CHAPTER 22

The Lightning Bolts of Captain Nemo

WITHOUT STANDING UP, we stared in the direction of the forest, my hand

stopping halfway to my mouth, Ned Land’s completing its assignment.

“Stones don’t fall from the sky,” Conseil said, “or else they deserve

to be called meteorites.”

A second well-polished stone removed a tasty ringdove leg from

Conseil’s hand, giving still greater relevance to his observation.

We all three stood up, rifles to our shoulders, ready to answer any

attack.

“Apes maybe?” Ned Land exclaimed.

“Nearly,” Conseil replied. “Savages.”

“Head for the skiff!” I said, moving toward the sea.

Indeed, it was essential to beat a retreat because some twenty

natives, armed with bows and slings, appeared barely a hundred paces

off, on the outskirts of a thicket that masked the horizon to our

right.

The skiff was aground ten fathoms away from us.

The savages approached without running, but they favored us with a

show of the greatest hostility. It was raining stones and arrows.

Ned Land was unwilling to leave his provisions behind, and despite the

impending danger, he clutched his pig on one side, his kangaroos on

the other, and scampered off with respectable speed.

In two minutes we were on the strand. Loading provisions and weapons

into the skiff, pushing it to sea, and positioning its two oars were

the work of an instant. We hadn’t gone two cable lengths when a

hundred savages, howling and gesticulating, entered the water up to

their waists. I looked to see if their appearance might draw some of

the Nautilus’s men onto the platform. But no. Lying well out, that

enormous machine still seemed completely deserted.

Twenty minutes later we boarded ship. The hatches were open. After

mooring the skiff, we reentered the Nautilus’s interior.

I went below to the lounge, from which some chords were

wafting. Captain Nemo was there, leaning over the organ, deep in a

musical trance.

“Captain!” I said to him.

He didn’t hear me.

“Captain!” I went on, touching him with my hand.

He trembled, and turning around:

“Ah, it’s you, professor!” he said to me. “Well, did you have a happy

hunt? Was your herb gathering a success?”

“Yes, captain,” I replied, “but unfortunately we’ve brought back a

horde of bipeds whose proximity worries me.”

“What sort of bipeds?”

“Savages.”

“Savages!” Captain Nemo replied in an ironic tone. “You set foot on

one of the shores of this globe, professor, and you’re surprised to

find savages there? Where aren’t there savages? And besides, are they

any worse than men elsewhere, these people you call savages?”

“But captain—”

“Speaking for myself, sir, I’ve encountered them everywhere.”

“Well then,” I replied, “if you don’t want to welcome them aboard the

Nautilus, you’d better take some precautions!”

“Easy, professor, no cause for alarm.”

“But there are a large number of these natives.”

“What’s your count?”

“At least a hundred.”

“Professor Aronnax,” replied Captain Nemo, whose fingers took their

places again on the organ keys, “if every islander in Papua were to

gather on that beach, the Nautilus would still have nothing to fear

from their attacks!”

The captain’s fingers then ran over the instrument’s keyboard, and I

noticed that he touched only its black keys, which gave his melodies a

basically Scottish color. Soon he had forgotten my presence and was

lost in a reverie that I no longer tried to dispel.

I climbed onto the platform. Night had already fallen, because in this

low latitude the sun sets quickly, without any twilight. I could see

Gueboroa Island only dimly. But numerous fires had been kindled on the

beach, attesting that the natives had no thoughts of leaving it.

For several hours I was left to myself, sometimes musing on the

islanders—but no longer fearing them because the captain’s unflappable

confidence had won me over—and sometimes forgetting them to marvel at

the splendors of this tropical night. My memories took wing toward

France, in the wake of those zodiacal stars due to twinkle over it in

a few hours. The moon shone in the midst of the constellations at

their zenith. I then remembered that this loyal, good-natured

satellite would return to this same place the day after tomorrow, to

raise the tide and tear the Nautilus from its coral bed. Near

midnight, seeing that all was quiet over the darkened waves as well as

under the waterside trees, I repaired to my cabin and fell into a

peaceful sleep.

