire Island
had vanished into the northwest, we ran at full steam onto the dark
waters of the Atlantic.
COMMANDER FARRAGUT was a good seaman, worthy of the frigate
he commanded. His ship and he were one. He was its very soul.
On the cetacean question no doubts arose in his mind, and he didn't
allow the animal's existence to be disputed aboard his vessel.
He believed in it as certain pious women believe in the leviathan
from the Book of Job--out of faith, not reason. The monster existed,
and he had vowed to rid the seas of it. The man was a sort of
Knight of Rhodes, a latter-day Sir Dieudonné of Gozo, on his way
to fight an encounter with the dragon devastating the island.
Either Commander Farragut would slay the narwhale, or the narwhale
would slay Commander Farragut. No middle of the road for these two.
The ship's officers shared the views of their leader. They could
be heard chatting, discussing, arguing, calculating the different
chances of an encounter, and observing the vast expanse of the ocean.
Voluntary watches from the crosstrees of the topgallant sail
were self-imposed by more than one who would have cursed such toil
under any other circumstances. As often as the sun swept over
its daily arc, the masts were populated with sailors whose feet
itched and couldn't hold still on the planking of the deck below!
And the Abraham Lincoln's stempost hadn't even cut the suspected
waters of the Pacific.
As for the crew, they only wanted to encounter the unicorn,
harpoon it, haul it on board, and carve it up. They surveyed the sea
with scrupulous care. Besides, Commander Farragut had mentioned
that a certain sum of $2,000.00 was waiting for the man who first
sighted the animal, be he cabin boy or sailor, mate or officer.
I'll let the reader decide whether eyes got proper exercise aboard
the Abraham Lincoln.
As for me, I didn't lag behind the others and I yielded to no
one my share in these daily observations. Our frigate would
have had fivescore good reasons for renaming itself the Argus,
after that mythological beast with 100 eyes! The lone rebel among
us was Conseil, who seemed utterly uninterested in the question
exciting us and was out of step with the general enthusiasm on board.
As I said, Commander Farragut had carefully equipped his ship
with all the gear needed to fish for a gigantic cetacean.
No whaling vessel could have been better armed. We had every
known mechanism, from the hand-hurled harpoon, to the blunderbuss
firing barbed arrows, to the duck gun with exploding bullets.
On the forecastle was mounted the latest model breech-loading cannon,
very heavy of barrel and narrow of bore, a weapon that would figure
in the Universal Exhibition of 1867. Made in America, this valuable
instrument could fire a four-kilogram conical projectile an average
distance of sixteen kilometers without the least bother.
So the Abraham Lincoln wasn't lacking in means of destruction.
But it had better still. It had Ned Land, the King of Harpooners.
Gifted with uncommon manual ability, Ned Land was a Canadian who had
no equal in his dangerous trade. Dexterity, coolness, bravery,
and cunning were virtues he possessed to a high degree, and it took
a truly crafty baleen whale or an exceptionally astute sperm whale
to elude the thrusts of his harpoon.
Ned Land was about forty years old. A man of great height--over six
English feet--he was powerfully built, serious in manner, not very
sociable, sometimes headstrong, and quite ill-tempered when crossed.
His looks caught the attention, and above all the strength of his gaze,
which gave a unique emphasis to his facial appearance.
Commander Farragut, to my thinking, had made a wise move in hiring
on this man. With his eye and his throwing arm, he was worth
the whole crew all by himself. I can do no better than to compare
him with a powerful telescope that could double as a cannon always
ready to fire.
To say Canadian is to say French, and as unsociable as
Ned Land was, I must admit he took a definite liking to me.
No doubt it was my nationality that attracted him.
It was an opportunity for him to speak, and for me to hear,
that old Rabelaisian dialect still used in some Canadian provinces.
The harpooner's family originated in Quebec, and they were already
a line of bold fishermen back in the days when this town still
belonged to France.
Little by little Ned developed a taste for chatting, and I loved
hearing the tales of his adventures in the polar seas. He described
his fishing trips and his battles with great natural lyricism.
