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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.
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.
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.
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 disasterfilled 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 wellpadded 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. 
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 for departure.
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.
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 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.*
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."
"About 17,000."
"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.
"Go on!"
"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
cottoncolored 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!"
"How true!"
"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 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! Reverse engines!"
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?"
"Certainly, sir."
"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."
"Then what should we do?"
"Stoke up more steam, sir, if you can. As for me, with your permission I'll go perch on
the bobstays under the bowsprit, and if we can get within a harpoon length, I'll harpoon
the brute."
"Go to it, Ned," Commander Farragut replied. "Engineer," he called, "keep the pressure
mounting!"
Ned Land made his way to his post. The furnaces were urged into greater activity; our
propeller did forty-three revolutions per minute, and steam shot from the valves. Heaving
the log, we verified that the Abraham Lincoln was going at the rate of 18.5 miles per
hour.
But that damned animal also did a speed of 18.5.
For the next hour our frigate kept up this pace without gaining a fathom! This was
humiliating for one of the fastest racers in the American navy. The crew were working up
into a blind rage. Sailor after sailor heaved insults at the monster, which couldn't be
bothered with answering back. Commander Farragut was no longer content simply to
twist his goatee; he chewed on it.
The engineer was summoned once again.
"You're up to maximum pressure?" the commander asked him.
"Aye, sir," the engineer replied.
"And your valves are charged to . . . ?"
"To six and a half atmospheres."
"Charge them to ten atmospheres."
A typical American order if I ever heard one. It would have sounded just fine during
some Mississippi paddle-wheeler race, to "outstrip the competition!"
"Conseil," I said to my gallant servant, now at my side, "you realize that we'll probably
blow ourselves skyhigh?"
"As master wishes!" Conseil replied.
All right, I admit it: I did wish to run this risk!
The valves were charged. More coal was swallowed by the furnaces. Ventilators shot
torrents of air over the braziers. The Abraham Lincoln's speed increased. Its masts
trembled down to their blocks, and swirls of smoke could barely squeeze through the
narrow funnels.
We heaved the log a second time.
"Well, helmsman?" Commander Farragut asked.
"19.3 miles per hour, sir."
"Keep stoking the furnaces."
The engineer did so. The pressure gauge marked ten atmospheres. But no doubt the
cetacean itself had "warmed up," because without the least trouble, it also did 19.3.
What a chase! No, I can't describe the excitement that shook my very being. Ned Land
stayed at his post, harpoon in hand. Several times the animal let us approach.
"We're overhauling it!" the Canadian would shout.
Then, just as he was about to strike, the cetacean would steal off with a swiftness I could
estimate at no less than thirty miles per hour. And even at our maximum speed, it took
the liberty of thumbing its nose at the frigate by running a full circle around us! A howl
of fury burst from every throat!
By noon we were no farther along than at eight o'clock in the morning.
Commander Farragut then decided to use more direct methods.
"Bah!" he said. "So that animal is faster than the Abraham Lincoln. All right, we'll see if
it can outrun our conical shells! Mate, man the gun in the bow!"
Our forecastle cannon was immediately loaded and leveled. The cannoneer fired a shot,
but his shell passed some feet above the cetacean, which stayed half a mile off.
"Over to somebody with better aim!" the commander shouted. "And $500.00 to the man
who can pierce that infernal beast!"
Calm of eye, cool of feature, an old gray-bearded gunner-- I can see him to this day--
approached the cannon, put it in position, and took aim for a good while. There was a
mighty explosion, mingled with cheers from the crew.
The shell reached its target; it hit the animal, but not in the usual fashion--it bounced off
that rounded surface and vanished into the sea two miles out.
"Oh drat!" said the old gunner in his anger. "That rascal must be covered with six-inch
armor plate!"
"Curse the beast!" Commander Farragut shouted.
The hunt was on again, and Commander Farragut leaned over to me, saying:
"I'll chase that animal till my frigate explodes!"
"Yes," I replied, "and nobody would blame you!"
We could still hope that the animal would tire out and not be as insensitive to exhaustion
as our steam engines. But no such luck. Hour after hour went by without it showing the
least sign of weariness.
However, to the Abraham Lincoln's credit, it must be said that we struggled on with
tireless persistence. I estimate that we covered a distance of at least 500 kilometers during
this ill-fated day of November 6. But night fell and wrapped the surging ocean in its
shadows.
By then I thought our expedition had come to an end, that we would never see this
fantastic animal again. I was mistaken.
At 10:50 in the evening, that electric light reappeared three miles to windward of the
frigate, just as clear and intense as the night before.
