CHAPTER 20
In Latitude 47° 24′ and Longitude 17° 28′
IN THE AFTERMATH of this storm, we were thrown back to the east. Away
went any hope of escaping to the landing places of New York or the
St. Lawrence. In despair, poor Ned went into seclusion like Captain
Nemo. Conseil and I no longer left each other.
As I said, the Nautilus veered to the east. To be more accurate, I
should have said to the northeast. Sometimes on the surface of the
waves, sometimes beneath them, the ship wandered for days amid these
mists so feared by navigators. These are caused chiefly by melting
ice, which keeps the air extremely damp. How many ships have perished
in these waterways as they tried to get directions from the hazy
lights on the coast! How many casualties have been caused by these
opaque mists! How many collisions have occurred with these reefs,
where the breaking surf is covered by the noise of the wind! How many
vessels have rammed each other, despite their running lights, despite
the warnings given by their bosun’s pipes and alarm bells!
So the floor of this sea had the appearance of a battlefield where
every ship defeated by the ocean still lay, some already old and
encrusted, others newer and reflecting our beacon light on their
ironwork and copper undersides. Among these vessels, how many went
down with all hands, with their crews and hosts of immigrants, at
these trouble spots so prominent in the statistics: Cape Race,
St. Paul Island, the Strait of Belle Isle, the St. Lawrence estuary!
And in only a few years, how many victims have been furnished to the
obituary notices by the Royal Mail, Inman, and Montreal lines; by
vessels named the Solway, the Isis, the Paramatta, the Hungarian, the
Canadian, the Anglo-Saxon, the Humboldt, and the United States, all
run aground; by the Arctic and the Lyonnais, sunk in collisions; by
the President, the Pacific, and the City of Glasgow, lost for reasons
unknown; in the midst of their gloomy rubble, the Nautilus navigated
as if passing the dead in review!
By May 15 we were off the southern tip of the Grand Banks of
Newfoundland. These banks are the result of marine sedimentation, an
extensive accumulation of organic waste brought either from the
equator by the Gulf Stream’s current, or from the North Pole by the
countercurrent of cold water that skirts the American coast. Here,
too, erratically drifting chunks collect from the ice breakup. Here a
huge boneyard forms from fish, mollusks, and zoophytes dying over it
by the billions.
The sea is of no great depth at the Grand Banks. A few hundred fathoms
at best. But to the south there is a deep, suddenly occurring
depression, a 3,000-meter pit. Here the Gulf Stream widens. Its waters
come to full bloom. It loses its speed and temperature, but it turns
into a sea.
Among the fish that the Nautilus startled on its way, I’ll mention a
one-meter lumpfish, blackish on top with orange on the belly and rare
among its brethren in that it practices monogamy, a good-sized
eelpout, a type of emerald moray whose flavor is excellent, wolffish
with big eyes in a head somewhat resembling a canine’s, viviparous
blennies whose eggs hatch inside their bodies like those of snakes,
bloated gobio (or black gudgeon) measuring two decimeters, grenadiers
with long tails and gleaming with a silvery glow, speedy fish
venturing far from their High Arctic seas.
Our nets also hauled in a bold, daring, vigorous, and muscular fish
armed with prickles on its head and stings on its fins, a real
scorpion measuring two to three meters, the ruthless enemy of cod,
blennies, and salmon; it was the bullhead of the northerly seas, a
fish with red fins and a brown body covered with nodules. The
Nautilus’s fishermen had some trouble getting a grip on this animal,
which, thanks to the formation of its gill covers, can protect its
respiratory organs from any parching contact with the air and can live
out of water for a good while.
And I’ll mention—for the record—some little banded blennies that
follow ships into the northernmost seas, sharp-snouted carp exclusive
to the north Atlantic, scorpionfish, and lastly the gadoid family,
chiefly the cod species, which I detected in their waters of choice
over these inexhaustible Grand Banks.
