Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Seas Part 100

It was obviously trying to locate some precise spot in the ocean.

Just as on the day before, Captain Nemo came to take the alt.i.tude of the sun. The sea was smooth, the skies clear. Eight miles to the east, a big steams.h.i.+p was visible on the horizon line.

No flag was flapping from the gaff of its fore-and-aft sail, and I couldn't tell its nationality.

A few minutes before the sun pa.s.sed its zenith, Captain Nemo raised his s.e.xtant and took his sights with the utmost precision.

The absolute calm of the waves facilitated this operation.

The Nautilus lay motionless, neither rolling nor pitching.

I was on the platform just then. After determining our position, the captain p.r.o.nounced only these words:

"It's right here!"

He went down the hatch. Had he seen that vessel change course and seemingly head toward us? I'm unable to say.

I returned to the lounge. The hatch closed, and I heard water hissing in the ballast tanks. The Nautilus began to sink on a vertical line, because its propeller was in check and no longer furnished any forward motion.

Some minutes later it stopped at a depth of 833 meters and came to rest on the seafloor.

The ceiling lights in the lounge then went out, the panels opened, and through the windows I saw, for a half-mile radius, the sea brightly lit by the beacon's rays.

I looked to port and saw nothing but the immenseness of these tranquil waters.

To starboard, a prominent bulge on the sea bottom caught my attention.

You would have thought it was some ruin enshrouded in a crust of whitened seash.e.l.ls, as if under a mantle of snow.

Carefully examining this ma.s.s, I could identify the swollen outlines of a s.h.i.+p shorn of its masts, which must have sunk bow first.

This casualty certainly dated from some far-off time.

To be so caked with the limestone of these waters, this wreckage must have spent many a year on the ocean floor.

What s.h.i.+p was this? Why had the Nautilus come to visit its grave?

Was it something other than a maritime accident that had dragged this craft under the waters?

I wasn't sure what to think, but next to me I heard Captain Nemo's voice slowly say:

"Originally this s.h.i.+p was christened the Ma.r.s.eillais. It carried seventy-four cannons and was launched in 1762. On August 13, 1778, commanded by La Poype-Vertrieux, it fought valiantly against the Preston. On July 4, 1779, as a member of the squadron under Admiral d'Estaing, it a.s.sisted in the capture of the island of Grenada. On September 5, 1781, under the Count de Gra.s.se, it took part in the Battle of Chesapeake Bay. In 1794 the new Republic of France changed the name of this s.h.i.+p. On April 16 of that same year, it joined the squadron at Brest under Rear Admiral Villaret de Joyeuse, who was entrusted with escorting a convoy of wheat coming from America under the command of Admiral Van Stabel. In this second year of the French Revolutionary Calendar, on the 11th and 12th days in the Month of Pasture, this squadron fought an encounter with English vessels. Sir, today is June 1, 1868, or the 13th day in the Month of Pasture. Seventy-four years ago to the day, at this very spot in lat.i.tude 47 degrees 24' and longitude 17 degrees 28', this s.h.i.+p sank after a heroic battle; its three masts gone, water in its hold, a third of its crew out of action, it preferred to go to the bottom with its 356 seamen rather than surrender; and with its flag nailed up on the afterdeck, it disappeared beneath the waves to shouts of 'Long live the Republic!'"

"This is the Avenger!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, sir! The Avenger! A splendid name!" Captain Nemo murmured, crossing his arms.

CHAPTER 21

A Ma.s.s Execution

THE WAY HE SAID THIS, the unexpectedness of this scene, first the biography of this patriotic s.h.i.+p, then the excitement with which this eccentric individual p.r.o.nounced these last words--the name Avenger whose significance could not escape me--all this, taken together, had a profound impact on my mind. My eyes never left the captain.

Hands outstretched toward the sea, he contemplated the proud wreck with blazing eyes. Perhaps I would never learn who he was, where he came from or where he was heading, but more and more I could see a distinction between the man and the scientist.

It was no ordinary misanthropy that kept Captain Nemo and his companions sequestered inside the Nautilus's plating, but a hate so monstrous or so sublime that the pa.s.sing years could never weaken it.

Did this hate also hunger for vengeance? Time would soon tell.

Meanwhile the Nautilus rose slowly to the surface of the sea, and I watched the Avenger's murky shape disappearing little by little.

Soon a gentle rolling told me that we were afloat in the open air.

Just then a hollow explosion was audible. I looked at the captain.

The captain did not stir.

"Captain?" I said.

He didn't reply.

I left him and climbed onto the platform. Conseil and the Canadian were already there.

"What caused that explosion?" I asked.

"A cannon going off," Ned Land replied.

I stared in the direction of the s.h.i.+p I had spotted. It was heading toward the Nautilus, and you could tell it had put on steam.

Six miles separated it from us.

"What sort of craft is it, Ned?"

"From its rigging and its low masts," the Canadian replied, "I bet it's a wars.h.i.+p. Here's hoping it pulls up and sinks this d.a.m.ned Nautilus!"

"Ned my friend," Conseil replied, "what harm could it do the Nautilus? Will it attack us under the waves? Will it cannonade us at the bottom of the sea?"

"Tell me, Ned," I asked, "can you make out the nationality of that craft?"

Creasing his brow, lowering his lids, and puckering the corners of his eyes, the Canadian focused the full power of his gaze on the s.h.i.+p for a short while.

"No, sir," he replied. "I can't make out what nation it's from.

It's flying no flag. But I'll swear it's a wars.h.i.+p, because there's a long pennant streaming from the peak of its mainmast."

For a quarter of an hour, we continued to watch the craft bearing down on us. But it was inconceivable to me that it had discovered the Nautilus at such a distance, still less that it knew what this underwater machine really was.

Soon the Canadian announced that the craft was a big battles.h.i.+p, a double-decker ironclad complete with ram. Dark, dense smoke burst from its two funnels. Its furled sails merged with the lines of its yardarms. The gaff of its fore-and-aft sail flew no flag.

Its distance still kept us from distinguis.h.i.+ng the colors of its pennant, which was fluttering like a thin ribbon.

It was coming on fast. If Captain Nemo let it approach, a chance for salvation might be available to us.

"Sir," Ned Land told me, "if that boat gets within a mile of us, I'm jumping overboard, and I suggest you follow suit."

I didn't reply to the Canadian's proposition but kept watching the s.h.i.+p, which was looming larger on the horizon. Whether it was English, French, American, or Russian, it would surely welcome us aboard if we could just get to it.

"Master may recall," Conseil then said, "that we have some experience with swimming. He can rely on me to tow him to that vessel, if he's agreeable to going with our friend Ned."