 This dreadful sight was the first of a whole series of maritime catastrophes that the Nautilus would encounter on its run. When it plied more heavily traveled seas we often saw wrecked hulls rotting in mid-water, and farther down, cannons, shells, anchors, chains, and a thousand other iron objects rusting away. Meanwhile, continuously swept along by the Nautilus, where we lived in near isolation, we raised the Tuamotu Islands on December 11th, that old dangerous group associated with the French global navigator, Commander Bougainville. It stretches from Ducey Island to Lazareff Island over an area of 500 leagues, from the east-southeast to the west-northwest, between latitude 13°30 minutes and 23°50 minutes south, and between longitude 125°30 minutes and 151°30 minutes west. This island group covers a surface area of 370 square leagues, and it's made up of some 60 subgroups, among which we noted the Gambier Group, which is a French protectorate. The islands are coral formations. Thanks to the work of polyps, a slow but steady upheaval will someday connect these islands to each other. Later on this new island will be fused to its neighboring island groups, and a fifth continent will stretch from New Zealand and New Caledonia as far as the Marquesa Islands. The day I expounded this theory to Captain Nemo, he answered me coldly. The earth doesn't need new continents, but new men! Sailor's Luck led the Nautilus straight to Reao Island, one of the most unusual in this group, which was discovered in 1822 by Captain Bell aboard the Minerva. So I was able to study the madroporic process that has created the islands in this ocean. Madropores, which one must guard against confusing with precious coral, clothe their tissue in a limestone crust, and their variations in structure have led my famous mentor, Professor Milne Edwards, to classify them into five divisions. The tiny microscopic animals that secrete this polypore live by the billions in the depths of their cells. Their limestone deposits build up into rocks, reefs, islets, islands. In some places they form atolls, a circular ring surrounding a lagoon, or a small inner lake, that gaps place in contact with the sea. Elsewhere they take the shape of barrier reefs, such as those that exist along the coasts of New Caledonia and several of the Tuamotu Islands. In still other localities, such as Reao-Nyang Island and the Island of Mauritius, they build fringing reefs, high straight walls next to which the ocean's depth is considerable. While cruising along only a few cable lengths from the underpinning of Reao Island, I marveled at the gigantic piece of work accomplished by these microscopic laborers. These walls were the express achievements of madropores known by the names Fire Coral, Finger Coral, Star Coral, and Stoney Coral. These polyps grow exclusively in the agitated strata at the surface of the sea, and so it's in the upper reaches that they begin these substructures which sink little by little together with the secreted rubble binding them. This at least is the theory of Mr. Charles Darwin, who thus explains the formation of atolls. A theory superior, in my view, to the one that says these madroporic edifices sit on the summits of mountains or volcanoes submerged a few feet below sea level. I could observe these strange walls quite closely. Our sounding lines indicated that they dropped perpendicularly for more than three hundred meters, and our electric beams made the bright limestone positively sparkle. In reply to a question Conce asked me about the growth rate of these colossal barriers, I thoroughly amazed him by saying that scientists put it at an eighth of an inch per biennium. Therefore, he said to me, to build these walls it took one hundred and ninety-two thousand years, my gallant Conce, which significantly extends the biblical days of creation, what's more the formation of coal, in other words, the petrification of forests swallowed by floods, and the cooling of basaltic rocks likewise call for a much longer period of time. I might add that those days in the Bible must represent whole epochs, and not literally the lapse of time between two sunrises, because according to the Bible itself the sun doesn't date from the first day of creation. When the nautilus returned to the surface of the ocean I could take in Rayow Island over its whole flat wooded expanse. Obviously its magi-poric rocks have been made fertile by tornadoes and thunderstorms. One day, carried off by a hurricane from neighboring shores, some seed fell onto these limestone beds, mixing with decomposed particles of fish and marine plants, to form vegetable humus. Propelled by the waves, a coconut arrived on this new coast. Its germ took root. Its tree grew tall, catching steam off the water. A brook was born. Little by little vegetation spread. Tiny animals, worms, insects, rode ashore on tree trunks, snatched from islands to windward. Turtles came to lay their eggs, birds nested in the young trees. In this way animal life developed, and drawn by the greenery and fertile soil, man appeared. And that's how these islands were formed, the immense achievement of microscopic animals. Near evening, Rayow Island melted into the distance, and the nautilus noticeably changed course. After touching the tropic of Camp Bracorn at longitude 135 degrees, it headed west-northwest, going back up the whole intertropical zone. Although the summer heat lavished its rays on us, we never suffered from the heat, because 30 or 40 meters under water, the temperature didn't go over 10 degrees to 12 degrees centigrade. By December 15th we had left the alluring society islands in the west. Likewise elegant Tahiti, queen of the Pacific. In the morning I spotted this island's lofty summits a few miles to leeward. Its waters supplied excellent fish for the tables on board, mackerel, bonito, albacore, and a few varieties of that sea serpent named the Morae eel. The nautilus had cleared 8,100 miles. We logged 9,720 miles when we passed between the Tonga Islands, where crews from the Argo, Portopras, and Duke of Portland had perished, and the island group of Samoa, scene of the slaying of Captain Delangla, friend of that long-lost navigator, the Count de la Peruse. Then we raised the Fiji Islands, where savages slaughtered sailors from the Union as well as Captain Bureau, commander of the Darling Josephine out of Nantes, France, extending over an expanse of 100 leagues north to south, and over 90 leagues east to west. This island group lies between latitude 2 degrees and 6 degrees south, and between longitude 174 degrees and 179 degrees west. It consists of a number of islands, islets and reefs, among which we noted the islands of Vitilevou, Vanua Levou, and Cadavou. It was the Dutch navigator Tasman, who discovered this group in 1643. The same year the Italian physicist Torricelli invented the barometer, and King Louis XIV ascended the French throne. I'll let the reader decide which of these deeds was more beneficial to humanity. Something later, Captain Cook in 1774, Rear Admiral D'Ample Castot in 1793, and finally Captain Dumont de Ville in 1827, untangled the whole chaotic geography of this island group. The Nautilus drew near Wilea Bay, an unlucky place for England's Captain Dylan, who was the first to shed light on the long-standing mystery surrounding the disappearance of ships under the Cant de la Peruse. This bay repeatedly dredged, furnished a huge supply of excellent oysters. As the Roman playwright Seneca recommended, we opened them right at our table, then stuffed ourselves. These mollusks belong to the species known by name as Austria-Lamelosa, whose members are quite common off Corsica. This Wilea Oysterbank must have been extensive, and for certain, if they hadn't been controlled by numerous natural cheques, these clusters of shellfish would have ended up jam-packing the bay, since as many as two million eggs have been counted in a single individual. And if Mr. Ned Land did not repent of his gluttony at our Oysterfest, it's because oysters are the only dish that never causes indigestion. In fact, it takes no less than sixteen dozen of these headless mollusks to supply the three hundred and fifteen grams that satisfy one man's minimum daily requirement for nitrogen. On December twenty-fifth the Nautilus navigated amid the island group of the New Hebrides, which the Portuguese seafarer Queeros discovered in 1606, which Commander Bougainville explored in 1768, and to which Captain Cook gave its current name in 1773. This group is chiefly made up of nine large islands, and forms a hundred and twenty league strip from the north-northwest to the south-southeast, lying between latitude two degrees and fifteen degrees south, and between longitude a hundred and sixty-four degrees and a hundred and sixty-eight degrees. At the moment of our noon sights we passed fairly close to the island of O'Row, which looked to me like a mass of green woods crowned by a peak of great height. That day it was yule-tide, and it struck me that Ned Land badly missed celebrating Christmas, that genuine family holiday where Protestants are such zealots. I hadn't seen Captain Nemo for over a week when on the morning of the twenty-seventh he entered the main lounge, as usual, acting as if he'd been gone for just five minutes. I was busy tracing the Nautilus' course on the world map. The captain approached, placed a finger over a position on the chart, and pronounced just one word. Vanikoro! This name was magic. It was the name of those islets where vessels under the Count de la Peruse had miscarried. I straightened suddenly. The Nautilus is bringing us to Vanikoro, I asked. Yes, Professor, the captain replied, and I'll be able to visit those famous islands where the compass and the astrolab came to grief. If you like, Professor, when will we reach Vanikoro? We already have, Professor. Followed by Captain Nemo, I climbed on to the platform, and from there my eyes eagerly scanned the horizon. In the northeast there emerged two volcanic islands of an equal size, surrounded by a coral reef whose circuit measured forty miles. We were facing the island of Vanikoro proper, to which Captain Dumont Derville had given the name Island of the Search. We lay right in front of the little harbour of Vanna, located in latitude sixteen degrees, four minutes south, and longitude a hundred and sixty-four degrees, thirty-two minutes east. Its shores seemed covered with greenery from its beaches to its summits inland, crowned by Mount Capogo, which is four hundred and seventy-six fathoms high. After clearing the outer belt of rocks via a narrow passageway, the nautilus lay inside the breakers where the sea had a depth of thirty to forty fathoms. Under the green shade of some tropical evergreens I spotted a few savages who looked extremely startled at our approach. In this long blackish object advancing flush with the water didn't they see some fearsome cetacean that they were obliged to view with distrust? Just then Captain Nemo asked me what I knew about the shipwreck of the Count de la Peruse. What everybody knows, Captain, I answered him. And could you kindly tell me what everybody knows? He asked me, in a gently ironic tone, very easily. I related to him what the final deeds of Captain Dumont-Derville had brought to light, deeds described here in this heavily condensed summary of the whole matter. In 1785 the Count de la Peruse and his subordinate, Captain de l'Angle, were sent by King Louis XVI of France on a voyage to circumnavigate the globe. They boarded two sloops of war, the compass and the astrolab, which were never seen again. In 1791, justly concerned about the fate of these two sloops of war, the French government fitted out two large cargo boats, the search and the hope, which left breast on September 28, under orders from Rear Admiral Bruny de Entrecasteau. Two months later testimony from a certain Commander Bowen, aboard the Alba Marl, alleged that rubble from shipwrecked vessels had been seen on the coast of New Georgia. But de Entrecasteau was unaware of this news, which seemed a bit