Because Newfoundland is simply an underwater peak, you could call
these cod mountain fish. While the Nautilus was clearing a path
through their tight ranks, Conseil couldn’t refrain from making this
comment:
“Mercy, look at these cod!” he said. “Why, I thought cod were flat,
like dab or sole!”
“Innocent boy!” I exclaimed. “Cod are flat only at the grocery store,
where they’re cut open and spread out on display. But in the water
they’re like mullet, spindle-shaped and perfectly built for speed.”
“I can easily believe master,” Conseil replied. “But what crowds of
them! What swarms!”
“Bah! My friend, there’d be many more without their enemies,
scorpionfish and human beings! Do you know how many eggs have been
counted in a single female?”
“I’ll go all out,” Conseil replied. “500,000.”
“11,000,000, my friend.”
“11,000,000! I refuse to accept that until I count them myself.”
“So count them, Conseil. But it would be less work to believe
me. Besides, Frenchmen, Englishmen, Americans, Danes, and Norwegians
catch these cod by the thousands. They’re eaten in prodigious
quantities, and without the astonishing fertility of these fish, the
seas would soon be depopulated of them. Accordingly, in England and
America alone, 5,000 ships manned by 75,000 seamen go after cod. Each
ship brings back an average catch of 4,400 fish, making
22,000,000. Off the coast of Norway, the total is the same.”
“Fine,” Conseil replied, “I’ll take master’s word for it. I won’t
count them.”
“Count what?”
“Those 11,000,000 eggs. But I’ll make one comment.”
“What’s that?”
“If all their eggs hatched, just four codfish could feed England,
America, and Norway.”
As we skimmed the depths of the Grand Banks, I could see perfectly
those long fishing lines, each armed with 200 hooks, that every boat
dangled by the dozens. The lower end of each line dragged the bottom
by means of a small grappling iron, and at the surface it was secured
to the buoy-rope of a cork float. The Nautilus had to maneuver
shrewdly in the midst of this underwater spiderweb.
But the ship didn’t stay long in these heavily traveled waterways. It
went up to about latitude 42 degrees. This brought it abreast of
St. John’s in Newfoundland and Heart’s Content, where the Atlantic
Cable reaches its end point.
Instead of continuing north, the Nautilus took an easterly heading, as
if to go along this plateau on which the telegraph cable rests, where
multiple soundings have given the contours of the terrain with the
utmost accuracy.
It was on May 17, about 500 miles from Heart’s Content and 2,800
meters down, that I spotted this cable lying on the seafloor. Conseil,
whom I hadn’t alerted, mistook it at first for a gigantic sea snake
and was gearing up to classify it in his best manner. But I
enlightened the fine lad and let him down gently by giving him various
details on the laying of this cable.
The first cable was put down during the years 1857-1858; but after
transmitting about 400 telegrams, it went dead. In 1863 engineers
built a new cable that measured 3,400 kilometers, weighed 4,500 metric
tons, and was shipped aboard the Great Eastern. This attempt also
failed.
Now then, on May 25 while submerged to a depth of 3,836 meters, the
Nautilus lay in precisely the locality where this second cable
suffered the rupture that ruined the undertaking. It happened 638
miles from the coast of Ireland. At around two o’clock in the
afternoon, all contact with Europe broke off. The electricians on
board decided to cut the cable before fishing it up, and by eleven
o’clock that evening they had retrieved the damaged part. They
repaired the joint and its splice; then the cable was resubmerged. But
a few days later it snapped again and couldn’t be recovered from the
ocean depths.
These Americans refused to give up. The daring Cyrus Field, who had
risked his whole fortune to promote this undertaking, called for a new
bond issue. It sold out immediately. Another cable was put down under
better conditions. Its sheaves of conducting wire were insulated
within a gutta-percha covering, which was protected by a padding of
textile material enclosed in a metal sheath. The Great Eastern put
back to sea on July 13, 1866.