The narwhale seemed motionless. Was it asleep perhaps, weary from its workday, just
riding with the waves? This was our chance, and Commander Farragut was determined to
take full advantage of it.
He gave his orders. The Abraham Lincoln stayed at half steam, advancing cautiously so
as not to awaken its adversary. In midocean it's not unusual to encounter whales so sound
asleep they can successfully be attacked, and Ned Land had harpooned more than one in
its slumber. The Canadian went to resume his post on the bobstays under the bowsprit.
The frigate approached without making a sound, stopped two cable lengths from the
animal and coasted. Not a soul breathed on board. A profound silence reigned over the
deck. We were not 100 feet from the blazing core of light, whose glow grew stronger and
dazzled the eyes.
Just then, leaning over the forecastle railing, I saw Ned Land below me, one hand
grasping the martingale, the other brandishing his dreadful harpoon. Barely twenty feet
separated him from the motionless animal.
All at once his arm shot forward and the harpoon was launched. I heard the weapon
collide resonantly, as if it had hit some hard substance.
The electric light suddenly went out, and two enormous waterspouts crashed onto the
deck of the frigate, racing like a torrent from stem to stern, toppling crewmen, breaking
spare masts and yardarms from their lashings.
A hideous collision occurred, and thrown over the rail with no time to catch hold of it, I
was hurled into the sea.
ALTHOUGH I WAS startled by this unexpected descent, I at least have a very clear
recollection of my sensations during it.
At first I was dragged about twenty feet under. I'm a good swimmer, without claiming to
equal such other authors as Byron and Edgar Allan Poe, who were master divers, and I
didn't lose my head on the way down. With two vigorous kicks of the heel, I came back
to the surface of the sea.
My first concern was to look for the frigate. Had the crew seen me go overboard? Was
the Abraham Lincoln tacking about? Would Commander Farragut put a longboat to sea?
Could I hope to be rescued?
The gloom was profound. I glimpsed a black mass disappearing eastward, where its
running lights were fading out in the distance. It was the frigate. I felt I was done for.
"Help! Help!" I shouted, swimming desperately toward the Abraham Lincoln.
My clothes were weighing me down. The water glued them to my body, they were
paralyzing my movements. I was sinking! I was suffocating . . . !
"Help!"
This was the last shout I gave. My mouth was filling with water. I struggled against being
dragged into the depths. . . .
Suddenly my clothes were seized by energetic hands, I felt myself pulled abruptly back to
the surface of the sea, and yes, I heard these words pronounced in my ear:
"If master would oblige me by leaning on my shoulder, master will swim with much
greater ease."
With one hand I seized the arm of my loyal Conseil.
"You!" I said. "You!"
"Myself," Conseil replied, "and at master's command."
"That collision threw you overboard along with me?"
"Not at all. But being in master's employ, I followed master."
The fine lad thought this only natural!
"What about the frigate?" I asked.
"The frigate?" Conseil replied, rolling over on his back. "I think master had best not
depend on it to any great extent!"
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that just as I jumped overboard, I heard the men at the helm shout, 'Our
propeller and rudder are smashed!' "
"Smashed?"
"Yes, smashed by the monster's tusk! I believe it's the sole injury the Abraham Lincoln
has sustained. But most inconveniently for us, the ship can no longer steer."
"Then we're done for!"
"Perhaps," Conseil replied serenely. "However, we still have a few hours before us, and
in a few hours one can do a great many things!"
Conseil's unflappable composure cheered me up. I swam more vigorously, but hampered
by clothes that were as restricting as a cloak made of lead, I was managing with only the
greatest difficulty. Conseil noticed as much.
"Master will allow me to make an incision," he said.
And he slipped an open clasp knife under my clothes, slitting them from top to bottom
with one swift stroke. Then he briskly undressed me while I swam for us both.
I then did Conseil the same favor, and we continued to "navigate" side by side.
But our circumstances were no less dreadful. Perhaps they hadn't seen us go overboard;
and even if they had, the frigate-- being undone by its rudder--couldn't return to leeward
after us. So we could count only on its longboats.
Conseil had coolly reasoned out this hypothesis and laid his plans accordingly. An
amazing character, this boy; in midocean, this stoic lad seemed right at home!
So, having concluded that our sole chance for salvation lay in being picked up by the
Abraham Lincoln's longboats, we had to take steps to wait for them as long as possible.
Consequently, I decided to divide our energies so we wouldn't both be worn out at the
same time, and this was the arrangement: while one of us lay on his back, staying
motionless with arms crossed and legs outstretched, the other would swim and propel his
partner forward. This towing role was to last no longer than ten minutes, and by relieving
each other in this way, we could stay afloat for hours, perhaps even until daybreak.