His tales took on the form of an epic poem, and I felt I was hearing
some Canadian Homer reciting his Iliad of the High Arctic regions.
I'm writing of this bold companion as I currently know him.
Because we've become old friends, united in that permanent
comradeship born and cemented during only the most frightful crises!
Ah, my gallant Ned! I ask only to live 100 years more, the longer
to remember you!
And now, what were Ned Land's views on this question of a marine monster?
I must admit that he flatly didn't believe in the unicorn,
and alone on board, he didn't share the general conviction.
He avoided even dealing with the subject, for which one day I felt
compelled to take him to task.
During the magnificent evening of June 25--in other words, three weeks
after our departure--the frigate lay abreast of Cabo Blanco,
thirty miles to leeward of the coast of Patagonia. We had crossed
the Tropic of Capricorn, and the Strait of Magellan opened
less than 700 miles to the south. Before eight days were out,
the Abraham Lincoln would plow the waves of the Pacific.
Seated on the afterdeck, Ned Land and I chatted about one thing
and another, staring at that mysterious sea whose depths to this
day are beyond the reach of human eyes. Quite naturally,
I led our conversation around to the giant unicorn, and I weighed
our expedition's various chances for success or failure.
Then, seeing that Ned just let me talk without saying much himself,
I pressed him more closely.
"Ned," I asked him, "how can you still doubt the reality of this
cetacean we're after? Do you have any particular reasons for
being so skeptical?"
The harpooner stared at me awhile before replying, slapped his
broad forehead in one of his standard gestures, closed his eyes
as if to collect himself, and finally said:
"Just maybe, Professor Aronnax."
"But Ned, you're a professional whaler, a man familiar with all
the great marine mammals--your mind should easily accept this
hypothesis of an enormous cetacean, and you ought to be the last
one to doubt it under these circumstances!"
"That's just where you're mistaken, professor," Ned replied.
"The common man may still believe in fabulous comets crossing
outer space, or in prehistoric monsters living at the earth's core,
but astronomers and geologists don't swallow such fairy tales.
It's the same with whalers. I've chased plenty of cetaceans,
I've harpooned a good number, I've killed several. But no matter
how powerful and well armed they were, neither their tails or their
tusks could puncture the sheet-iron plates of a steamer."
"Even so, Ned, people mention vessels that narwhale tusks have
run clean through."
"Wooden ships maybe," the Canadian replied. "But I've never seen
the like. So till I have proof to the contrary, I'll deny that
baleen whales, sperm whales, or unicorns can do any such thing."
"Listen to me, Ned--"
"No, no, professor. I'll go along with anything you want except that.
Some gigantic devilfish maybe . . . ?"
"Even less likely, Ned. The devilfish is merely a mollusk, and even this
name hints at its semiliquid flesh, because it's Latin meaning soft one.
The devilfish doesn't belong to the vertebrate branch, and even if it
were 500 feet long, it would still be utterly harmless to ships
like the Scotia or the Abraham Lincoln. Consequently, the feats
of krakens or other monsters of that ilk must be relegated to
the realm of fiction."
"So, Mr. Naturalist," Ned Land continued in a bantering tone,
"you'll just keep on believing in the existence of some
enormous cetacean . . . ?"
"Yes, Ned, I repeat it with a conviction backed by factual logic.
I believe in the existence of a mammal with a powerful constitution,
belonging to the vertebrate branch like baleen whales, sperm whales,
or dolphins, and armed with a tusk made of horn that has
tremendous penetrating power."
"Humph!" the harpooner put in, shaking his head with the attitude
of a man who doesn't want to be convinced.
"Note well, my fine Canadian," I went on, "if such an animal exists,
if it lives deep in the ocean, if it frequents the liquid strata
located miles beneath the surface of the water, it needs to have
a constitution so solid, it defies all comparison."
"And why this powerful constitution?" Ned asked.
"Because it takes incalculable strength just to live in those deep
strata and withstand their pressure."
"Oh really?" Ned said, tipping me a wink.
"Oh really, and I can prove it to you with a few simple figures."