The operation proceeded apace. Yet there was one hitch. As they
gradually unrolled this third cable, the electricians observed on
several occasions that someone had recently driven nails into it,
trying to damage its core. Captain Anderson, his officers, and the
engineers put their heads together, then posted a warning that if the
culprit were detected, he would be thrown overboard without a
trial. After that, these villainous attempts were not repeated.
By July 23 the Great Eastern was lying no farther than 800 kilometers
from Newfoundland when it received telegraphed news from Ireland of an
armistice signed between Prussia and Austria after the Battle of
Sadova. Through the mists on the 27th, it sighted the port of Heart’s
Content. The undertaking had ended happily, and in its first dispatch,
young America addressed old Europe with these wise words so rarely
understood: “Glory to God in the highest, and peace on earth to men of
good will.”
I didn’t expect to find this electric cable in mint condition, as it
looked on leaving its place of manufacture. The long snake was covered
with seashell rubble and bristling with foraminifera; a crust of caked
gravel protected it from any mollusks that might bore into it. It
rested serenely, sheltered from the sea’s motions, under a pressure
favorable to the transmission of that electric spark that goes from
America to Europe in 32/100 of a second. This cable will no doubt last
indefinitely because, as observers note, its gutta-percha casing is
improved by a stay in salt water.
Besides, on this well-chosen plateau, the cable never lies at depths
that could cause a break. The Nautilus followed it to its lowest
reaches, located 4,431 meters down, and even there it rested without
any stress or strain. Then we returned to the locality where the 1863
accident had taken place.
There the ocean floor formed a valley 120 kilometers wide, into which
you could fit Mt. Blanc without its summit poking above the surface of
the waves. This valley is closed off to the east by a sheer wall 2,000
meters high. We arrived there on May 28, and the Nautilus lay no
farther than 150 kilometers from Ireland.
Would Captain Nemo head up north and beach us on the British Isles?
No. Much to my surprise, he went back down south and returned to
European seas. As we swung around the Emerald Isle, I spotted Cape
Clear for an instant, plus the lighthouse on Fastnet Rock that guides
all those thousands of ships setting out from Glasgow or Liverpool.
An important question then popped into my head. Would the Nautilus
dare to tackle the English Channel? Ned Land (who promptly reappeared
after we hugged shore) never stopped questioning me. What could I
answer him? Captain Nemo remained invisible. After giving the Canadian
a glimpse of American shores, was he about to show me the coast of
France?
But the Nautilus kept gravitating southward. On May 30, in sight of
Land’s End, it passed between the lowermost tip of England and the
Scilly Islands, which it left behind to starboard.
If it was going to enter the English Channel, it clearly needed to
head east. It did not.
All day long on May 31, the Nautilus swept around the sea in a series
of circles that had me deeply puzzled. It seemed to be searching for a
locality that it had some trouble finding. At noon Captain Nemo
himself came to take our bearings. He didn’t address a word to me. He
looked gloomier than ever. What was filling him with such sadness? Was
it our proximity to these European shores? Was he reliving his
memories of that country he had left behind? If so, what did he feel?
Remorse or regret? For a good while these thoughts occupied my mind,
and I had a hunch that fate would soon give away the captain’s
secrets.
The next day, June 1, the Nautilus kept to the same tack. It was
obviously trying to locate some precise spot in the ocean. Just as on
the day before, Captain Nemo came to take the altitude of the sun. The
sea was smooth, the skies clear. Eight miles to the east, a big
steamship 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 passed its zenith, Captain Nemo raised
his sextant 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 pronounced 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 seashells, as if under a mantle of snow. Carefully
examining this mass, I could identify the swollen outlines of a ship
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 ship 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 ship was christened the Marseillais. 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 assisted in the capture of the island of Grenada. On
September 5, 1781, under the Count de Grasse, it took part in the
Battle of Chesapeake Bay. In 1794 the new Republic of France changed
the name of this ship. 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
latitude 47 degrees 24′ and longitude 17 degrees 28′, this ship 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.