Slim chance, but hope springs eternal in the human breast! Besides, there were two of us.
Lastly, I can vouch--as improbable as it seems--that even if I had wanted to destroy all
my illusions, even if I had been willing to "give in to despair," I could not have done so!
The cetacean had rammed our frigate at about eleven o'clock in the evening. I therefore
calculated on eight hours of swimming until sunrise. A strenuous task, but feasible,
thanks to our relieving each other. The sea was pretty smooth and barely tired us.
Sometimes I tried to peer through the dense gloom, which was broken only by the
phosphorescent flickers coming from our movements. I stared at the luminous ripples
breaking over my hands, shimmering sheets spattered with blotches of bluish gray. It
seemed as if we'd plunged into a pool of quicksilver.
Near one o'clock in the morning, I was overcome with tremendous exhaustion. My limbs
stiffened in the grip of intense cramps. Conseil had to keep me going, and attending to
our self-preservation became his sole responsibility. I soon heard the poor lad gasping;
his breathing became shallow and quick. I didn't think he could stand such exertions for
much longer.
"Go on! Go on!" I told him.
"Leave master behind?" he replied. "Never! I'll drown before he does!"
Just then, past the fringes of a large cloud that the wind was driving eastward, the moon
appeared. The surface of the sea glistened under its rays. That kindly light rekindled our
strength. I held up my head again. My eyes darted to every point of the horizon. I spotted
the frigate. It was five miles from us and formed no more than a dark, barely perceptible
mass. But as for longboats, not a one in sight!
I tried to call out. What was the use at such a distance! My swollen lips wouldn't let a
single sound through. Conseil could still articulate a few words, and I heard him repeat at
intervals:
"Help! Help!"
Ceasing all movement for an instant, we listened. And it may have been a ringing in my
ear, from this organ filling with impeded blood, but it seemed to me that Conseil's shout
had received an answer back.
"Did you hear that?" I muttered.
"Yes, yes!"
And Conseil hurled another desperate plea into space.
This time there could be no mistake! A human voice had answered us! Was it the voice
of some poor devil left behind in midocean, some other victim of that collision suffered
by our ship? Or was it one of the frigate's longboats, hailing us out of the gloom?
Conseil made one final effort, and bracing his hands on my shoulders, while I offered
resistance with one supreme exertion, he raised himself half out of the water, then fell
back exhausted.
"What did you see?"
"I saw . . . ," he muttered, "I saw . . . but we mustn't talk . . . save our strength . . . !"
What had he seen? Then, lord knows why, the thought of the monster came into my head
for the first time . . . ! But even so, that voice . . . ? Gone are the days when Jonahs took
refuge in the bellies of whales!
Nevertheless, Conseil kept towing me. Sometimes he looked up, stared straight ahead,
and shouted a request for directions, which was answered by a voice that was getting
closer and closer. I could barely hear it. I was at the end of my strength; my fingers gave
out; my hands were no help to me; my mouth opened convulsively, filling with brine; its
coldness ran through me; I raised my head one last time, then I collapsed. . . .
Just then something hard banged against me. I clung to it. Then I felt myself being pulled
upward, back to the surface of the water; my chest caved in, and I fainted. . . .
For certain, I came to quickly, because someone was massaging me so vigorously it left
furrows in my flesh. I half opened my eyes. . . .
"Conseil!" I muttered.
"Did master ring for me?" Conseil replied.
Just then, in the last light of a moon settling on the horizon, I spotted a face that wasn't
Conseil's but which I recognized at once.
"Ned!" I exclaimed.
"In person, sir, and still after his prize!" the Canadian replied.
"You were thrown overboard after the frigate's collision?"
"Yes, professor, but I was luckier than you, and right away I was able to set foot on this
floating islet."
"Islet?"
"Or in other words, on our gigantic narwhale."
"Explain yourself, Ned."
"It's just that I soon realized why my harpoon got blunted and couldn't puncture its hide."
"Why, Ned, why?"
"Because, professor, this beast is made of boilerplate steel!"
At this point in my story, I need to get a grip on myself, reconstruct exactly what I
experienced, and make doubly sure of everything I write.
The Canadian's last words caused a sudden upheaval in my brain. I swiftly hoisted myself
to the summit of this half-submerged creature or object that was serving as our refuge. I
tested it with my foot. Obviously it was some hard, impenetrable substance, not the soft
matter that makes up the bodies of our big marine mammals.