dubious anyhow, and headed toward the Admiralty Islands, which had been named in a report by one Captain Hunter as the site of the Count de la Peruse's shipwreck. They looked in vain. The hope and the search passed right by Venicura without stopping there, and overall this voyage was plagued by misfortune, ultimately costing the lives of Rear Admiral de Entrecasteau, two of his subordinate officers, and several seamen from his crew. It was an old hand at the Pacific, the English adventurer Captain Peter Dillon, who was the first to pick up the trail left by castaways from the wrecked vessels. On May 15, 1824, his ship, the St. Patrick, passed by Tikopia Island, one of the new Hebrides. There a native boatman pulled alongside in a dugout canoe, and sold Dillon a silver sword-hilt, bearing the imprint of characters engraved with a cutting-tool known as a Buran. Furthermore, this native boatman claimed that during a stay in Venicura six years earlier he had seen two Europeans belonging to ships that had run aground on the island's reefs many years before. Dillon guessed that the ships at issue were those under the Count de la Peruse, ships whose disappearance had shaken the entire world. He tried to reach Venicura, where, according to the native boatman, a good deal of rubble from the shipwreck could still be found, but winds and currents prevented his doing so. Dillon returned to Calcutta. There he was able to interest the Asiatic Society and the East India Company in his discovery. A ship named after the search was placed at his disposal, and he departed on January 23, 1827, accompanied by a French deputy. This new search, after putting in it several stops over the Pacific, dropped anchor before Venicura on July 7, 1827, in the same harbor of Vanna, where the Nautilus was currently floating. There Dillon collected many relics of the shipwreck. Iron utensils, anchors, eyelets from pulleys, swivel guns, an 18-pound shell, the remains of some astronomical instruments, a piece of stern rail, and a bronze bell bearing the inscription, Made by Bezah, the foundry-market breast arsenal around 1785. There could no longer be any doubt. Finishing his investigations, Dillon stayed at the site of the casualty until the month of October. Then he left Venicura, headed toward New Zealand, dropped anchor at Calcutta on April 7, 1828, and returned to France, where he received a very cordial welcome from King Charles X. But just then the renowned French explorer, Captain Dumont Durville, unaware of Dillon's activities, had already set sail to search elsewhere for the site of the shipwreck. In essence, a whaling vessel had reported that some metals and a cross of Saint Louis had been found in the hands of savages in Louis-Yad Islands and New Caledonia. So Captain Dumont Durville had put to sea in command of a vessel named after the Astrolabe, and just two months after Dillon had left Venicura, Dumont Durville dropped anchor before Hobart. There he heard about Dillon's findings, and he further learned that a certain James Hobbs chief officer on the Union, out of Calcutta, had put to shore on an island located in latitude eight degrees, eighteen minutes south, and longitude 156 degrees, thirty minutes east, and had noted the natives of those waterways making use of iron bars and red fabrics. Pretty perplexed, Dumont Durville didn't know if he should give credence to these reports, which had been carried in some of the less reliable newspapers. Nevertheless he decided to start on Dillon's trail. On February 10, 1828 the new Astrolabe, hove before Tikopia Island, took on a guide and interpreter in the person of a deserter who had settled there, plied a course toward Venicura, raised it on February 12, sailed along its reefs until the 14th, and only on the 20th dropped anchor inside its barrier in the harbor of Vanna. On the 23rd several officers circled the island and brought back some rubble of little importance. The natives, adopting a system of denial and evasion, refused to guide them to the site of the casualty. This rather shady conduct aroused the suspicion that the natives had mistreated the castaways, and in truth the natives seemed afraid that Dumont Durville had come to avenge the Count de la Peruse and his unfortunate companions. But on the 26th appeased with gifts, and seeing that they didn't need to fear any reprisals, the natives led the chief officer, Mr. Jacchino, to the site of the shipwreck. At this location, in three or four fathoms of water, between the Pa'u and Vanna reefs, there lay some anchors, cannons, and ingots of iron and lead, all caked with limestone concretions. A launch and whale boat from the new astrolab were steered to this locality, and after going to exhausting lengths, their crews managed to dredge up an anchor weighing 1,800 pounds, a cast iron eight-pounder cannon, a lead ingot, and two copper swivel guns. Questioning the natives, Captain Dumont Durville also learned that after La Peruse's two ships had miscarried on the island's reefs, the Count had built a smaller craft, only to go off and miscarry a second time. Where? Nobody knew. The commander of the new astrolab then had a monument erected under a tuft of mangrove, in memory of the famous navigator and his companions. It was a simple quadrangular pyramid set on a coral base, with no iron work to tempt the natives' avarice. Then Dumont Durville tried to depart, but his crews were run down from the fevers raging on these unsanitary shores, and quite ill himself, he was unable to weigh anchor until March 17th. Meanwhile, fearing that Dumont Durville wasn't abreast of Dylan's activities, the French government sent a sloop of war to Vennicoro, the Bayonnez, under commander L'Egorin du Tromelin, who had been stationed on the American West Coast. Dropping anchor before Vennicoro a few months after the new astrolab's departure, the Bayonnez didn't find any additional evidence, but verified that the savages hadn't disturbed the memorial, honoring the Count de La Peruse. This is the substance of the account I gave Captain Nemo. So, he said to me, their castaways build a third ship on Vennicoro Island, and to this day nobody knows where it went and perished. Nobody knows. Captain Nemo didn't reply, but signalled me to follow him to the main lounge. The nautilus sank a few meters beneath the waves, and the panels opened. I rushed to the window, and saw crusts of coral, fungus coral, syphonula coral, Alcian coral, sea anemone from the genus Carophilia, plus myriads of charming fish, including greenfish, damselfish, sweepers, snappers, and squirrelfish. Underneath this coral covering I detected some rubble the old dredges hadn't been able to tear free. Iron stirrups, anchors, cannons, shells, tackle from a capstan, a stempost, all objects hailing from the wrecked ships, and now carpeted in moving flowers. And as I stared at this desolate wreckage, Captain Nemo told me in a solemn voice, Commander La Peruse set out on December 1785, with his ships, the compass and the astrolab. He dropped anchor first at Bottany Bay, visited the Tonga Islands and New Caledonia, headed towards the Santa Cruz Islands, and put in at Nomuca, one of the islands in the Aapai Group. Then his ships arrived at the unknown reefs of Vanicoro. Travelling in the lead, the compass ran afoul of breakers on the southerly coast. The astrolab went to its rescue, and also ran aground. The first ship was destroyed almost immediately. The second, stranded to Leward, held up for some days. The natives gave the castaways a fair enough welcome. The latter took up residence on the island, and built a smaller craft with rubble from the two large ones. A few seamen stayed voluntarily in Vanicoro. The others, weak and ailing, set sail with the Count de la Peruse. They headed to the Solomon Islands, and they perished with all hands on the westerly coast of the chief island in that group, between Cape Deception and Cape Satisfaction. And how do you know all this? I exclaimed. Here's what I found at the very sight of that final shipwreck. Captain Nemo showed me a tin box, stamped with the coat of arms of France, and all corroded by salt water. He opened it, and I saw a bundle of papers. Yellowed, but still legible. They were the actual military orders given by France's minister of the navy to commander la Peruse with notes along the margin in the handwriting of King Louis XVI. Ah! What a splendid death for a seamen! Captain Nemo then said, a coral westerly grave is a tranquil grave, and may heaven grant that my companions and I rest in no other. CHAPTER XXV. THE TORRES STRAIGHT During the night of December 27th to 28th, the Nautilus left the waterways of Vanacoro behind with extraordinary speed. Its heading was southwesterly, and in three days it had cleared the 750 leagues that separated La Peruse's islands from the southeastern tip of Papua. On January 1st, 1868, bright and early, Conceal joined me on the platform. Will master, the gallant lad said to me, allow me to wish him a happy new year? Good heavens, Conceal, it's just like old times in my office at the botanical gardens in Paris. I accept your kind wishes, and I thank you for them. Only, I'd like to know what you mean by a happy year under the circumstances in which we're placed. Is it a year that will bring our imprisonment to an end, or a year that we'll see this strange voyage continue? Ye gods! Conceal replied. I hardly know what to tell, master. We're certainly seeing some unusual things, and for two months we've had no time for boredom. The latest wonder is always the most astonishing, and if this progression keeps up, I can't imagine what its climax will be. In my opinion, we'll never again have such an opportunity. Never, Conceal. Besides, Mr. Nemo really lives up to his Latin name, since he couldn't be less in the way if he didn't exist. True enough, Conceal. Therefore, with all due respect to master, I think a happy year would be a year that lets us see everything. Everything, Conceal? No year could be that long. But what does Ned Land think about all this? Ned Land's thoughts are exactly the opposite of mine, Conceal replied. He has a practical mind and a demanding stomach. He's tired of staring at fish and eating them day in and day out. This shortage of wine, bread, and meat isn't suitable for an upstanding Anglo-Saxon, a man accustomed to beef steak and unfazed by regular doses of brandy or gin. For my part, Conceal, that doesn't bother me in the least, and I've adjusted very nicely to the diet on board. So have I, Conceal replied. Accordingly, I think as much about staying as Mr. Land about making his escape. Thus, if this new year isn't a happy one for me, it will be for him and vice versa. No matter what happens, one of us will be pleased. So in conclusion, I wish master to have whatever his heart desires. Thank you, Conceal. Only I must ask you to postpone the question of New Year's gifts and temporarily accept a hearty handshake in their place. That's all I have on me. Master has never been more generous, Conceal replied, and with that the gallant lad went away. But January 2nd we had fared 11,340 miles, hence 5,250 leagues from our starting point in the seas of Japan. Before the Nautilus' spur, there stretched the dangerous waterways of the Coral Sea off the northeast coast of Australia. Our boat cruised along a few miles away from that daunting shoal where Captain Cook's ship's well-nigh miscarried on June 10th, 1750. The craft that Cook was aboard charged into some coral rock, and if his vessel didn't go down it was thanks to the circumstance that a piece of coral broke off in the collision and plugged the very hole it had made in the hull. I would have been deeply interested in visiting this long 360 league reef against which the ever-surging sea broke with the fearsome intensity of thunderclaps. But just then the Nautilus' slanting fins took us to great depths, and I could see nothing of those high coral walls. I had to rest content with the various specimens of fish brought up by our nets. Among others I noted some long finned albacore, a species in the genus