"Bosh!" Ned replied. "You can make figures do anything you want!"
"In business, Ned, but not in mathematics. Listen to me.
Let's accept that the pressure of one atmosphere is represented
by the pressure of a column of water thirty-two feet high.
In reality, such a column of water wouldn't be quite so high because
here we're dealing with salt water, which is denser than fresh water.
Well then, when you dive under the waves, Ned, for every thirty-two
feet of water above you, your body is tolerating the pressure
of one more atmosphere, in other words, one more kilogram per
each square centimeter on your body's surface. So it follows
that at 320 feet down, this pressure is equal to ten atmospheres,
to 100 atmospheres at 3,200 feet, and to 1,000 atmospheres at
32,000 feet, that is, at about two and a half vertical leagues down.
Which is tantamount to saying that if you could reach such a depth
in the ocean, each square centimeter on your body's surface would
be experiencing 1,000 kilograms of pressure. Now, my gallant Ned,
do you know how many square centimeters you have on your bodily surface?"
"I haven't the foggiest notion, Professor Aronnax."
"As many as that?"
"Yes, and since the atmosphere's pressure actually weighs slightly
more than one kilogram per square centimeter, your 17,000 square
centimeters are tolerating 17,568 kilograms at this very moment."
"Without my noticing it?"
"Without your noticing it. And if you aren't crushed by so much pressure,
it's because the air penetrates the interior of your body with
equal pressure. When the inside and outside pressures are in
perfect balance, they neutralize each other and allow you to tolerate
them without discomfort. But in the water it's another story."
"Yes, I see," Ned replied, growing more interested.
"Because the water surrounds me but doesn't penetrate me."
"Precisely, Ned. So at thirty-two feet beneath the surface of the sea,
you'll undergo a pressure of 17,568 kilograms; at 320 feet, or ten times
greater pressure, it's 175,680 kilograms; at 3,200 feet, or 100 times
greater pressure, it's 1,756,800 kilograms; finally, at 32,000 feet,
or 1,000 times greater pressure, it's 17,568,000 kilograms;
in other words, you'd be squashed as flat as if you'd just been
yanked from between the plates of a hydraulic press!"
"Fire and brimstone!" Ned put in.
"All right then, my fine harpooner, if vertebrates several hundred
meters long and proportionate in bulk live at such depths,
their surface areas make up millions of square centimeters,
and the pressure they undergo must be assessed in billions of kilograms.
Calculate, then, how much resistance of bone structure and strength
of constitution they'd need in order to withstand such pressures!"
"They'd need to be manufactured," Ned Land replied, "from sheet-iron
plates eight inches thick, like ironclad frigates."
"Right, Ned, and then picture the damage such a mass could inflict
if it were launched with the speed of an express train against
a ship's hull."
"Yes . . . indeed . . . maybe," the Canadian replied, staggered by
these figures but still not willing to give in.
"Well, have I convinced you?"
"You've convinced me of one thing, Mr. Naturalist. That deep
in the sea, such animals would need to be just as strong as you say--
if they exist."
"But if they don't exist, my stubborn harpooner, how do you explain
the accident that happened to the Scotia?"
"It's maybe . . . ," Ned said, hesitating.
"Because . . . it just couldn't be true!" the Canadian replied,
unconsciously echoing a famous catchphrase of the scientist Arago.
But this reply proved nothing, other than how bullheaded the harpooner
could be. That day I pressed him no further. The Scotia's accident
was undeniable. Its hole was real enough that it had to be plugged up,
and I don't think a hole's existence can be more emphatically proven.
Now then, this hole didn't make itself, and since it hadn't resulted
from underwater rocks or underwater machines, it must have been
caused by the perforating tool of some animal.
Now, for all the reasons put forward to this point, I believed that
this animal was a member of the branch Vertebrata, class Mammalia,
group Pisciforma, and finally, order Cetacea. As for the family
in which it would be placed (baleen whale, sperm whale, or dolphin),
the genus to which it belonged, and the species in which it would
find its proper home, these questions had to be left for later.