But this hard substance could have been a bony carapace, like those that covered some
prehistoric animals, and I might have left it at that and classified this monster among such
amphibious reptiles as turtles or alligators.
Well, no. The blackish back supporting me was smooth and polished with no overlapping
scales. On impact, it gave off a metallic sonority, and as incredible as this sounds, it
seemed, I swear, to be made of riveted plates.
No doubts were possible! This animal, this monster, this natural phenomenon that had
puzzled the whole scientific world, that had muddled and misled the minds of seamen in
both hemispheres, was, there could be no escaping it, an even more astonishing
phenomenon-- a phenomenon made by the hand of man.
Even if I had discovered that some fabulous, mythological creature really existed, it
wouldn't have given me such a terrific mental jolt. It's easy enough to accept that
prodigious things can come from our Creator. But to find, all at once, right before your
eyes, that the impossible had been mysteriously achieved by man himself: this staggers
the mind!
But there was no question now. We were stretched out on the back of some kind of
underwater boat that, as far as I could judge, boasted the shape of an immense steel fish.
Ned Land had clear views on the issue. Conseil and I could only line up behind him.
"But then," I said, "does this contraption contain some sort of locomotive mechanism,
and a crew to run it?"
"Apparently," the harpooner replied. "And yet for the three hours I've lived on this
floating island, it hasn't shown a sign of life."
"This boat hasn't moved at all?"
"No, Professor Aronnax. It just rides with the waves, but otherwise it hasn't stirred."
"But we know that it's certainly gifted with great speed. Now then, since an engine is
needed to generate that speed, and a mechanic to run that engine, I conclude: we're
saved."
"Humph!" Ned Land put in, his tone denoting reservations.
Just then, as if to take my side in the argument, a bubbling began astern of this strange
submersible--whose drive mechanism was obviously a propeller--and the boat started to
move. We barely had time to hang on to its topside, which emerged about eighty
centimeters above water. Fortunately its speed was not excessive.
"So long as it navigates horizontally," Ned Land muttered, "I've no complaints. But if it
gets the urge to dive, I wouldn't give $2.00 for my hide!"
The Canadian might have quoted a much lower price. So it was imperative to make
contact with whatever beings were confined inside the plating of this machine. I searched
its surface for an opening or a hatch, a "manhole," to use the official term; but the lines of
rivets had been firmly driven into the sheet-iron joins and were straight and uniform.
Moreover, the moon then disappeared and left us in profound darkness. We had to wait
for daylight to find some way of getting inside this underwater boat.
So our salvation lay totally in the hands of the mysterious helmsmen steering this
submersible, and if it made a dive, we were done for! But aside from this occurring, I
didn't doubt the possibility of our making contact with them. In fact, if they didn't
produce their own air, they inevitably had to make periodic visits to the surface of the
ocean to replenish their oxygen supply. Hence the need for some opening that put the
boat's interior in contact with the atmosphere.
As for any hope of being rescued by Commander Farragut, that had to be renounced
completely. We were being swept westward, and I estimate that our comparatively
moderate speed reached twelve miles per hour. The propeller churned the waves with
mathematical regularity, sometimes emerging above the surface and throwing
phosphorescent spray to great heights.
Near four o'clock in the morning, the submersible picked up speed. We could barely cope
with this dizzying rush, and the waves battered us at close range. Fortunately Ned's hands
came across a big mooring ring fastened to the topside of this sheet-iron back, and we all
held on for dear life.
Finally this long night was over. My imperfect memories won't let me recall my every
impression of it. A single detail comes back to me. Several times, during various lulls of
wind and sea, I thought I heard indistinct sounds, a sort of elusive harmony produced by
distant musical chords. What was the secret behind this underwater navigating, whose
explanation the whole world had sought in vain? What beings lived inside this strange
boat? What mechanical force allowed it to move about with such prodigious speed?
Daylight appeared. The morning mists surrounded us, but they soon broke up. I was
about to proceed with a careful examination of the hull, whose topside formed a sort of
horizontal platform, when I felt it sinking little by little.
"Oh, damnation!" Ned Land shouted, stamping his foot on the resonant sheet iron. "Open
up there, you antisocial navigators!"
But it was difficult to make yourself heard above the deafening beats of the propeller.
Fortunately this submerging movement stopped.
From inside the boat, there suddenly came noises of iron fastenings pushed roughly aside.
One of the steel plates flew up, a man appeared, gave a bizarre yell, and instantly
disappeared.
A few moments later, eight strapping fellows appeared silently, their faces like masks,
and dragged us down into their fearsome machine.