scomber, as big as tuna, bluish on the flanks, and streaked with crosswise stripes that disappear when the animal dies. These fish followed us in schools and supplied our table with very dainty flesh. We also caught a large number of yellow-green gilthead, half a decimeter long, and tasting like dorado, plus some flying goonards, authentic underwater swallows that on dark nights alternately streak air and water with their phosphorescent glimmers. Among mollusks and zoofights I found in our trawls meshes various species of alcinarian coral, sea urchins, hammer shells, spurred star shells, wental trap snails, horn shells, glass snails. The local flora was represented by fine floating algae, sea tangle and kelp from the genus macrosistus, saturated with the mucilage their pores perspire, from which I selected a wonderful nemostoma gillianoroidia classifying it with the natural curiosities in the museum. On January 4th, two days after crossing the coral sea, we raised the coast of Papua. On this occasion, Captain Nemo told me that he intended to reach the Indian Ocean via the Taurus Strait. This was the extent of his remarks. Ned saw with pleasure that this course would bring us, once again, closer to European seas. The Taurus Strait is regarded as no less dangerous for its bristling reefs than for the savage inhabitants of its coasts. It separates Queensland from the huge isle of Papua, also called New Guinea. Papua is 400 leagues long by 130 leagues wide with a surface area of 40,000 geographic leagues. It is located between latitude 0°19° and 10°2° South and between longitude 128°23° and 146°15°. At noon, while the chief officer was taking the sun's altitude, I spotted the summits of the Arfac Mountains rising in terraces and ending in sharp peaks. Discovered in 1511 by the Portuguese Francisco Serrano, these shores were successively visited by Don Jorge de Menacis in 1526 by Juan de Graialva. By the Spanish general Alvaro de Saavedra in 1528 by Inigo Ortiz in 1545 by the Dutchman Chuten in 1616 by Nicholas Sreik in 1753 by Tasman, Dampier, Fumel, Cargeret, Edwards, Bougainville, Cooke, McClure and Thomas Forrest by Rear Admiral de Antecasteau in 1792 by Louis Isidore Dupere in 1823 and by Captain Dumont Durville in 1827. It's the heartland of the blacks who occupy all Malaysia, Mr. DiRienzi has said, and I hadn't the foggiest inkling that Sailor's Lock was about to bring me face to face with these daunting and man aborigines. So the nautilus hove before the entrance to the world's most dangerous strait, a passageway that even the boldest navigators hesitated to clear. The strait that Luis Vallez de Torres faced on returning from the South Seas in Melanesia, the strait in which sloops of war under Captain Dumont Durville ran aground in 1840 and nearly miscarried with all hands, and even the nautilus rising superior to every danger in the sea was about to become intimate with its coral reefs. The Torres strait is about thirty-four leagues wide, but it's obstructed by an incalculable number of islands, islets, breakers and rocks that make it nearly impossible to navigate. Consequently Captain Nemo took every desired precaution in crossing it. Floating flush with the water, the nautilus moved ahead at a moderate pace. Like a cetacean's tail, its propeller churned the waves slowly. Taking advantage of this situation, my two companions and I found seats on the ever-deserted platform. In front of us stood the pilot house, and unless I'm extremely mistaken, Captain Nemo must have been inside, steering his nautilus himself. Under my eyes I had the excellent charts of the Torres strait that had been surveyed and drawn up by the hydrographic engineer Vincent Don Dumelin and sub-lieutenant, now admiral, Coulvin de Bois, who were part of Dumont Durville's general staff during his final voyage to circumnavigate the globe. These, along with the efforts of Captain King, are the best charts for untangling the snarl of this narrow passageway, and I consulted them with scrupulous care. Around the nautilus the sea was boiling furiously, a stream of waves bearing from southeast to northwest at a speed of two-and-a-half miles per hour broke over heads of coral emerging here and there. That's one rough sea, Nedland told me. Abominable indeed, I replied, and hardly suited for a craft like the nautilus. That damned Captain, the Canadian went on. Must really be sure of his course, because if these clumps of coral so much as brush us, they'll rip our hull into a thousand pieces. The situation was indeed dangerous, but as if by magic the nautilus seemed to glide right down the middle of these rampaging reefs. It didn't follow the exact course of the zealous and the new astrolabe, which had proved so ill-fated for Captain Dumont Durville. It went more to the north, hugged the Murray Islands, and returned to the southwest near Cumberland Passage. I thought it was about to charge wholeheartedly into this opening, but it went up to the northwest, through a large number of little-known islands and islets, and steered toward Town Island and the Bad Channel. I was already wondering if Captain Nemo, rash to the point of sheer insanity, wanted his ship to tackle the narrows where Dumont Durville's two slups of war had gone aground, and he changed to direction a second time and cut straight to the west, heading toward Gaborua Island. By then it was three o'clock in the afternoon. The current was slacking off. It was almost full tide. The nautilus drew near this island, which I can see to this day with its remarkable fringe of screw-pines. We hugged it from less than two miles out. A sudden jolt threw me down. The nautilus had just struck a reef, and it remained motionless, listing slightly to port. When I stood up I saw Captain Nemo and his chief officer on the platform. They were examining the ship's circumstances, exchanging a few words in their incomprehensible dialect. Here is what those circumstances entailed. Two miles to Starbird, Gaborua Island, its coastline curving north to west, like an immense arm. To the south and east, heads of coral were already on display, left uncovered by the ebbing waters. We had run aground at full tide, and in one of those seas, whose tides are moderate, an inconvenient state of affairs for floating the nautilus off. However, the ship hadn't suffered in any way, so solidly joined was its hull. But although it could neither sink nor split open, it was in serious danger of being permanently attached to these reefs, and that would have been the finish of Captain Nemo's submersible. I was mulling this over when the captain approached, cool and calm, forever in control of himself, looking neither alarmed nor annoyed. An accident? I said to him. No, an incident, he answered me. But an incident, I replied, that may oblige you to become a resident again of these shores you avoid. Captain Nemo gave me an odd look and gestured no, which told me pretty clearly that nothing would ever force him to set foot on a land mass again. Then he said, No, Professor Aronax, the nautilus isn't consigned to perdition. It will still carry you through the midst of the ocean's wonders. Our voyage is just beginning, and I have no desire to deprive myself so soon of the pleasure of your company. Even so, Captain Nemo, I went on, ignoring his ironic turn of phrase. The nautilus has run aground at a moment when the sea is full. Now then, the tides aren't strong in the Pacific, and if you can't unballast the nautilus, which seems impossible to me, I don't see how it will float off. You're right, Professor, the Pacific tides aren't strong, Captain Nemo replied. But in the torres straight one still finds a metre and a half difference in level between high and low seas. Today is January fourth, and in five days the moon will be full. Now then, I'll be quite astonished if that good-natured satellite doesn't sufficiently raise these masses of water, and do me a favour, for which I'll be forever grateful. This said, Captain Nemo went below again to the nautilus's interior, followed by his chief officer. As for our craft, it no longer stirred, staying as motionless as if these coral polyps had already walled in with their indestructible cement. Well, sir, Ned Land said to me, coming up after the captain's departure, well, Ned, my friend, we'll serenely wait for the tide on the ninth, because it seems the moon will have the good nature to float us away. As simple as that? As simple as that. So our captain isn't going to drop his anchors, put his engines on the chains, and do anything to haul us off? Since the tide will be sufficient, Conceal replied simply, the Canadian stared at Conceal, then he shrugged his shoulders. The seaman in him was talking now. Sir, he answered, you can trust me when I say this hunk of iron will never navigate again on the seas or under them. It's only fit to be sold for its weight. So I think it's time we gave Captain Nemo the slip. Ned, my friend, I replied, unlike you, I haven't given up on our valiant nautilus, and in four days we'll know where we stand on these Pacific tides. Besides, an escape attempt might be timely if we were in sight of the coasts of England or Provence, but in the waterways of Papua it's another story, and we'll always have that as a last resort if the nautilus doesn't write itself, which I'd regard as a real calamity. But couldn't we at least get the lay of the land? Ned went on. Here's an island. On this island there are trees. Under those trees land animals loaded with cutlets and roast beef which I'd be happy to sink my teeth into. In this instance our friend Ned is right, Conceal said, and I sighed with his views. Couldn't Master persuade his friend Captain Nemo to send the three of us ashore if only so our feet don't lose the knack of treading on the solid parts of our planet? I can ask him, I replied, but he'll refuse. Let Master take the risk, Conceal said, and we'll know where we stand on the Captain's affability. Much to my surprise Captain Nemo gave me the permission I asked for, and he did so with grace and alacrity, not even exacting my promise to return on board. But fleeing across the New Guinea territories would be extremely dangerous, and I wouldn't have advised Ned Land to try it. Better to be prisoners aboard the Nautilus than to fall into the hands of Papawin natives. This gift was put at our disposal for the next morning. I hardly needed to ask whether Captain Nemo would be coming along. I likewise assumed that no crewmen would be assigned to us, that Ned Land would be in sole charge of piloting the longboat. Besides, the shore lay no more than two miles off, and it would be child's play for the Canadian to guide that nimble skiff through those rows of reefs so ill-fated for big ships. The next day, January 5, after its deck-paneling was opened, the skiff was wrenched from its socket and launched to sea from the top of the platform. Two men were sufficient for this operation. The oars were inside the longboat, and we had only to take our seats. At eight o'clock, armed with rifles and axes, we pulled clear of the Nautilus. The sea was fairly calm. A mild breeze blew from shore. In place by the oars, Conceal and I rode vigorously, and Ned steered us into the narrow lanes between the breakers. The skiff handled easily, and sped swiftly. Ned Land couldn't conceal his glee. He was a prisoner escaping from prison, and never dreaming he would need to reenter it. "'Meat,' he kept repeating. "'Now we'll eat red meat, actual game. A real mess called by thunder. I'm not saying fish aren't good for you, but we mustn't overdo them, and a slice of fresh venison grilled over live coals will be a nice change from our standard fare.' "'You glutton,' Conceal replied. "'You're making my mouth water.' "'It remains to be seen,' I said. "'Whether these forests do contain game, and if the types of game aren't of such size that they can hunt the hunter?' "'Fine,' Professor Aranax replied the Canadian, whose teeth seem to be as honed as the edge of an axe. "'But if there's no other quadruped on this island, I'll eat tiger, Tiger Sirloin.' "'Our friend