The night passed without mishap. No doubt the Papuans had been

frightened off by the mere sight of this monster aground in the bay,

because our hatches stayed open, offering easy access to the

Nautilus’s interior.

At six o’clock in the morning, January 8, I climbed onto the

platform. The morning shadows were lifting. The island was soon on

view through the dissolving mists, first its beaches, then its

summits.

The islanders were still there, in greater numbers than on the day

before, perhaps 500 or 600 of them. Taking advantage of the low tide,

some of them had moved forward over the heads of coral to within two

cable lengths of the Nautilus. I could easily distinguish them. They

obviously were true Papuans, men of fine stock, athletic in build,

forehead high and broad, nose large but not flat, teeth white. Their

woolly, red-tinted hair was in sharp contrast to their bodies, which

were black and glistening like those of Nubians. Beneath their

pierced, distended earlobes there dangled strings of beads made from

bone. Generally these savages were naked. I noted some women among

them, dressed from hip to knee in grass skirts held up by belts made

of vegetation. Some of the chieftains adorned their necks with

crescents and with necklaces made from beads of red and white

glass. Armed with bows, arrows, and shields, nearly all of them

carried from their shoulders a sort of net, which held those polished

stones their slings hurl with such dexterity.

One of these chieftains came fairly close to the Nautilus, examining

it with care. He must have been a “mado” of high rank, because he

paraded in a mat of banana leaves that had ragged edges and was

accented with bright colors.

I could easily have picked off this islander, he stood at such close

range; but I thought it best to wait for an actual show of

hostility. Between Europeans and savages, it’s acceptable for

Europeans to shoot back but not to attack first.

During this whole time of low tide, the islanders lurked near the

Nautilus, but they weren’t boisterous. I often heard them repeat the

word “assai,” and from their gestures I understood they were inviting

me to go ashore, an invitation I felt obliged to decline.

So the skiff didn’t leave shipside that day, much to the displeasure

of Mr. Land who couldn’t complete his provisions. The adroit Canadian

spent his time preparing the meat and flour products he had brought

from Gueboroa Island. As for the savages, they went back to shore near

eleven o’clock in the morning, when the heads of coral began to

disappear under the waves of the rising tide. But I saw their numbers

swell considerably on the beach. It was likely that they had come from

neighboring islands or from the mainland of Papua proper. However, I

didn’t see one local dugout canoe.

Having nothing better to do, I decided to dredge these beautiful,

clear waters, which exhibited a profusion of shells, zoophytes, and

open-sea plants. Besides, it was the last day the Nautilus would spend

in these waterways, if, tomorrow, it still floated off to the open sea

as Captain Nemo had promised.

So I summoned Conseil, who brought me a small, light dragnet similar

to those used in oyster fishing.

“What about these savages?” Conseil asked me. “With all due respect to

master, they don’t strike me as very wicked!”

“They’re cannibals even so, my boy.”

“A person can be both a cannibal and a decent man,” Conseil replied,

“just as a person can be both gluttonous and honorable. The one

doesn’t exclude the other.”

“Fine, Conseil! And I agree that there are honorable cannibals who

decently devour their prisoners. However, I’m opposed to being

devoured, even in all decency, so I’ll keep on my guard, especially

since the Nautilus’s commander seems to be taking no precautions. And

now let’s get to work!”

For two hours our fishing proceeded energetically but without bringing

up any rarities. Our dragnet was filled with Midas abalone, harp

shells, obelisk snails, and especially the finest hammer shells I had

seen to that day. We also gathered in a few sea cucumbers, some pearl

oysters, and a dozen small turtles that we saved for the ship’s

pantry.

