Vingt mille lieues sous les mers. English Page 3

  Pierre Aronnax

  Professor at the Paris Museum

  Fifth Avenue Hotel

  New York

  Sir:

  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'srepresentative in this undertaking. Commander Farragut has a cabinat your disposal.

  Very cordially yours,

  J. B. HOBSON,

  Secretary of the Navy.

  CHAPTER 3

  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 forthe Northwest Passage. Three seconds after reading this letterfrom the honorable Secretary of the Navy, I understood at last thatmy true vocation, my sole purpose in life, was to hunt down thisdisturbing monster and rid the world of it.

  Even so, I had just returned from an arduous journey, exhausted and badlyneeding 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 unicornmay be gracious enough to take me toward the coast of France! That fineanimal may even let itself be captured in European seas--as a personalfavor to me--and I'll bring back to the Museum of Natural Historyat least half a meter of its ivory lance!"

  But in the meantime I would have to look for this narwhale inthe northern Pacific Ocean; which meant returning to France by wayof the Antipodes.

  "Conseil!" I called in an impatient voice.

  Conseil was my manservant. A devoted lad who went with me on allmy journeys; a gallant Flemish boy whom I genuinely liked and whoreturned 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 despitehis having a name that means "counsel," never giving advice--not even the unsolicited kind!

  From rubbing shoulders with scientists in our little universeby 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 downthe whole ladder of branches, groups, classes, subclasses,orders, families, genera, subgenera, species, and varieties.But there his science came to a halt. Classifying was everythingto him, so he knew nothing else. Well versed in the theoryof 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 whereverscience beckoned. Not once did he comment on the length or the hardshipsof a journey. Never did he object to buckling up his suitcase for anycountry 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 employerwas as fifteen is to twenty. Please forgive me for this underhandedway 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 whereit got tiresome.

  "Conseil!" I repeated, while feverishly beginning my preparationsfor departure.

  To be sure, I had confidence in this devoted lad. Ordinarily, I neverasked 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 couldsink a frigate as easily as a walnut shell! There was good reasonto stop and think, even for the world's most emotionless man.What would Conseil say?

  "Conseil!" I called a third time.

  Conseil appeared.

  "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 instructionsto 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 Mysteriesof the Great Ocean Depths has no excuse for not setting sailwith Commander Farragut. It's a glorious mission but also adangerous one! We don't know where it will take us! These beastscan 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 didthem 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 siegeby a considerable crowd. I left instructions for shipping my containersof stuffed animals and dried plants to Paris, France. I opened a lineof 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 Broadwayto Union Square, took Fourth Ave. to its junction with Bowery St.,turned into Katrin St. and halted at Pier 34. There the Katrin ferrytransferred men, horses, and carriage to Brooklyn, that great New Yorkannex located on the left bank of the East River, and in a fewminutes we arrived at the wharf next to which the Abraham Lincolnwas 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 ledme to the afterdeck, where I stood in the presence of a smart-lookingofficer 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 outfor its new assignment. It was a high-speed frigate furnishedwith superheating equipment that allowed the tension of its steamto build to seven atmospheres. Under this pressure the Abraham Lincolnreached an average speed of 18.3 miles per hour, a considerablespeed 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 sternand opened into the officers' mess.
br />   "We'll be quite comfortable here," I told Conseil.

  "With all due respect to master," Conseil replied, "as comfortableas a hermit crab inside the shell of a whelk."

  I left Conseil to the proper stowing of our luggage and climbedon deck to watch the preparations for getting under way.

  Just then Commander Farragut was giving orders to cast off the lastmoorings 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 missedout 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 animalhad 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 acompressed-air device, the mechanics activated the start-up wheel.Steam rushed whistling into the gaping valves. Long horizontalpistons 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-ladenescort of some 100 ferries and tenders.*

  *Author's Note: Tenders are small steamboats that assistthe big liners.

  The wharves of Brooklyn, and every part of New York borderingthe 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 tipof the long peninsula that forms New York City.

  The frigate then went along the New Jersey coast--the wonderfulright 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 hoistingthe American flag, whose thirty-nine stars gleamed from the gaff ofthe mizzen sail; then, changing speed to take the buoy-marked channelthat curved into the inner bay formed by the spit of Sandy Hook,it hugged this sand-covered strip of land where thousands of spectatorsacclaimed us one more time.