To answer them called for dissecting this unknown monster; to dissect
it called for catching it; to catch it called for harpooning it--
which was Ned Land's business; to harpoon it called for sighting it--
which was the crew's business; and to sight it called for encountering it--
which was a chancy business.
FOR SOME WHILE the voyage of the Abraham Lincoln was marked by
no incident. But one circumstance arose that displayed Ned Land's
marvelous skills and showed just how much confidence we could
place in him.
Off the Falkland Islands on June 30, the frigate came in contact
with a fleet of American whalers, and we learned that they hadn't
seen the narwhale. But one of them, the captain of the Monroe,
knew that Ned Land had shipped aboard the Abraham Lincoln
and asked his help in hunting a baleen whale that was in sight.
Anxious to see Ned Land at work, Commander Farragut authorized him
to make his way aboard the Monroe. And the Canadian had such good luck
that with a right-and-left shot, he harpooned not one whale but two,
striking the first straight to the heart and catching the other
after a few minutes' chase!
Assuredly, if the monster ever had to deal with Ned Land's harpoon,
I wouldn't bet on the monster.
The frigate sailed along the east coast of South America with
prodigious speed. By July 3 we were at the entrance to the Strait
of Magellan, abreast of Cabo de las Virgenes. But Commander Farragut
was unwilling to attempt this tortuous passageway and maneuvered
instead to double Cape Horn.
The crew sided with him unanimously. Indeed, were we
likely to encounter the narwhale in such a cramped strait?
Many of our sailors swore that the monster couldn't negotiate this
passageway simply because "he's too big for it!"
Near three o'clock in the afternoon on July 6, fifteen miles south
of shore, the Abraham Lincoln doubled that solitary islet at the tip
of the South American continent, that stray rock Dutch seamen had
named Cape Horn after their hometown of Hoorn. Our course was set
for the northwest, and the next day our frigate's propeller finally
churned the waters of the Pacific.
"Open your eyes! Open your eyes!" repeated the sailors of
the Abraham Lincoln.
And they opened amazingly wide. Eyes and spyglasses (a bit dazzled,
it is true, by the vista of $2,000.00) didn't remain at rest for
an instant. Day and night we observed the surface of the ocean,
and those with nyctalopic eyes, whose ability to see in the dark
increased their chances by fifty percent, had an excellent shot
at winning the prize.
As for me, I was hardly drawn by the lure of money and yet was far from
the least attentive on board. Snatching only a few minutes for meals
and a few hours for sleep, come rain or come shine, I no longer left
the ship's deck. Sometimes bending over the forecastle railings,
sometimes leaning against the sternrail, I eagerly scoured that
cotton-colored wake that whitened the ocean as far as the eye could see!
And how many times I shared the excitement of general staff and crew
when some unpredictable whale lifted its blackish back above the waves.
In an instant the frigate's deck would become densely populated.
The cowls over the companionways would vomit a torrent of sailors
and officers. With panting chests and anxious eyes, we each would
observe the cetacean's movements. I stared; I stared until I nearly
went blind from a worn-out retina, while Conseil, as stoic as ever,
kept repeating to me in a calm tone:
"If master's eyes would kindly stop bulging, master will see farther!"
But what a waste of energy! The Abraham Lincoln would change
course and race after the animal sighted, only to find an ordinary
baleen whale or a common sperm whale that soon disappeared amid
a chorus of curses!
However, the weather held good. Our voyage was proceeding under
the most favorable conditions. By then it was the bad season
in these southernmost regions, because July in this zone corresponds
to our January in Europe; but the sea remained smooth and easily
visible over a vast perimeter.
Ned Land still kept up the most tenacious skepticism; beyond his
spells on watch, he pretended that he never even looked at
the surface of the waves, at least while no whales were in sight.
And yet the marvelous power of his vision could have performed
yeoman service. But this stubborn Canadian spent eight
hours out of every twelve reading or sleeping in his cabin.
A hundred times I chided him for his unconcern.
"Bah!" he replied. "Nothing's out there, Professor Aronnax,
and if there is some animal, what chance would we have of spotting it?