Ned grows disturbing,' Conceal replied. "'Whatever it is,' Ned Land went on, any animal having four feet without feathers or two feet with feathers will be greeted by my very own one-gun salute.' "'Oh, good,' I replied. The reckless Mr. Land is at it again. "'Don't worry, Professor Aranax. Just keep rowing,' the Canadian replied. "'I only need twenty-five minutes to serve you one of my own special creations.' By eight-thirty the Nautilus's skiff had just run gently aground on a sandy strand after successfully clearing the ring of coral that surrounds Gaborowa Island. Leading by Robin Cotter, Toronto, Ontario, September 2006. Twenty-thousand Leagues, Under the Seas, by Jules Verne, First Part, Chapter Twenty-One, Some Days, Ashore. Stepping ashore had an exhilarating effect on me. Ned Land tested the soil with his foot as if he were laying claim to it. Yet it had been only two months since we had become, as Captain Nemo expressed it, passengers on the Nautilus, in other words, the literal prisoners of its commander. In a few minutes we were a gunshot away from the coast. The soil was almost entirely madroporic, but certain dry stream beds were strewn with granite rubble, proving that this island was of primordial origin. The entire horizon was hidden behind a curtain of wonderful forests. Enormous trees, sometimes as high as two-hundred feet, were linked to each other by garlands of tropical creepers, genuine natural hammocks that swayed in a mild breeze. There were mimosas, banyan trees, beefwood, teakwood, hibiscus, screwpines, palm trees, all mingling in wild perfusion, and beneath the shade of their green canopies, at the feet of their gigantic trunks, through grew orchids, leguminous plants, and ferns. Meanwhile, ignoring all these fine specimens of papua and flora, the Canadian passed up the decorative in favour of the functional. He spotted a coconut palm beat down some of its fruit, broke them open, and we drank their milk, and ate their meat with a pleasure that was a protest against our standard fare on the Nautilus. Excellent, Nedland said. Exquisite! Concil replied. And I don't think, the Canadian said, that your Nemo would object to a stashing a cargo of coconuts aboard his vessel. I imagine not, I replied, but he won't want to sample them. Too bad for him, Concil said. And plenty good for us! Nedland shot back. There will be more left over. A word of caution, Mr. Land, I told the harpooner, who is about to ravage another coconut palm. Coconuts are admirable things, but before we stuff the skip with them, it would be wise to find out whether this island offers other substances just as useful. Some fresh vegetables would be well received in the Nautilus's pantry. Master is right, Concil replied, and I propose that we set aside three places in our longboat, one for fruit, another for vegetables, and a third for venison, of which I still haven't glimpsed the tiniest specimen. Don't give up so easily, Concil, the Canadian replied. So let's continue our excursion, I went on, but keep a sharp look out. This island seems uninhabited, but it still might harbour certain individuals who aren't so finicky about the sort of game they eat. Hee-hee! Ned put in, with a meaningful movement of his jaws. Ned! Oh, horrors! Concil exclaimed. Hee-gods! the Canadian shot back. I'm starting to appreciate the charms of cannibalism. Ned! Ned! Don't say that! Concil answered. You, a cannibal? Why, I'll no longer be safe next to you. I who share your cabin. Does this mean I'll wake up half devoured one fine day? I'm awfully fond of you, Concil, my friend, but not enough to eat you when there's better food around. Then I dare not delay, Concil replied. The hunt is on. We absolutely must bag some game to placate this man-eater, or one of these mornings Master won't find enough pieces of his man-servant to serve him. While exchanging this chit-chat we entered beneath the dark canopies of the forest, and for two hours we explored it in every direction. We couldn't have been luckier in our search for edible vegetation, and some of the most useful produce in the tropical zones supplied us with the valuable food-stuff missing on board. I mean the breadfruit tree, which is quite abundant on Gaboroa Island, and there I chiefly noted the seedless variety that in Malaysia is called rima. This tree is distinguished from other trees by a straight trunk forty feet high. To the naturalist's eye its gracefully rounded crown, formed of big multi-lobed leaves, was enough to denote the artocarpus that has been so successfully transplanted to the mass-green islands east of Madagascar. From its mass of greenery huge globular fruit stood out, a dissimilar wide and furnished on the outside with creases that assumed a hexangular pattern. It's a handy plant that nature gives to regions lacking in wheat without needing to be cultivated. It bears fruit eight months out of the year. Nedland was on familiar terms with this fruit. He had already eaten it on his many voyages, and knew how to cook its edible substance. So the very sight of it aroused his appetite, and he couldn't control himself. Sir, he told me, I'll die if I don't sample a little breadfruit pasta. Sample some, Ned, my friend, sample all you like. We're here to conduct experiments. Let's conduct them. It won't take a minute, the Canadian replied. Equipped with a magnifying glass he lit a fire of deadwood that was soon crackling merrily. Meanwhile Conceal and I selected the finest artacarpus fruit. Some still weren't ripe enough, and their thick skins covered white, slightly fibrous pulps. But a great many others were yellowish and gelatinous, just begging to be picked. This fruit contained no pits. Conceal brought a dozen of them to Nedland, who cut them into thick slices, and placed them over a fire of live coals. All the while repeating. You'll see, sir, how tasty this bread is. Especially since we've gone without baked goods for so long, Conceal said. It's more than just bread, the Canadian added. It's a dainty pastry. You've never eaten any, sir? No, Ned. All right, get ready for something downright delectable. If you don't come back for seconds, I'm no longer the king of harpooners. After a few minutes the parts of the fruit exposed to the fire were completely toasted. On the inside there appeared some white pasta, a sort of soft bread-center whose flavor reminded me of artichoke. This bread was excellent, I must admit, and I ate it with great pleasure. Unfortunately, I said, this pasta won't stay fresh, so it seems pointless to make a supply for on board. By thunder, sir, Nedland exclaimed, there you go talking like a naturalist, but meantime I'll be acting like a baker. Conceal, harvest some of this fruit to take with us when we go back. And how will you prepare it? I asked the Canadian. I'll make a fermented batter from its pulp that'll keep indefinitely without spoiling. When I want some, I'll just cook it in the galley on board. It'll have a slightly tart flavor, but you'll find it excellent. So Mr. Ned, I see that this bread is all we need. Not quite, Professor, the Canadian replied, we need some fruit to go with it, or at least some vegetables. Then let's look for fruit and vegetables. When our breadfruit harvesting was done, we took to the trail to complete this dry land dinner. We did in search in vain, and near noon time we had an ample supply of bananas. This delicious produce from the torrid zones ripens all year round, and Malaysians, who give them the name pisang, eat them without bothering to cook them. In addition to bananas, we gathered some enormous jackfruit with a very tangy flavor, some tasty mangoes, and some pineapples of unbelievable size. But this foraging took up a good deal of our time, which even so we had no cause to regret. Conceal kept Ned under observation. The harpooner walked in the lead, and during his stroll through the forest, he gathered with sure hands some excellent fruit that should have completed his provisions. So, Conceal asked, you have everything you need, Ned, my friend? Humpf! the Canadian put in. What? You're complaining? All this vegetation doesn't make a meal, Ned replied. Just side dishes, dessert. But where's the soup course? Where's the roast? Right. I said, Ned promised us cutlets, which seems highly questionable to me. Sir, the Canadian replied, our hunting not only isn't over, it hasn't even started. Patience! We're sure to end up bumping into some animal with either feathers or fur, if not in this locality, than in another. And if not today, then tomorrow, because we mustn't wander too far off, Conceal added. That's why I propose that we return to the skiff. What? Already? Ned exclaimed. We ought to be back before nightfall. I said. But what hour is it, then? The Canadian asked. Two o'clock at least, Conceal replied. How time flies on solid ground, exclaimed Mr. Nedland, with a sigh of regret. Off we go, Conceal replied. So we returned through the forest, and we completed our harvest by making a clean sweep of some palm cabbages that had to be picked from the crowns of their trees, some small beans that I recognized as the abru of the Malaysians, and some high-quality yams. We were overloaded when we arrived at the skiff. However, Nedland still found these provisions inadequate. But fortune smiled on him. Just as we were boarding, he spotted several trees, twenty-five to thirty feet high, belonging to the palm species. As valuable as the Acta Carpus, these trees are justly ranked among the most useful produce in Malaysia. They were saggo palms, vegetation that grows without being cultivated, like mulberry trees, they reproduce by means of shoots and seeds. Nedland knew how to handle these trees. Taking his axe and wielding it with great vigor, he soon stretched out on the ground two or three saggo palms whose maturity was revealed by the white dust sprinkled over their palm fronds. I watched him more as a naturalist than as a man in hunger. He began by removing from each trunk an inch-thick strip of bark that covered a network of long, hopelessly tangled fibers that were puttied with a sort of gummy flower. This flower was the starch-like saggo, an edible substance chiefly consumed by the Malaysian peoples. For the time being, Nedland was content to chop these trunks into pieces as if he were making firewood. Later he would extract the flower by sifting it through cloth to separate it from its fibrous ligaments, let it dry out in the sun, and leave it to harden inside molds. Finally, at five o'clock in the afternoon, laden with all our treasures, we left the island beach and half an hour later pulled alongside the Nautilus. Nobody appeared on our arrival. The enormous sheet-iron cylinder seemed deserted. Our provisions loaded on board. I went below to my state room. There I found my supper ready. I ate and then fell asleep. The next day, January 6th, nothing new on board, not a sound inside, not a sign of life. This gift stayed alongside in the same place we had left it. We decided to return to Gaborua Island. Nedland hoped for better luck in his hunting than on the day before, and he wanted to visit a different part of the forest. By sunrise we were off. Carried by an inbound current, the longboat reached the island in a matter of moments. We disembarked, and thinking at best to abide by the Canadian's instincts, we followed Nedland, whose long legs threatened to outpace us. Nedland went westward up the coast, then, boarding some stream-beds, he reached open plains that were bordered by wonderful forests. Some kingfishers lurked along the water-courses, but they didn't let us approach. Their cautious behaviour proved to me that these winged creatures knew where they stood on bipeds of our species, and I concluded that if this island wasn't inhabited, at least human beings paid it frequent visits. After crossing a pretty lush prairie, we arrived on the outskirts of a small wood, enlivened by the singing and soaring of a large number of birds. Still, they're merely birds, Conceal said. But some are edible, the harpooner replied. Wrong, Ned, my friend, Conceal answered. Because