But just when I least expected it, I laid my hands on a wonder, a

natural deformity I’d have to call it, something very seldom

encountered. Conseil had just made a cast of the dragnet, and his gear

had come back up loaded with a variety of fairly ordinary seashells,

when suddenly he saw me plunge my arms swiftly into the net, pull out

a shelled animal, and give a conchological yell, in other words, the

most piercing yell a human throat can produce.

“Eh? What happened to master?” Conseil asked, very startled. “Did

master get bitten?”

“No, my boy, but I’d gladly have sacrificed a finger for such a find!”

“What find?”

“This shell,” I said, displaying the subject of my triumph.

“But that’s simply an olive shell of the ‘tent olive’ species, genus

Oliva, order Pectinibranchia, class Gastropoda, branch Mollusca—”

“Yes, yes, Conseil! But instead of coiling from right to left, this

olive shell rolls from left to right!”

“It can’t be!” Conseil exclaimed.

“Yes, my boy, it’s a left-handed shell!”

“A left-handed shell!” Conseil repeated, his heart pounding.

“Look at its spiral!”

“Oh, master can trust me on this,” Conseil said, taking the valuable

shell in trembling hands, “but never have I felt such excitement!”

And there was good reason to be excited! In fact, as naturalists have

ventured to observe, “dextrality” is a well-known law of nature. In

their rotational and orbital movements, stars and their satellites go

from right to left. Man uses his right hand more often than his left,

and consequently his various instruments and equipment (staircases,

locks, watch springs, etc.) are designed to be used in a right-to-left

manner. Now then, nature has generally obeyed this law in coiling her

shells. They’re right-handed with only rare exceptions, and when by

chance a shell’s spiral is left-handed, collectors will pay its weight

in gold for it.

So Conseil and I were deep in the contemplation of our treasure, and I

was solemnly promising myself to enrich the Paris Museum with it, when

an ill-timed stone, hurled by one of the islanders, whizzed over and

shattered the valuable object in Conseil’s hands.

I gave a yell of despair! Conseil pounced on his rifle and aimed at a

savage swinging a sling just ten meters away from him. I tried to stop

him, but his shot went off and shattered a bracelet of amulets

dangling from the islander’s arm.

“Conseil!” I shouted. “Conseil!”

“Eh? What? Didn’t master see that this man-eater initiated the

attack?”

“A shell isn’t worth a human life!” I told him.

“Oh, the rascal!” Conseil exclaimed. “I’d rather he cracked my

shoulder!”

Conseil was in dead earnest, but I didn’t subscribe to his

views. However, the situation had changed in only a short time and we

hadn’t noticed. Now some twenty dugout canoes were surrounding the

Nautilus. Hollowed from tree trunks, these dugouts were long, narrow,

and well designed for speed, keeping their balance by means of two

bamboo poles that floated on the surface of the water. They were

maneuvered by skillful, half-naked paddlers, and I viewed their

advance with definite alarm.

It was obvious these Papuans had already entered into relations with

Europeans and knew their ships. But this long, iron cylinder lying in

the bay, with no masts or funnels—what were they to make of it?

Nothing good, because at first they kept it at a respectful

distance. However, seeing that it stayed motionless, they regained

confidence little by little and tried to become more familiar with

it. Now then, it was precisely this familiarity that we needed to

prevent. Since our weapons made no sound when they went off, they

would have only a moderate effect on these islanders, who reputedly

respect nothing but noisy mechanisms. Without thunderclaps, lightning

bolts would be much less frightening, although the danger lies in the

flash, not the noise.

Just then the dugout canoes drew nearer to the Nautilus, and a cloud

of arrows burst over us.

“Fire and brimstone, it’s hailing!” Conseil said. “And poisoned hail

perhaps!”

“We’ve got to alert Captain Nemo,” I said, reentering the hatch.

I went below to the lounge. I found no one there. I ventured a knock

at the door opening into the captain’s stateroom.

The word “Enter!” answered me. I did so and found Captain Nemo busy

with calculations in which there was no shortage of X and other

algebraic signs.