Can't you see we're just wandering around at random? People say
they've sighted this slippery beast again in the Pacific high seas--
I'm truly willing to believe it, but two months have already gone
by since then, and judging by your narwhale's personality, it hates
growing moldy from hanging out too long in the same waterways!
It's blessed with a terrific gift for getting around.
Now, professor, you know even better than I that nature doesn't
violate good sense, and she wouldn't give some naturally slow animal
the ability to move swiftly if it hadn't a need to use that talent.
So if the beast does exist, it's already long gone!"
I had no reply to this. Obviously we were just groping blindly.
But how else could we go about it? All the same, our chances were
automatically pretty limited. Yet everyone still felt confident
of success, and not a sailor on board would have bet against
the narwhale appearing, and soon.
On July 20 we cut the Tropic of Capricorn at longitude 105
degrees, and by the 27th of the same month, we had cleared
the equator on the 110th meridian. These bearings determined,
the frigate took a more decisive westward heading and tackled
the seas of the central Pacific. Commander Farragut felt,
and with good reason, that it was best to stay in deep waters and
keep his distance from continents or islands, whose neighborhoods
the animal always seemed to avoid--"No doubt," our bosun said,
"because there isn't enough water for him!" So the frigate kept
well out when passing the Tuamotu, Marquesas, and Hawaiian Islands,
then cut the Tropic of Cancer at longitude 132 degrees and headed
for the seas of China.
We were finally in the area of the monster's latest antics!
And in all honesty, shipboard conditions became life-threatening.
Hearts were pounding hideously, gearing up for futures full
of incurable aneurysms. The entire crew suffered from a nervous
excitement that it's beyond me to describe. Nobody ate, nobody slept.
Twenty times a day some error in perception, or the optical
illusions of some sailor perched in the crosstrees, would cause
intolerable anguish, and this emotion, repeated twenty times over,
kept us in a state of irritability so intense that a reaction was
bound to follow.
And this reaction wasn't long in coming. For three months,
during which each day seemed like a century, the Abraham Lincoln plowed
all the northerly seas of the Pacific, racing after whales sighted,
abruptly veering off course, swerving sharply from one tack to another,
stopping suddenly, putting on steam and reversing engines in quick
succession, at the risk of stripping its gears, and it didn't leave
a single point unexplored from the beaches of Japan to the coasts
of America. And we found nothing! Nothing except an immenseness
of deserted waves! Nothing remotely resembling a gigantic narwhale,
or an underwater islet, or a derelict shipwreck, or a runaway reef,
or anything the least bit unearthly!
So the reaction set in. At first, discouragement took hold of
people's minds, opening the door to disbelief. A new feeling appeared
on board, made up of three-tenths shame and seven-tenths fury.
The crew called themselves "out-and-out fools" for being
hoodwinked by a fairy tale, then grew steadily more furious!
The mountains of arguments amassed over a year collapsed all at once,
and each man now wanted only to catch up on his eating and sleeping,
to make up for the time he had so stupidly sacrificed.
With typical human fickleness, they jumped from one extreme
to the other. Inevitably, the most enthusiastic supporters
of the undertaking became its most energetic opponents.
This reaction mounted upward from the bowels of the ship, from the
quarters of the bunker hands to the messroom of the general staff;
and for certain, if it hadn't been for Commander Farragut's
characteristic stubbornness, the frigate would ultimately have put
back to that cape in the south.
But this futile search couldn't drag on much longer.
The Abraham Lincoln had done everything it could to succeed and
had no reason to blame itself. Never had the crew of an American
naval craft shown more patience and zeal; they weren't responsible
for this failure; there was nothing to do but go home.
A request to this effect was presented to the commander.
The commander stood his ground. His sailors couldn't hide
their discontent, and their work suffered because of it.
I'm unwilling to say that there was mutiny on board, but after
a reasonable period of intransigence, Commander Farragut,
like Christopher Columbus before him, asked for a grace period
of just three days more. After this three-day delay, if the monster
hadn't appeared, our helmsman would give three turns of the wheel,
and the Abraham Lincoln would chart a course toward European seas.