I see only ordinary parrots here. Conceal, my friend, Ned replied, in all seriousness, parrots are like pheasant to people with nothing else on their plates. And I might add, I said, that when these birds are properly cooked, they're at least worth a stab of the fork. Indeed, under the dense foliage of this wood, a whole host of parrots fluttered from branch to branch, needing only the proper upbringing to speak human dialects. At present, they were cackling in chorus with parakeets of every color, with solemn cockatoos that seemed to be pondering some philosophical problem, while bright red lorries passed by like pieces of bunting born on the breeze. In the midst of caloe of parrots, raucously on the wing, Papua and lorries painted the subtlest shades of azure, and a whole variety of delightful winged creatures, none terribly edible. However, one bird unique to these shores, which never passes beyond the boundaries of the Aru and Papuan islands, was missing from this collection, but I was given a chance to marvel at it soon enough. After crossing through a moderately dense thicket, we again found some plains obstructed by bushes. There I saw some magnificent birds soaring aloft, the arrangement of their long feathers, causing them to head into the wind. Their undulating flight, the grace of their aerial curves, and the play of their colors, alert and delighted the eye. I had no trouble identifying them. Birds of paradise, I exclaimed. Order, Pasariforma, Division, Clistomora, Conceal replied. Partridge family, Nedland asked. I doubt it, Mr. Land. Nevertheless, I'm counting on your dexterity to catch me one of those delightful representatives of tropical nature. I'll give it a try, Professor, though I'm hander it with a harpoon than a rifle. Malaysians, who do a booming business in these birds with the Chinese, have various methods for catching them that we couldn't use. Sometimes they set snares on the tops of the tall trees that the bird of paradise prefers to inhabit. At other times they capture it with a tenacious glue that paralyzes its movements. They will even go so far as to poison the springs where these fowl habitually drink. But in our case, all we could do was fire at them on the wing, which left us little chance of getting one, and in truth, we used up a good part of our ammunition in vain. Near eleven o'clock in the morning we cleared the lower slopes of the mountains that form the island's center, and we still hadn't bagged a thing. Hunger spurred us on. The hunters had counted on consuming the proceeds of their hunting, but they had miscalculated. Luckily, and much to his surprise, Conceal pulled off a right and left shot and ensured our breakfast. He brought down a white pigeon and a ring dove, which were briskly plucked, hung from a spit, and roasted over a blazing fire of dead wood. While these fascinating animals were cooking, Ned prepared some bread from the artacarpus. Then the pigeon and ring dove were devoured to the bones and declared excellent. Nutmeg, on which these birds habitually gorge themselves, sweetens their flesh and makes it delicious eating. They taste like chicken stuffed with truffles, Conceal said. All right, Ned, I ask the Canadian, now what do you need? Game with four paws, Professor Aranax, Nedland replied, All these pigeons are only appetizers, snacks. So till I've bagged an animal with cutlets, I won't be happy. Nor I, Ned, until I've caught a bird of paradise. Then let's keep hunting, Conceal replied. But while heading back to the sea, we've arrived at the foothills of these mountains, and I think we'll do better if we return to the forest regions. It was good advice, and we took it. After an hour's walk, we reached a genuine Sago Palm Forest. A few harmless snakes fled underfoot. Birds of paradise stole off at our approach, and I was in real despair of catching one, when Conceal, walking in the lead, stooped suddenly, gave a triumphant shout, and came back to me, carrying a magnificent bird of paradise. Oh, bravo, Conceal, I exclaimed. Master's too kind, Conceal replied. Not at all, my boy, that was a stroke of genius. Catching one of these live birds with your bare hands? If Master will examine it closely, he'll see I deserve no great praise. And why not Conceal? Because this bird is as drunk as a lord. Drunk? Yes, Master, drunk from the nutmegs it was devouring under the nutmeg tree where I caught it. See, Ned, my friend, see the monstrous results of intemperance? Damn nation, the Canadian shot back. Considering the amount of gin I've had these past two months, you've got nothing to complain about. Meanwhile, I was examining this unusual bird. Conceal was not mistaken. Tipsy from that potent juice, our bird of paradise had been reduced to helplessness. It was unable to fly. It was barely able to walk. But this didn't alarm me, and I just let it sleep off its nutmeg. The bird belonged to the finest of the eight species, credited to Papua and its neighboring islands. It was a great emerald, one of the rarest birds of paradise. It measured three decimeters long, its head was comparatively small, and its eyes, placed near the opening of its beak, were also small. But it offered a wonderful mixture of hues, a yellow beak, brown feet and claws, hazel wings with purple tips, pale yellow head and scruff of the neck, emerald throat, the belly and chest marooned to brown. Two strands, made of a horn substance covered with down, rose over its tail, which was lengthened by long, very light feathers of wonderful fineness, and they completed the costume of this marvelous bird that the islanders have poetically named the Sunbird. How I wished I could take this superb bird of paradise back to Paris, to make a gift of it to the zoo with the botanical gardens, which doesn't own a single live specimen. So it must be a rarity or something, the Canadian asked, in the tone of a hunter who, from the viewpoint of his art, gives the game a pretty low rating. A great rarity, my gallant comrade, and above all, very hard to capture alive, and even after they're dead, there's still a major market for these birds, so the natives have figured out how to create fake ones, like people create fake pearls, or diamonds. What, concealed exclaimed, they make counterfeit birds of paradise? Yes, conceal. And is master familiar with how the islanders go about? Perfectly familiar. During the Easterly monsoon season, birds of paradise lose the magnificent feathers around their tails, the naturalists call, blow the wing feathers. These feathers are gathered by the foul foragers and skillfully fitted onto some poor, previously mutilated parakeet, then they paint over the suture, varnish the bird, and ship the fruits of their unique labours to museums and collectors in Europe. Good enough, Nedland put in, if it isn't the right bird, it's still the right feathers, and so long as the merchandise isn't meant to be eaten, I see no great harm. But if my desires were fulfilled by the capture of this bird of paradise, those of our Canadian huntsmen remained unsatisfied. Luckily, near two o'clock, Nedland brought down a magnificent wild pig of the type the natives call, Barry Utang. This animal came in the nick of time for us to bag some real quadruped meat, and it was warmly welcomed. Nedland proved himself quite gloriously with his gunshot. Hit by an electric bullet, the pig dropped dead on the spot. The Canadian properly skinned and cleaned it, after removing half a dozen cutlets destined to serve as the grilled meat course of our evening meal. Then the hunt was on again, and once more would be marked by the exploits of Ned and Conceal. In essence, beating the bushes, the two friends flushed a herd of kangaroos that fled by, bounding away on their elastic paws. But these animals didn't flee so swiftly that our electric capsules couldn't catch up with them. Oh, Professor! shouted Nedland, whose hunting fever had gone to his brain. What excellent game, especially in a stew! What a supply for the nautilus! Two, three, five, down! And just think how we'll devour all this meat ourselves, while those numbskulls on board won't get a shred. In his uncontrollable glee, I think the Canadian might have slaughtered the whole horde if he hadn't been so busy talking. But he was content with a dozen of these fascinating marsupials, which make up the first order of a placental mammals, as Conceal just had to tell us. These animals were small and stature. They were a species of those rabbit kangaroos that usually dwell in the hollows of trees and are tremendously fast. But although of moderate dimensions, they at least furnish a meat that's highly prized. We were thoroughly satisfied with the results of our hunting. A gleeful Ned proposed that we return the next day to this magic island, which he planned to depopulate of its every edible quadruped that he was reckoning without events. By six o'clock in the evening, we were back on the beach. The skiff was aground in its usual place. The nautilus, looking like a long reef, emerged from the waves two miles offshore. Without further ado, Ned Land got down to the important business of dinner. He came wonderfully to terms with its entire cooking, grilling over the coals, those cutlets from the bari utang, soon give off a succulent aroma that perfumed the air. But I catch myself following in the Canadian footsteps, look at me, in ecstasy over freshly grilled pork. Please grant me a pardon, as I've already granted one to Mr. Land, and on the same grounds. In short, dinner was excellent. Two ring doves rounded out this extraordinary menu. Saigopasta, bread from the Ardo Carpis, mangoes, half a dozen pineapples, and the fermented liquor from certain coconuts heightened our glee. I suspect that my two fine companions weren't quite as clear-headed as one could wish. What if we don't return to the Nautilus this evening? Conceal said. What if we never return to it? Ned Land added. Just then a stone whizzed toward us, landed at our feet, and cut short the harpooner's proposition. End of Chapter 21 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Michael John Gettis, mjg7.com Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, by Jules Verne First Part, Chapter 22 The Lightning Bolts of Captain Nemo Without standing up, we stared in the direction of the forest, my hand stopping halfway to my mouth, Ned Land's completing its assignment. Stones don't fall from the sky, Conceal said, or else they deserve to be called meteorites. A second, well-polished stone removed a tasty ring-dove leg from Conceal's hand, giving still greater relevance to his observation. We all three stood up, rifles to our shoulders, ready to answer any attack. Apes maybe, Ned Land exclaimed. Nearly, Conceal replied, savages. Head for the skiff, I said, moving toward the sea. Indeed, it was essential to beat a retreat, because some twenty natives, armed with bows and slings, appeared barely a hundred paces off, on the outskirts of a thicket that masked the horizon to our right. The skiff was aground, ten fathoms away from us. The savages approached without running, but they favored us with a show of the greatest hostility. It was raining stones and arrows. Ned Land was unwilling to leave his provisions behind, and despite the impending danger, he clutched his pig on one side, his kangaroos on the other, and scampered off with respectable speed. In two minutes, we were on the strand, loading provisions and weapons into the skiff, pushing it to the sea, and positioning its two oars. Were the work of an instant, we hadn't gone two cable lengths, when a hundred savages, howling and gesticulating, entered the water up to their wastes. I looked to see if their appearance might draw some of the Nautilus's men onto the platform, but no, lying well out, that enormous machine still seemed completely deserted. Twenty minutes later, we boarded the ship. The hatches were open. After mooring the skiff, we re-entered the Nautilus's interior. I went below to the lounge, from which some cords were wafting. Captain Nemo was there, leaning over the organ, deep in a musical