“Am I disturbing you?” I said out of politeness.

“Correct, Professor Aronnax,” the captain answered me. “But I imagine

you have pressing reasons for looking me up?”

“Very pressing. Native dugout canoes are surrounding us, and in a few

minutes we’re sure to be assaulted by several hundred savages.”

“Ah!” Captain Nemo put in serenely. “They’ve come in their dugouts?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, sir, closing the hatches should do the trick.”

“Precisely, and that’s what I came to tell you—”

“Nothing easier,” Captain Nemo said.

And he pressed an electric button, transmitting an order to the crew’s

quarters.

“There, sir, all under control!” he told me after a few moments. “The

skiff is in place and the hatches are closed. I don’t imagine you’re

worried that these gentlemen will stave in walls that shells from your

frigate couldn’t breach?”

“No, captain, but one danger still remains.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“Tomorrow at about this time, we’ll need to reopen the hatches to

renew the Nautilus’s air.”

“No argument, sir, since our craft breathes in the manner favored by

cetaceans.”

“But if these Papuans are occupying the platform at that moment, I

don’t see how you can prevent them from entering.”

“Then, sir, you assume they’ll board the ship?”

“I’m certain of it.”

“Well, sir, let them come aboard. I see no reason to prevent

them. Deep down they’re just poor devils, these Papuans, and I don’t

want my visit to Gueboroa Island to cost the life of a single one of

these unfortunate people!”

On this note I was about to withdraw; but Captain Nemo detained me and

invited me to take a seat next to him. He questioned me with interest

on our excursions ashore and on our hunting, but seemed not to

understand the Canadian’s passionate craving for red meat. Then our

conversation skimmed various subjects, and without being more

forthcoming, Captain Nemo proved more affable.

Among other things, we came to talk of the Nautilus’s circumstances,

aground in the same strait where Captain Dumont d’Urville had nearly

miscarried. Then, pertinent to this:

“He was one of your great seamen,” the captain told me, “one of your

shrewdest navigators, that d’Urville! He was the Frenchman’s Captain

Cook. A man wise but unlucky! Braving the ice banks of the South Pole,

the coral of Oceania, the cannibals of the Pacific, only to perish

wretchedly in a train wreck! If that energetic man was able to think

about his life in its last seconds, imagine what his final thoughts

must have been!”

As he spoke, Captain Nemo seemed deeply moved, an emotion I felt was

to his credit.

Then, chart in hand, we returned to the deeds of the French navigator:

his voyages to circumnavigate the globe, his double attempt at the

South Pole, which led to his discovery of the Adélie Coast and the

Louis-Philippe Peninsula, finally his hydrographic surveys of the

chief islands in Oceania.

“What your d’Urville did on the surface of the sea,” Captain Nemo told

me, “I’ve done in the ocean’s interior, but more easily, more

completely than he. Constantly tossed about by hurricanes, the Zealous

and the new Astrolabe couldn’t compare with the Nautilus, a quiet work

room truly at rest in the midst of the waters!”

“Even so, captain,” I said, “there is one major similarity between

Dumont d’Urville’s sloops of war and the Nautilus.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“Like them, the Nautilus has run aground!”

“The Nautilus is not aground, sir,” Captain Nemo replied icily. “The

Nautilus was built to rest on the ocean floor, and I don’t need to

undertake the arduous labors, the maneuvers d’Urville had to attempt

in order to float off his sloops of war. The Zealous and the new

Astrolabe wellnigh perished, but my Nautilus is in no

danger. Tomorrow, on the day stated and at the hour stated, the tide

will peacefully lift it off, and it will resume its navigating through

the seas.”

“Captain,” I said, “I don’t doubt—”

“Tomorrow,” Captain Nemo added, standing up, “tomorrow at 2:40 in the

afternoon, the Nautilus will float off and exit the Torres Strait

undamaged.”