This promise was given on November 2. It had the immediate effect
of reviving the crew's failing spirits. The ocean was observed
with renewed care. Each man wanted one last look with which to sum
up his experience. Spyglasses functioned with feverish energy.
A supreme challenge had been issued to the giant narwhale, and the latter
had no acceptable excuse for ignoring this Summons to Appear!
Two days passed. The Abraham Lincoln stayed at half steam.
On the offchance that the animal might be found in these waterways,
a thousand methods were used to spark its interest or rouse it
from its apathy. Enormous sides of bacon were trailed in our wake,
to the great satisfaction, I must say, of assorted sharks.
While the Abraham Lincoln heaved to, its longboats radiated
in every direction around it and didn't leave a single point
of the sea unexplored. But the evening of November 4 arrived
with this underwater mystery still unsolved.
At noon the next day, November 5, the agreed-upon delay expired.
After a position fix, true to his promise, Commander Farragut would
have to set his course for the southeast and leave the northerly
regions of the Pacific decisively behind.
By then the frigate lay in latitude 31 degrees 15' north and longitude
136 degrees 42' east. The shores of Japan were less than 200 miles
to our leeward. Night was coming on. Eight o'clock had just struck.
Huge clouds covered the moon's disk, then in its first quarter.
The sea undulated placidly beneath the frigate's stempost.
Just then I was in the bow, leaning over the starboard rail.
Conseil, stationed beside me, stared straight ahead.
Roosting in the shrouds, the crew examined the horizon, which shrank
and darkened little by little. Officers were probing the increasing
gloom with their night glasses. Sometimes the murky ocean sparkled
beneath moonbeams that darted between the fringes of two clouds.
Then all traces of light vanished into the darkness.
Observing Conseil, I discovered that, just barely, the gallant lad
had fallen under the general influence. At least so I thought.
Perhaps his nerves were twitching with curiosity for the first
time in history.
"Come on, Conseil!" I told him. "Here's your last chance to
pocket that $2,000.00!"
"If master will permit my saying so," Conseil replied, "I never
expected to win that prize, and the Union government could have
promised $100,000.00 and been none the poorer."
"You're right, Conseil, it turned out to be a foolish business
after all, and we jumped into it too hastily. What a waste of time,
what a futile expense of emotion! Six months ago we could have been
back in France--"
"In master's little apartment," Conseil answered. "In master's museum!
And by now I would have classified master's fossils.
And master's babirusa would be ensconced in its cage at the zoo
in the Botanical Gardens, and it would have attracted every curiosity
seeker in town!"
"Quite so, Conseil, and what's more, I imagine that people will soon
be poking fun at us!"
"To be sure," Conseil replied serenely, "I do think they'll have fun
at master's expense. And must it be said . . . ?"
"It must be said, Conseil."
"Well then, it will serve master right!"
"When one has the honor of being an expert as master is, one mustn't
lay himself open to--"
Conseil didn't have time to complete the compliment.
In the midst of the general silence, a voice became audible.
It was Ned Land's voice, and it shouted:
"Ahoy! There's the thing in question, abreast of us to leeward!"
At Full Steam
AT THIS SHOUT the entire crew rushed toward the harpooner--
commander, officers, mates,
sailors, cabin boys, down to engineers leaving their machinery
and stokers neglecting their furnaces. The order was given to stop,
and the frigate merely coasted.
By then the darkness was profound, and as good as the Canadian's
eyes were, I still wondered how he could see--and what he had seen.
My heart was pounding fit to burst.
But Ned Land was not mistaken, and we all spotted the object his
hand was indicating.
Two cable lengths off the Abraham Lincoln's starboard quarter,
the sea seemed to be lit up from underneath. This was no
mere phosphorescent phenomenon, that much was unmistakable.
Submerged some fathoms below the surface of the water, the monster
gave off that very intense but inexplicable glow that several
captains had mentioned in their reports. This magnificent radiance
had to come from some force with a great illuminating capacity.