trance. Captain, I said to him. He didn't hear me. Captain, I went on, touching him with my hand. He trembled, and turning around. Ah, it's you, Professor, he said to me. Well, did you have a happy hunt? Was your herb gathering a success? Yes, Captain, I replied, but unfortunately we brought back a horde of bipeds whose proximity worries me. What sort of bipeds? Savages. Savages? Captain Nemo replied in an ironic tone. You set foot on one of the shores of this globe, Professor, and you're surprised to find savages there. Where aren't their savages? And besides, are they any worse than men elsewhere, these people you call savages? But Captain, speaking for myself, sir, I've encountered them everywhere. Well then, I replied, if you don't want to welcome them aboard the Nautilus, you'd better take some precautions. Easy, Professor, no cause for alarm. But there are a large number of these natives. What's your count? At least a hundred. Professor Aranax, replied Captain Nemo, whose fingers took their place on the organ keys. If every islander in the Papua were to gather on that beach, the Nautilus would still have nothing to fear from their attacks. The captain's fingers then ran over the instrument's keyboards, and I noticed that he touched only its black keys, which gave his melodies a basically Scottish color. Soon he had forgotten my presence and was lost in a reverie that I no longer tried to dispel. I climbed on to the platform. Night had already fallen, because in this low latitude the sun sets quickly without any twilight. I could see Guobora Island only dimly, but numerous fires had been kindled on the beach, attesting that the natives had no thoughts of leaving it. For several hours I was left to myself, sometimes musing on the islanders, but no longer fearing them, because the captain's unflappable confidence had won me over, and sometimes forgetting them to marvel at the splendors of this tropical night. My memories took wing toward France, in the wake of those zodiacal stars due to twinkle over it in a few hours. The moon shone in the midst of the constellations at their zenith. I then remembered that this loyal, good-natured satellite would return to this same place the day after tomorrow, to raise the tide and tear the nautilus from its coral bed. Near midnight, seeing that all was quiet over the darkened waves, as well as under the waterside trees, I repaired to my cabin and fell into a peaceful sleep. The night passed without mishap. No doubt the Papuans had been frightened off by the mere sight of this monster aground in the bay, because our hatches stayed open, offering easy access to the nautilus' interior. At six o'clock in the morning, January 8th, I climbed onto the platform. The morning shadows were lifting. The island was soon on view, through the dissolving mists. First its beaches, then its summits. The islanders were still there, in greater numbers than on the day before. Perhaps five hundred or six hundred of them. Taking advantage of the low tide, some of them had moved forward over the heads of the coral to within two cable lengths of the nautilus. I could easily distinguish them. They were obviously true Papuans, men of fine stock, athletic in build, forehead high and broad, nose large, but not flat, teeth white. Their woolly, red-tinted hair was in sharp contrast to their bodies, which were black and glistening, like those of Nubians. Beneath their pierced, distended earlobes, their dangled strings of beads made from bone. Generally, these savages were naked. I noted some women among them, dressed from hip to knee in grass skirts, held up by belts made of vegetation. Some of the chieftains adorned their necks with crescents and necklaces made from beads of red and white glass. Armed with bows, arrows and shields, nearly all of them carried from their shoulders a sort of net, which held those polished stones, their slings hurl with such dexterity. One of these chieftains came fairly close to the nautilus, examining it with care. He must have been a madu of high rank, because he paraded in a mat of banana leaves that had ragged edges and was accented with bright colors. I could easily have picked off this islander he stood at such close range. But I thought it best to wait for an actual show of hostility. Between Europeans and savages, it's acceptable for Europeans to shoot back, but not to attack first. During this whole time of low tide, the islanders lurked near the nautilus, but they weren't boisterous. I often heard them repeat the word assai, and from their gestures I understood they were inviting me to go ashore, an invitation I felt obliged to decline. So the skiff didn't leave shipside that day, much to the displeasure of Mr. Land, who couldn't complete his provisions. The Adroit Canadian spent his time preparing the meat and flour products he had brought from Guobora Island. As for the savages, they went back to shore near eleven o'clock in the morning, when the heads of the coral began to disappear under the waves of the rising tide. But I saw their numbers swell considerably on the beach. It was likely that they had come from neighboring islands, or from the mainland of Papua proper. However, I didn't see one local dugout canoe. Having nothing better to do, I decided to dredge these beautiful clear waters, which exhibited a profusion of shells, zoofights, and open sea plants. Besides, it was the last day the nautilus would spend in these waterways. If, tomorrow, it still floated off to the open sea as Captain Nemo had promised. So I summoned Conceal, who brought me a small, light dragnet similar to those used in oyster fishing. What about these savages, Conceal asked me. With all due respect, Master, they don't strike me as very wicked. They're cannibals, even so, my boy. A person can be both a cannibal and a decent man, Conceal replied, just as a person can be both gluttonous and honorable. The one doesn't exclude the other. Fine, Conceal. And I agree that there are honorable cannibals who decently devour their prisoners. However, I am opposed to being devoured, even in all decency. So I'll keep on my guard, especially since the nautilus's commander seems to be taking no precautions. And now, let's get to work. For two hours, our fishing proceeded energetically, but without bringing up any rarities. Our dragnet was filled with mitis, abalone, harp shells, obelisk snails, and especially the finest hammer shells I had seen to that day. We also gathered in a few sea cucumbers, some pearl oysters, and a dozen small turtles that we saved for the ship's pantry. But just when I least expected it, I laid my hands on a wonder, a natural deformity I'd have to call it, something very seldom encountered. Conceal had just made a cast of the dragnet, and his gear had come back up, loaded with a variety of fairly ordinary seashells, when suddenly he saw me plunge my arms swiftly into the net, pull out a shelled animal, and give a concollogical yell. In other words, the most piercing yell a human throat can produce. A. What happened to Master? Conceal asked, very startled. Did Master get bitten? No, my boy, but I'd gladly have sacrificed a finger for such a find. What find? The shell, I said, displaying the subject of my triumph? But that's simply an olive shell of the tent olive species. Genus Olivia, order pectin branchia, clast, gastropoda, branch mollusca. Yes, yes, Conceal, but instead of coiling from right to left, this olive shell rolls from left to right. It can't be, Conceal exclaimed. Yes, my boy, it's a left-handed shell. A left-handed shell, Conceal repeated, his heart pounding. Look at its spiral. Oh, Master can trust me on this, Conceal said, taking the valuable shell in his trembling hands, but never have I felt such excitement. And there was good reason to be excited. In fact, as naturalists have ventured to observe, dextrality is a well-known law of nature. In their rotational and orbital movements, stars and their satellites go from right to left. Man uses his right hand more often than his left, and consequently his various instruments and equipment, staircases, locks, watchsprings, etc., are designed to be used in a right-to-left manner. Now then, nature has generally obeyed this law, in coiling her shells. They're right-handed with only rare exceptions, and when by chance a shell spiral is left-handed, collectors will pay its weight in gold for it. So Conceal and I were deep in contemplation of our treasure, and I was solemnly promising myself to enrich the Paris Museum with it, when an ill-timed stone hurled by one of the Islanders whizzed over and shattered the valuable object in Conceal's hand. I gave a yell of despair. Conceal pounced on his rifle, and aimed at a savage swinging a sling just 10 meters away from him. I tried to stop him, but his shot went off and shattered a bracelet of amulets dangling from the Islander's arm. Conceal, I shouted. Conceal, A. What? Didn't master see that this man-eater initiated the attack? A shell isn't worth a human life, I told him. Oh, the rascal Conceal exclaimed. I'd rather he cracked my shoulder. Conceal was in dead earnest, but I didn't subscribe to his views. However, the situation had changed in only a short time, and we hadn't noticed. Now some 20 dugout canoes were surrounding the Nautilus. Hollowed from tree trunks, these dugouts were long, narrow, and well-designed for speed, keeping their balance by means of two bamboo poles that floated on the surface of the water. They were maneuvered by skillful, half-naked paddlers, and I viewed their advance with definite alarm. It was obvious these Papuans had already entered into relations with Europeans and knew their ships. But this long iron cylinder lying in the bay, with no masts or funnels, what were they to make of it? Nothing good, because at first they kept it at a respectful distance. However, seeing that it stayed motionless, they regained their confidence little by little and tried to become more familiar with it. Now then, it was precisely this familiarity that we needed to prevent, since our weapons made no sound when they went off, they would have only a moderate effect on these islanders, who reputedly respect nothing but noisy mechanisms. Without thunderclaps, lightning bolts would be much less frightening, although the danger lies in the flash, not the noise. Just then, the dugout canoes drew nearer to the Nautilus, and a cloud of arrows burst over us. Fire and brimstone its hailing, Conceal said, and poison tail perhaps. We've got to alert Captain Nemo, I said, re-entering the hatch. I went below to the lounge. I found no one there. I ventured a knock at the door opening into the Captain's stateroom. The word, enter, answered me. I did so, and found Captain Nemo busy with calculations in which there was no shortage of X and other algebraic signs. Am I disturbing you, I said, out of politeness. Correct, Professor Aranax, the Captain answered me, but I imagine you have pressing reasons for looking me up. Very pressing. Native dugout canoes are surrounding us, and in a few minutes we are sure to be assaulted by several hundred savages. Ah, Captain Nemo put in serenely. They have come in their dugouts. Yes, sir. Well, sir, closing the hatches should do the trick. Precisely, and that's what I came to tell you. Nothing easier, Captain Nemo said. And he pressed an electric button, transmitting an order to the crew's quarters. There, sir, all under control, he told me after a few moments. The skiff is in place, and the hatches are closed. I don't imagine you're worried that these gentlemen will stave in the walls that shells from your frigate couldn't breach. No, Captain, but one danger still remains. What's that, sir? Tomorrow at about this time, we'll need to reopen the hatches to renew the Nautilus's air. No argument, sir, since our craft breathes in the man are favored by citations. But if these Papuans are occupying the platform at that moment, I don't see how you can prevent them from entering. Then, sir, you assume they'll board the ship. I'm certain of it. Well, sir, let them come aboard. I see no reason to