Pronouncing these words in an extremely sharp tone, Captain Nemo gave

me a curt bow. This was my dismissal, and I reentered my stateroom.

There I found Conseil, who wanted to know the upshot of my interview

with the captain.

“My boy,” I replied, “when I expressed the belief that these Papuan

natives were a threat to his Nautilus, the captain answered me with

great irony. So I’ve just one thing to say to you: have faith in him

and sleep in peace.”

“Master has no need for my services?”

“No, my friend. What’s Ned Land up to?”

“Begging master’s indulgence,” Conseil replied, “but our friend Ned is

concocting a kangaroo pie that will be the eighth wonder!”

I was left to myself; I went to bed but slept pretty poorly. I kept

hearing noises from the savages, who were stamping on the platform and

letting out deafening yells. The night passed in this way, without the

crew ever emerging from their usual inertia. They were no more

disturbed by the presence of these man-eaters than soldiers in an

armored fortress are troubled by ants running over the armor plate.

I got up at six o’clock in the morning. The hatches weren’t open. So

the air inside hadn’t been renewed; but the air tanks were kept full

for any eventuality and would function appropriately to shoot a few

cubic meters of oxygen into the Nautilus’s thin atmosphere.

I worked in my stateroom until noon without seeing Captain Nemo even

for an instant. Nobody on board seemed to be making any preparations

for departure.

I still waited for a while, then I made my way to the main lounge. Its

timepiece marked 2:30. In ten minutes the tide would reach its maximum

elevation, and if Captain Nemo hadn’t made a rash promise, the

Nautilus would immediately break free. If not, many months might pass

before it could leave its coral bed.

But some preliminary vibrations could soon be felt over the boat’s

hull. I heard its plating grind against the limestone roughness of

that coral base.

At 2:35 Captain Nemo appeared in the lounge.

“We’re about to depart,” he said.

“Ah!” I put in.

“I’ve given orders to open the hatches.”

“What about the Papuans?”

“What about them?” Captain Nemo replied, with a light shrug of his

shoulders.

“Won’t they come inside the Nautilus?”

“How will they manage that?”

“By jumping down the hatches you’re about to open.”

“Professor Aronnax,” Captain Nemo replied serenely, “the Nautilus’s

hatches aren’t to be entered in that fashion even when they’re open.”

I gaped at the captain.

“You don’t understand?” he said to me.

“Not in the least.”

“Well, come along and you’ll see!”

I headed to the central companionway. There, very puzzled, Ned Land

and Conseil watched the crewmen opening the hatches, while a frightful

clamor and furious shouts resounded outside.

The hatch lids fell back onto the outer plating. Twenty horrible faces

appeared. But when the first islander laid hands on the companionway

railing, he was flung backward by some invisible power, lord knows

what! He ran off, howling in terror and wildly prancing around.

Ten of his companions followed him. All ten met the same fate.

Conseil was in ecstasy. Carried away by his violent instincts, Ned

Land leaped up the companionway. But as soon as his hands seized the

railing, he was thrown backward in his turn.

“Damnation!” he exclaimed. “I’ve been struck by a lightning bolt!”

These words explained everything to me. It wasn’t just a railing that

led to the platform, it was a metal cable fully charged with the

ship’s electricity. Anyone who touched it got a fearsome shock—and

such a shock would have been fatal if Captain Nemo had thrown the full

current from his equipment into this conducting cable! It could

honestly be said that he had stretched between himself and his

assailants a network of electricity no one could clear with impunity.

Meanwhile, crazed with terror, the unhinged Papuans beat a retreat. As

for us, half laughing, we massaged and comforted poor Ned Land, who

was swearing like one possessed.

But just then, lifted off by the tide’s final undulations, the

Nautilus left its coral bed at exactly that fortieth minute pinpointed

by the captain. Its propeller churned the waves with lazy

majesty. Gathering speed little by little, the ship navigated on the

surface of the ocean, and safe and sound, it left behind the dangerous

narrows of the Torres Strait.