The edge of its light swept over the sea in an immense,
highly elongated oval, condensing at the center into a blazing core
whose unbearable glow diminished by degrees outward.
"It's only a cluster of phosphorescent particles!" exclaimed one
of the officers.
"No, sir," I answered with conviction. "Not even angel-wing
clams or salps have ever given off such a powerful light.
That glow is basically electric in nature. Besides . . . look, look!
It's shifting! It's moving back and forth! It's darting at us!"
A universal shout went up from the frigate.
"Quiet!" Commander Farragut said. "Helm hard to leeward!
Sailors rushed to the helm, engineers to their machinery.
Under reverse steam immediately, the Abraham Lincoln beat to port,
sweeping in a semicircle.
"Right your helm! Engines forward!" Commander Farragut called.
These orders were executed, and the frigate swiftly retreated
from this core of light.
My mistake. It wanted to retreat, but the unearthly animal came
at us with a speed double our own.
We gasped. More stunned than afraid, we stood mute and motionless.
The animal caught up with us, played with us. It made a full
circle around the frigate--then doing fourteen knots--and wrapped
us in sheets of electricity that were like luminous dust.
Then it retreated two or three miles, leaving a phosphorescent
trail comparable to those swirls of steam that shoot behind
the locomotive of an express train. Suddenly, all the way from
the dark horizon where it had gone to gather momentum, the monster
abruptly dashed toward the Abraham Lincoln with frightening speed,
stopped sharply twenty feet from our side plates, and died out--
not by diving under the water, since its glow did not recede gradually--
but all at once, as if the source of this brilliant emanation had
suddenly dried up. Then it reappeared on the other side of the ship,
either by circling around us or by gliding under our hull.
At any instant a collision could have occurred that would have been
fatal to us.
Meanwhile I was astonished at the frigate's maneuvers. It was fleeing,
not fighting. Built to pursue, it was being pursued, and I commented
on this to Commander Farragut. His face, ordinarily so emotionless,
was stamped with indescribable astonishment.
"Professor Aronnax," he answered me, "I don't know what kind of
fearsome creature I'm up against, and I don't want my frigate running
foolish risks in all this darkness. Besides, how should we attack
this unknown creature, how should we defend ourselves against it?
Let's wait for daylight, and then we'll play a different role."
"You've no further doubts, commander, as to the nature of this animal?"
"No, sir, it's apparently a gigantic narwhale, and an electric
one to boot."
"Maybe," I added, "it's no more approachable than an electric eel
or an electric ray!"
"Right," the commander replied. "And if it has their power
to electrocute, it's surely the most dreadful animal ever conceived
by our Creator. That's why I'll keep on my guard, sir."
The whole crew stayed on their feet all night long. No one even
thought of sleeping. Unable to compete with the monster's speed,
the Abraham Lincoln slowed down and stayed at half steam.
For its part, the narwhale mimicked the frigate, simply rode with
the waves, and seemed determined not to forsake the field of battle.
However, near midnight it disappeared, or to use a more appropriate
expression, "it went out," like a huge glowworm. Had it fled from us?
We were duty bound to fear so rather than hope so. But at 12:53
in the morning, a deafening hiss became audible, resembling the sound
made by a waterspout expelled with tremendous intensity.
By then Commander Farragut, Ned Land, and I were on the afterdeck,
peering eagerly into the profound gloom.
"Ned Land," the commander asked, "you've often heard whales bellowing?"
"Often, sir, but never a whale like this, whose sighting
earned me $2,000.00."
"Correct, the prize is rightfully yours. But tell me, isn't that
the noise cetaceans make when they spurt water from their blowholes?"
"The very noise, sir, but this one's way louder. So there can
be no mistake. There's definitely a whale lurking in our waters.
With your permission, sir," the harpooner added, "tomorrow at daybreak
we'll have words with it."
"If it's in a mood to listen to you, Mr. Land," I replied in a tone
far from convinced.
"Let me get within four harpoon lengths of it," the Canadian shot back,
"and it had better listen!"
"But to get near it," the commander went on, "I'd have to put
a whaleboat at your disposal?"