prevent them. Deep down, they're just poor devils, these Papuans. And I don't want my visit to Gurebora Island to cost the life of a single one of these unfortunate people. On this note, I was about to withdraw, but Captain Nemo detained me and invited me to take a seat next to him. He questioned me with interest on our excursions ashore and on our hunting, but seemed not to understand the Canadians' passionate craving for red meat. Then our conversation skimmed various subjects, and without being more forthcoming, Captain Nemo proved more affable. Among other things, we came to talk of the Nautilus's circumstances aground in the same strait where Captain Dumont Deerville had nearly miscarried, then pertinent to this. He was one of your great seamen, the Captain told me, one of your shudest navigators, that Deerville. He was the Frenchman's Captain Cook, a man wise but unlucky, braving the ice banks of the South Pole, the coral of Oceania, the cannibals of the Pacific, only to perish wretchedly in a trainwreck. If that energetic man was able to think about his life in its last seconds, imagine what his final thoughts must have been. As he spoke, Captain Nemo seemed deeply moved, and a motion I felt was to his credit. Then, chart in hand, we returned to the deeds of the French navigator, his voyages to circumnavigate the globe, his double attempt at the South Pole. Which led to his discovery of the Edelai Coast and the Luis Felipe Peninsula. Finally, his hydrographic surveys of the chief islands in Oceania. What your Deerville did on the surface of the sea, Captain Nemo told me, I've done in the ocean's interior, but more easily, more completely than he. Constantly tossed by the hurricanes, the zealous and the new astrolabe couldn't compare with the Nautilus. A quiet work room truly have rest in the midst of the waters. Even so, Captain, I said, there is one major similarity between Dumont, Deerville's sloops of war and the Nautilus. What's that, sir? Like them, the Nautilus has run aground. The Nautilus is not aground, sir, Captain Nemo replied icely. The Nautilus was built to rest on the ocean floor, and I don't need to undertake the arduous labours the maneuvers Deerville had to attempt in order to float off his sloops of war. The zealous and the new astrolabe well nigh perished, but my Nautilus is in no danger. Tomorrow, on the day stated, and at the hour stated, the tide will peacefully lift it off, and it will resume its navigating through the seas. Captain, I said, I don't doubt tomorrow, Captain Nemo added, standing up tomorrow at 2.40 in the afternoon, the Nautilus will float off and exit the torus straight undamaged. Pronouncing these words in an extremely sharp tone, Captain Nemo gave me a kerb bow. This was my dismissal, and I re-entered my stateroom. There I found Conceal, who wanted to know the upshot of my interview with the Captain. My boy, I replied, when I expressed the belief that these Papuan natives were a threat to his Nautilus, the Captain answered me with great irony. So I've just one thing to say to you. Have faith in him, and sleep in peace. Master has no need for my services? No, my friend. What's Ned land up to? Beggy Master's indulgence, Conceal replied, but our friend Ned is concocting a kangaroo pie that will be the Eighth Wonder. I was left to myself. I went to bed, but slept pretty poorly. I kept hearing noises from the savages who are stamping on the platform and letting out deafening yells. The night passed, in this way, without the crew ever emerging from their usual inertia. They were no more disturbed by the presence of these man-eaters than soldiers in an armored fortress or traveled by ants running over the armor plate. I got up at six o'clock in the morning. The hatches weren't open, so the air inside hadn't been renewed. But the air tanks were kept full for any eventuality, and would function appropriately to shoot a few cubic meters of oxygen into the Nautilus's thin atmosphere. I worked in my stateroom until noon, without seeing Captain Nemo even for an instant. Nobody on board seemed to be making any preparations for departure. I still waited for a while. Then I made my way to the main lounge. Its timepiece marked 230. In 10 minutes the tide would reach its maximum elevation. And if Captain Nemo hadn't made a rash promise, the Nautilus would immediately break free. If not, many months might pass before it could leave its coral bed. But some preliminary vibrations could soon be felt over the boat's hull. I heard its plating grind against the limestone roughness of that coral base. At 235 Captain Nemo appeared in the lounge. We're about to depart, he said. Ah, I put in. I've given orders to open the hatches. What about the Papuans? What about them? Captain Nemo replied with a slight shrug of his shoulders. Won't they come inside the Nautilus? How will they manage that? By jumping down the hatches you're about to open. Professor Aranax, Captain Nemo replied serenely. The Nautilus' hatches aren't to be entered in that fashion even when they're open. I gaped at the captain. You don't understand, he said to me. Not in the least. Well, come along, and you'll see. I headed to the central companionway. There, very puzzled, Nedland and Concile watched the crewmen opening the hatches, while a frightful clamor and furious shouts resounded outside. The hatch lids fell back onto the outer plating. Twenty horrible faces appeared. But when the first islander laid hands on the companionway railing, he was flung backwards by some invisible power. Lord knows what. He ran off, howling in terror, and wildly prancing around. Ten of his companions followed him. All ten met the same fate. Concile was in ecstasy, carried away by his violent instincts. Nedland leaped up the companionway, but as soon as his hand seized the railing, he was thrown backward in his turn. Damnation, he exclaimed. I've been struck by a lightning bolt. These words explained everything to me. It wasn't just a railing that led to the ship's platform. It was a metal cable fully charged with the ship's electricity. Anyone who touched it got a fearsome shock, and such a shock would have been fatal if Captain Nemo had thrown the full current from his equipment into this conducting cable. It could honestly be said that he had stretched between himself and his assailants a network of electricity no one could clear with impunity. Meanwhile, crazed with terror, the unhinged Papuans beat a retreat. As for us, half- laughing, we massaged and comforted poor Nedland, who was swearing like one possessed. But just then, lifted off by the tide's final undulations, the Nautilus left its coral bed at exactly the 40th minute pinpointed by the Captain. Its propeller churned the waves with lazy majesty, gathering speed little by little the ship navigated on the surface of the ocean, and safe and sound it left behind the dangerous narrows of the Torres Strait. End of Chapter 22, recorded by Michael John Geddes, September 30th, 2006, Indianapolis, Indiana, USA. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas, by Jules Verne First Part, Chapter 23, Agri Somnia The following day, January 10th, the Nautilus resumed its travels in mid-water, but at a remarkable speed that I estimated to be at least 35 miles per hour. The propeller was going so fast I could neither follow nor count its revolutions. I thought about how this marvelous electric force not only gave motion, heat, and light to the Nautilus, but even protected it against outside attack, transforming it into a sacred arc no profane hand could touch without being blasted. My wonderment was boundless, and it went from the submersible itself to the engineer who had created it. We were travelling due west, and on January 11 we doubled Cape Wessel, located in longitude 135° and latitude 10° north, the western tip of the Gulf of Carpentaria. Reefs were still numerous, but more widely scattered, and were fixed on the chart with the greatest accuracy. The Nautilus easily avoided the moneybreakers to port, and the Victoria reefs to starboard, positioned at longitude 130° on the 10th parallel, which we went along rigorously. On January 13, arriving in the Timor Sea, Captain Nemo raised the island of that name at longitude 122°. This island, whose surface area measures 1625 square leagues, is governed by Rajas. These aristocrats deem themselves the sons of crocodiles, in other words, descendants with the most exalted origins to which a human being can lay claim. Accordingly, their scaly ancestors infest the island's rivers, and are the subjects of special veneration. They are sheltered, nurtured, flattered, pampered, and offered a ritual diet of newbile maidens, and woe to the foreigner who lifts a finger against these sacred Saurians. But the Nautilus wanted nothing to do with these nasty animals. Timor Island was visible for barely an instant at noon, while the chief officer determined his position. I also caught only a glimpse of Little Roti Island, part of the same group, whose women have a well-established reputation for beauty in the Malaysian marketplace. After our position fix, the Nautilus' latitude bearings were modulated to the southwest. Our prow pointed to the Indian Ocean. Where would Captain Nemo's fancies take us? Would he head up to the shores of Asia? Would he pull nearer to the beaches of Europe? Unlikely choices for a man who avoided populated areas. So would he go down south? Would he double the Cape of Good Hope, then Cape Horn, and push onto the Antarctic Pole? Finally, would he return to the seas of the Pacific, where his Nautilus could navigate freely and easily? Time would tell. After cruising along the Karche, Hibernia, Serangapatam, and Scott Reefs, the solid element's last exertions against the liquid element, we were beyond all sight of shore by January 14. The Nautilus slowed down in an odd manner, and very unpredictable in its ways, it sometimes swam in the midst of the waters, sometimes drifted on their surface. During this phase of our voyage, Captain Nemo conducted interesting experiments on the different temperatures in various strata of the sea. Under ordinary conditions, such readings are obtained using some pretty complicated instruments, whose findings are dubious to say the least, whether their thermometric sounding lines, whose glass often shatters under the water's pressure, are those devices based on the varying resistance of metals to electric currents. The results so obtained can't be adequately double-checked. By contrast, Captain Nemo would seek the sea's temperatures by going himself into its depths, and when he placed his thermometer in contact with the various layers of liquid, he found the sought-for degree immediately and with certainty. And so, by loading up its ballast tanks, or by sinking obliquely with its slanting fins, the Nautilus successfully reached depths of 3,000, 4,000, 5,000, 7,000, 9,000, and 10,000 meters. And the ultimate conclusion from these experiments was that, in all attitudes, the sea had a permanent temperature of 4.5 degrees centigrade at a depth of 1,000 meters. I watched these experiments with the most intense fascination. Captain Nemo brought a real passion to them. I often wondered why he took these observations. Were they for the benefit of his fellow man? It was unlikely, because sooner or later his work would perish with him in some unknown sea, unless he intended the results of experiments for me. But that meant this strange voyage of mine would come to an end, and no such end was in sight. Be that as it may, Captain Nemo also introduced me to the different data he had obtained on the relative densities of the water in our globe's chief seas. From this news I would derive some personal enlightenment having nothing to do with science. It happened the morning of January 15. The captain, with whom I was strolling on the platform, asked me if I knew how salt water differs in density from sea to sea. I said no, adding that there was a lack of rigorous scientific observations on this subject. I have taken some observations, he told me, and I can vouch for their