  The escort of boats and tenders still followed the frigate and onlyleft us when we came abreast of the lightship, whose two signallights mark the entrance of the narrows to Upper New York Bay.

  Three o'clock then sounded. The harbor pilot went down into hisdinghy 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 Islandhad vanished into the northwest, we ran at full steam onto the darkwaters of the Atlantic.

  CHAPTER 4

  Ned Land

  COMMANDER FARRAGUT was a good seaman, worthy of the frigatehe 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'tallow the animal's existence to be disputed aboard his vessel.He believed in it as certain pious women believe in the leviathanfrom 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 ofKnight of Rhodes, a latter-day Sir Dieudonn? of Gozo, on his wayto fight an encounter with the dragon devastating the island.Either Commander Farragut would slay the narwhale, or the narwhalewould slay Commander Farragut. No middle of the road for these two.

  The ship's officers shared the views of their leader. They couldbe heard chatting, discussing, arguing, calculating the differentchances of an encounter, and observing the vast expanse of the ocean.Voluntary watches from the crosstrees of the topgallant sailwere self-imposed by more than one who would have cursed such toilunder any other circumstances. As often as the sun swept overits daily arc, the masts were populated with sailors whose feetitched and couldn't hold still on the planking of the deck below!And the Abraham Lincoln's stempost hadn't even cut the suspectedwaters 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 seawith scrupulous care. Besides, Commander Farragut had mentionedthat a certain sum of $2,000.00 was waiting for the man who firstsighted the animal, be he cabin boy or sailor, mate or officer.I'll let the reader decide whether eyes got proper exercise aboardthe Abraham Lincoln.

  As for me, I didn't lag behind the others and I yielded to noone my share in these daily observations. Our frigate wouldhave had fivescore good reasons for renaming itself the Argus,after that mythological beast with 100 eyes! The lone rebel amongus was Conseil, who seemed utterly uninterested in the questionexciting us and was out of step with the general enthusiasm on board.

  As I said, Commander Farragut had carefully equipped his shipwith all the gear needed to fish for a gigantic cetacean.No whaling vessel could have been better armed. We had everyknown mechanism, from the hand-hurled harpoon, to the blunderbussfiring 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 figurein the Universal Exhibition of 1867. Made in America, this valuableinstrument could fire a four-kilogram conical projectile an averagedistance 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 hadno equal in his dangerous trade. Dexterity, coolness, bravery,and cunning were virtues he possessed to a high degree, and it tooka truly crafty baleen whale or an exceptionally astute sperm whaleto elude the thrusts of his harpoon.

  Ned Land was about forty years old. A man of great height--over sixEnglish feet--he was powerfully built, serious in manner, not verysociable, 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 hiringon this man. With his eye and his throwing arm, he was worththe whole crew all by himself. I can do no better than to comparehim with a powerful telescope that could double as a cannon alwaysready to fire.

  To say Canadian is to say French, and as unsociable asNed 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 alreadya line of bold fishermen back in the days when this town stillbelonged to France.

  Little by little Ned developed a taste for chatting, and I lovedhearing the tales of his adventures in the polar seas. He describedhis fishing trips and his battles with great natural lyricism.His tales took on the form of an epic poem, and I felt I was hearingsome 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 permanentcomradeship born and cemented during only the most frightful crises!Ah, my gallant Ned! I ask only to live 100 years more, the longerto 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 feltcompelled to take him to task.

  During the magnificent evening of June 25--in other words, three weeksafter our departure--the frigate lay abreast of Cabo Blanco,thirty miles to leeward of the coast of Patagonia. We had crossedthe Tropic of Capricorn, and the Strait of Magellan openedless 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 thingand another, staring at that mysterious sea whose depths to thisday are beyond the reach of human eyes. Quite naturally,I led our conversation around to the giant unicorn, and I weighedour 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 thiscetacean we're after? Do you have any particular reasons forbeing so skeptical?"

  The harpooner stared at me awhile before replying, slapped hisbroad forehead in one of his standard gestures, closed his eyesas if to collect himself, and finally said:

  "Just maybe, Professor Aronnax."

  "But Ned, you're a professional whaler, a man familiar with allthe great marine mammals--your mind should easily accept thishypothesis of an enormous cetacean, and you ought to be the lastone 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 crossingouter 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 matterhow powerful and well armed they were, neither their tails or theirtusks could puncture the sheet-iron plates of a steamer."