"That would be gambling with the lives of my men."
"And with my own!" the harpooner replied simply.
Near two o'clock in the morning, the core of light reappeared,
no less intense, five miles to windward of the Abraham Lincoln.
Despite the distance, despite the noise of wind and sea, we could
distinctly hear the fearsome thrashings of the animal's tail,
and even its panting breath. Seemingly, the moment this enormous
narwhale came up to breathe at the surface of the ocean,
air was sucked into its lungs like steam into the huge cylinders
of a 2,000-horsepower engine.
"Hmm!" I said to myself. "A cetacean as powerful as a whole
cavalry regiment--now that's a whale of a whale!"
We stayed on the alert until daylight, getting ready for action.
Whaling gear was set up along the railings. Our chief officer loaded
the blunderbusses, which can launch harpoons as far as a mile,
and long duck guns with exploding bullets that can mortally wound
even the most powerful animals. Ned Land was content to sharpen
his harpoon, a dreadful weapon in his hands.
At six o'clock day began to break, and with the dawn's early light,
the narwhale's electric glow disappeared. At seven o'clock the day
was well along, but a very dense morning mist shrank the horizon,
and our best spyglasses were unable to pierce it. The outcome:
disappointment and anger.
I hoisted myself up to the crosstrees of the mizzen sail.
Some officers were already perched on the mastheads.
At eight o'clock the mist rolled ponderously over the waves,
and its huge curls were lifting little by little. The horizon grew
wider and clearer all at once.
Suddenly, just as on the previous evening, Ned Land's voice was audible.
"There's the thing in question, astern to port!" the harpooner shouted.
Every eye looked toward the point indicated.
There, a mile and a half from the frigate, a long blackish body
emerged a meter above the waves. Quivering violently, its tail was
creating a considerable eddy. Never had caudal equipment thrashed
the sea with such power. An immense wake of glowing whiteness
marked the animal's track, sweeping in a long curve.
Our frigate drew nearer to the cetacean. I examined it with a completely
open mind. Those reports from the Shannon and the Helvetia had slightly
exaggerated its dimensions, and I put its length at only 250 feet.
Its girth was more difficult to judge, but all in all, the animal
seemed to be wonderfully proportioned in all three dimensions.
While I was observing this phenomenal creature, two jets of steam
and water sprang from its blowholes and rose to an altitude
of forty meters, which settled for me its mode of breathing.
From this I finally concluded that it belonged to the branch Vertebrata,
class Mammalia, subclass Monodelphia, group Pisciforma,
order Cetacea, family . . . but here I couldn't make up my mind.
The order Cetacea consists of three families, baleen whales,
sperm whales, dolphins, and it's in this last group that narwhales
are placed. Each of these families is divided into several genera,
each genus into species, each species into varieties.
So I was still missing variety, species, genus, and family,
but no doubt I would complete my classifying with the aid of Heaven
and Commander Farragut.
The crew were waiting impatiently for orders from their leader.
The latter, after carefully observing the animal, called for
his engineer. The engineer raced over.
"Sir," the commander said, "are you up to pressure?"
"Aye, sir," the engineer replied.
"Fine. Stoke your furnaces and clap on full steam!"
Three cheers greeted this order. The hour of battle had sounded.
A few moments later, the frigate's two funnels vomited torrents
of black smoke, and its deck quaked from the trembling of its boilers.
Driven forward by its powerful propeller, the Abraham Lincoln headed
straight for the animal. Unconcerned, the latter let us come
within half a cable length; then, not bothering to dive, it got up
a little speed, retreated, and was content to keep its distance.
This chase dragged on for about three-quarters of an hour without
the frigate gaining two fathoms on the cetacean. At this rate,
it was obvious that we would never catch up with it.
Infuriated, Commander Farragut kept twisting the thick tuft of hair
that flourished below his chin.
"Ned Land!" he called.
The Canadian reported at once.
"Well, Mr. Land," the commander asked, "do you still advise putting
my longboats to sea?"
"No, sir," Ned Land replied, "because that beast won't be caught
against its will."