reliability. Fine, I replied, but the Nautilus lives in a separate world, and the secrets of its scientists don't make their way ashore. You're right, Professor, he told me after a few moments of silence. This is a separate world. It's as alien to the earth as the planets accompanying our globe around the sun, and will never become familiar with the work of scientists on Saturn or Jupiter. But since fate has linked our two lives, I can reveal the results of my observations to you. I'm all attention, Captain. You're aware, Professor, that salt water is denser than fresh water, but this density isn't uniform. In essence, if I represent the density of fresh water by 1.000, then I find 1.028 for the waters of the Atlantic, 1.026 for the waters of the Pacific, 1.030 for the waters of the Mediterranean. Aha, I thought, so he ventures into the Mediterranean, 1.018 for the waters of the Ionian Sea, and 1.029 for the waters of the Adriatic. Assuredly, the Nautilus didn't avoid the heavily-traveled seas of Europe, and from this insight I concluded that the ship would take us back, perhaps very soon, to more civilized shores. I expected Nedland to greet this news with unfeigned satisfaction. For several days our work hours were spent in all sorts of experiments, on the degree of salinity in waters of different depths, or on their electric properties, coloration, and transparency. In every instance Captain Nemo displayed an ingenuity equaled only by his graciousness toward me. Then I saw no more of him for some days, and again lived on board in seclusion. On January 16 the Nautilus seemed to have fallen asleep just a few meters beneath the surface of the water. Its electric equipment had been turned off, and the motionless propeller let it ride with the waves. I assumed that the crew were busy with interior repairs, required by the engine's strenuous mechanical action. My companions and I then witnessed an unusual sight. The panels in the lounge were open, and since the Nautilus's beacon was off a hazy darkness reigned in the midst of the waters. Covered with heavy clouds the stormy sky gave only the faintest light to the ocean's upper strata. I was observing the state of the sea under these conditions, and even the largest fish were nothing more than ill-defined shadows, when the Nautilus was suddenly transferred into broad daylight. At first I thought the beacon had gone back on and was casting its electric light into the liquid mass. I was mistaken, and after a hasty examination I discovered my error. The Nautilus had drifted into the midst of some phosphorescent strata, which in this darkness came off as positively dazzling. This effect was caused by myriads of tiny, luminous animals whose brightness increased when they glided over the metal hull of our submersible. In the midst of these luminous sheets of water I then glimpsed flashes of light, like those seen inside a blazing furnace from streams of molten lead, or from masses of metal brought to a white heat. Flashes so intense that certain areas of the light became shadows by comparison, in a fiery setting from which every shadow should seemingly have been banished. No, this was no longer the calm emission of our usual lighting. This light throbbed with an unprecedented vigor and activity. You sensed that it was alive. In essence it was a cluster of countless open sea infusoria of Noctiluca an eighth of an inch wide, actual globules of transparent jelly equipped with a thread-like tentacle up to twenty-five thousand of which have been counted in thirty cubic centimeters of water. And the power of their light was increased by those glimmers unique to Medusa's, starfish, common jellyfish, angel wing clams, and other phosphorescent zoophytes, which were saturated with grease from organic matter decomposed by the sea, and perhaps with mucus secreted by fish. For several hours the Nautilus drifted in this brilliant tide, and our wonderment grew when we saw huge marine animals cavorting in it, like the fire-dwelling salamanders of myth. In the midst of these flames that didn't burn I could see swift, elegant porpoises, the tireless pranksters of the seas, and sailfish three meters long, those shrewd heralds of hurricanes, whose fearsome broadsword sometimes banged against the lounge window. Then smaller fish appeared, miscellaneous triggerfish, leather jacks, unicorn fish, and a hundred others that left stripes on this luminous atmosphere in their course. Some magic lay behind this dazzling sight. Perhaps some atmosphere condition had intensified this phenomenon. Perhaps a storm had been unleashed on the surface of the waves, but only a few meters down the Nautilus felt no tempest's fury, and the ship rocked peacefully in the midst of the calm waters. And so it went, some new wonder constantly delighting us. Cos I observed and classified as zoophytes, articulates, mollusks, and fish. The days passed quickly, and I no longer kept track of them. Ned, as usual, kept looking for changes of pace from our standard fare. Like actual snails we were at home in our shell, and I can vouch that it's easy to turn into a full-fledged snail. So this way of living began to seem simple and natural to us, and we no longer envisioned a different lifestyle on the surface of the planet Earth, when something happened to remind us of our strained circumstances. On January 18 the Nautilus lay in longitude 105 degrees and latitude 15 degrees south. The weather was threatening, the sea rough and billowy, the wind was blowing a strong gust from the east, the barometer which had been falling for some days forecast an approaching struggle of the elements. I had climbed onto the platform just as the chief officer was taking his readings of our angles. Out of habit I waited for him to pronounce his daily phrase, but that day it was replaced by a different phrase, just as incomprehensible. Almost at once I saw Captain Nemo appear, lift his spy-glass, and inspect the horizon. For some minutes the captain stood motionless, rooted to the spot contained within the field of his lens. Then he lowered his spy-glass and exchanged about ten words with his chief officer. The latter seemed to be in the grip of an excitement he tried in vain to control. More in command of himself, Captain Nemo remained cool. Furthermore he seemed to be raising certain objections that his chief officer kept answering with flat assurances. At least that's what I gathered from their differences in tone and gesture. As for me, I stared industriously in the direction under observation, but without spotting a thing. Sky and water merged into a perfectly clean horizon line. Meanwhile Captain Nemo strolled from one end of the platform to the other, not glancing at me, perhaps not even seeing me. His step was firm but less regular than usual. Sometimes he would stop, cross his arms over his chest, and observe the sea. What could he be looking for over that immense expanse? By then the nautilus lay hundreds of miles from the nearest coast. The chief officer kept lifting his spy-glass and stubbornly examining the horizon, walking up and down, stamping his foot in his nervous agitation, a sharp contrast to his superior. But this mystery would inevitably be cleared up and soon, because Captain Nemo gave orders to increase speed. At once the engine stepped up its drive power, setting the propeller in swifter rotation. Just then the chief officer drew the captain's attention anew. The latter interrupted his strolling and aimed his spy-glass at the point indicated. He observed it a good while. As for me, deeply puzzled, I went below to the lounge and brought back an excellent long-range telescope I habitually used. Leaning my elbows on the beacon-housing, which jutted from the stern of the platform, I got set to scour that whole stretch of sky and sea. But no sooner had I peered into the eyepiece than the instrument was snatched from my hands. I spun around. Captain Nemo was standing before me, but I almost didn't recognize him. His facial features were transfigured. Gleaming with dark fire, his eyes had shrunk beneath his frowning brow. His teeth were half-bared. His rigid body, clenched fists, and head drawn between his shoulders, all attested to a fierce hate breathing from every pore. He didn't move. My spy-glass fell from his hand and rolled at his feet. Had I accidentally caused these symptoms of anger, did this incomprehensible individual think I detected some secret forbidden to guests on the nautilus? No. I wasn't the subject of his hate because he wasn't even looking at me. His eyes stayed stubbornly focused on that inscrutable point of the horizon. Finally Captain Nemo regained his self-control. His facial appearance, so profoundly changed, now resumed its usual calm. He addressed a few words to his chief officer in their strange language, then he turned to me. Professor Aranax, he told me in a tone of some urgency, I asked that you now honor one of the binding agreements between us. Which one, Captain? You and your companions must be placed in confinement until I see fit to set you free. You're in command, I answered, gaping at him. But may I address a question to you? You may not, sir. After that I stopped objecting and started obeying, since resistance was useless. I went below to the cabin occupied by Nedland and Cosay, and I informed them of the captain's decision. I'll let the reader decide how this news was received by the Canadian. In any case there was no time for explanations. Four crewmen were waiting at the door, and they led us to the cell where we had spent our first night aboard the Nautilus. Nedland tried to lodge a complaint, but the only answer he got was a door shut in his face. Will Master tell me what this means, Cosay asked me? I told my companions what had happened. They were as astonished as I was, but no wiser. Then I sank into deep speculation, and Captain Nemo's strange facial seizure kept haunting me. I was incapable of connecting two ideas in logical order, and I'd strayed into the most absurd hypotheses, when I was snapped out of my mental struggles by these words from Nedland. Well, look here, lunch is served. Indeed, the table had been laid. Apparently Captain Nemo had given this order at the same time he commanded the Nautilus to pick up speed. Will Master allow me to make him a recommendation, Cosay asked me? Yes, my boy, I replied. Well, Master needs to eat his lunch. It's prudent, because we have no idea what the future holds. You're right, Cosay. Unfortunately Nedland said they've only given us the standard menu. Ned, my friend, Cosay answered, what would you say if they'd given us no lunch at all? This dose of sanity cut the harpooner's complaints clean off. We sat down at the table. Our meal proceeded pretty much in silence. I ate very little. Cosay, everlastingly prudent, force-fed himself, and despite the menu, Nedland didn't waste a bite. Then, lunch over, each of us propped himself in a corner. Just then the luminous globe lighting our cell went out, leaving us in profound darkness. Nedland soon dozed off, and to my astonishment, Cosay also fell into a heavy slumber. I was wondering what could have caused this urgent need for sleep, when I felt a dense torpor saturate my brain. I tried to keep my eyes open, but they closed in spite of me. I was in the grip of anguished hallucinations. Obviously, some sleep-inducing substance had been laced into the food we'd just eaten. So, imprisonment wasn't enough to conceal Captain Nemo's plans from us. Sleep was needed as well. Then I heard the hatches close. The sea's undulations, which had been creating a gentle rocking motion, now ceased. Had the Nautilus left the surface of the ocean? Was it re-entering the motionless strata deep in the sea? I tried to fight off this drowsiness. It was impossible. My breathing grew weaker. I felt a mortal chill freeze my dull, nearly paralyzed limbs. Like little domes of lead my lids fell over my eyes. I couldn't raise them. A morbid sleep full of hallucinations seized my whole being. Then the visions disappeared, and left me in utter oblivion. End of Chapter 23