menu_book Chapter 7

CHAPTER VII. A Whale of Unknown Species Although I was startled by this unexpected descent, I at least have a very clear recollection of my sensations during it. At first I was dragged about twenty feet under. I'm a good swimmer without claiming to equal such other authors as Byron, Edgar Allen Poe, who were master divers, and I didn't lose my head on the way down. With two vigorous kicks of the heel

I came back to the surface of the sea. My first concern was to look for the frigate. Had the crew seen me go overboard? Was the Abraham Lincoln tacking about? Would Commander Farragut put a longboat to sea? Could I hope to be rescued? The gloom was profound. I glimpsed a black mass disappearing eastward, where its running lights were fading out in the distance. It was the frigate. I felt I was done for.

Help! Help! I shouted, swimming desperately toward the Abraham Lincoln. My clothes were weighing me down. The water glued them to my body. They were paralyzing my movements. I was sinking. I was suffocating. Help! This is the last shout I gave. My mouth was filling with water. I struggled against being dragged into the depths. Suddenly my clothes were seized by energetic hands. I felt myself pulled abruptly back to the surface of the sea, and, yes, I heard these words pronounced in my ear.

If master would oblige me by leaning on my shoulder, master will swim with much greater ease. With one hand I seized the arm of my loyal consail. You! I said. You! Myself, consail replied. And at the master's command. That collision threw you overboard along with me? Not at all. But, being in master's employ, I followed master. The fine lad thought this only natural. What about the frigate? I asked. The frigate, consail replied, rolling over on

his back. I think master had best not depend on it to any great extent. What are you saying? I am saying that, just as I jumped overboard, I heard the men at the helm shout, our propeller and rudder are smashed. Smashed? Yes, smashed by the monster's tusk. I believe it's the sole injury the Abraham Lincoln has sustained, but, most inconveniently for us, the ship can no longer steer. Then we're done for.

Perhaps, consail replied serenely. However, we still have a few hours before us, and in a few hours one can do a great many things. Consail's unflappable composure cheered me up. I swam more vigorously, but, hampered by clothes that were as restricting as a cloak made of lead. I was managing with only the greatest difficulty. Consail noticed as much. Master will allow me to make an incision, he said, and he slipped an open clasp knife under my

clothes, splitting them from top to bottom with one swift stroke, and he briskly undressed me while I swam for us both. I then did consail the same favour, and we continued to navigate side by side. But our circumstances were no less dreadful. Perhaps they hadn't seen us go overboard, and even if they had, the frigate, being undone by its rudder, couldn't return to leeward after us, till we could count only on its long boats. Consail had coolly reasoned out this hypothesis,

and laid his plans accordingly. An amazing character, this boy. In mid-ocean, this stoke lad seemed right at home. So, having concluded that our sole chance for salvation lay in being picked up by the Abraham Lincoln's long boats, we had to take steps to wait for them as long as possible. Consequently, I decided to divide our energies, so we wouldn't both be worn out at the same time, and this was the arrangement. While one of us lay on his back, staying motionless, with arms crossed and

legs outstretched, the other would swim and propel his partner forward. This towing roll was to last no longer than ten minutes, and by relieving each other in this way we could stay afloat for hours, perhaps even until daybreak. Slim chance, but hope springs eternal in the human breast. Besides, there were two of us. Lastly, I can vouch, as improbable as it seems, that even if I had wanted to destroy all my illusions, even if I had been willing to give in

to despair, I could not have done so. The cetacean had rammed off frigate at about eleven o'clock in the evening. I therefore calculated on eight hours of swimming until sunrise. A strenuous task, but feasible thanks to our relieving each other. The sea was pretty smooth and barely tireless. Sometimes I tried to peer through the dense gloom, which was broken only by the phosphorescent flickers coming from our movements. I stared at the luminous ripples breaking over my hands,

shimmering sheets spattered with blotches of bluish-gray. It seemed as if we'd plunged into a pool of quicksilver. Near one o'clock in the morning, I was overcome with tremendous exhaustion. My limbs stiffened in the grip of intense cramps. Consale had to keep me going, and attending to our self-preservation became his sole responsibility. I soon heard the poor lad gasping. His breathing became shallow and quick. I didn't think he could

stand such exertions for much longer. Go on! Go on! I told him. Leave Masa behind? he replied. Never! I'll drown before he does. Just then, past the fringes of a large cloud that the wind was driving eastward, the moon appeared.

The surface of the sea glistened under its rays. That kind of light kindled our strength. I held up my head again. My eyes darted to every point of the horizon. I spotted the frigate. It was five miles from us, and formed no more than a dark, pearly perceptible mass. But as for longboats, not a one in sight. I tried to call out. What was the use at such a distance? My swollen lips wouldn't let a single sound through. Consale could still articulate a few words, and I heard him repeat

at intervals, Help! Help! Ceasing all movement for an instant, we listened. And it may have been a ringing in my ear, from this organ filling with impeded blood, but it seemed to me that Consale's shout had received an answer back. Did you hear that? I muttered. Yes! Yes!

And Consale hurled another desperate plea into space. This time there could be no mistake. A human voice had answered us. Was it the voice of some poor devil left behind in mid-ocean, some other victim of that collision suffered by our ship? Or was it one of the frigate's longboats, hailing us out of the gloom? Consale made one final effort, and bracing his hands on my shoulders, while I offered resistance

with one supreme exertion, he raised himself half out of the water, and fell back exhausted. What did you see? I saw, he muttered. I saw. But we mustn't talk. Save our strength. What had he seen?

Then, Lord knows why, the thought of the monster came into my head for the first time. But even so, that voice. Gone were the days when Jonas took refuge in the bellies of whales. Nevertheless, Consale kept towing me. Sometimes he looked up, stared straight ahead, and shouted a request for directions,

which was answered by a voice that was getting closer and closer. I could barely hear it. I was at the end of my strength. My fingers gave out. My hands were no help to me. My mouth opened convulsively, filling with brine. Its coldness ran through me. I raised my head one last time. Then I collapsed. Just then something hard banged against me. I clung to it. Then I felt myself being pulled upward,

back to the surface of the water. My chest caved in, and I fainted. For certain I came too quickly, because someone was massaging me so vigorously it left furrows in my flesh. I half opened my eyes. Consale! I muttered. Did Master ring for me? Consale replied.

Just then, in the last light of a moon settling on the horizon, I spotted a face that wasn't con-sales, but which I recognized at once. Ned! I exclaimed. In person, sir, and still after his prize, the Canadian replied. You were thrown overboard, after the frigate's collision?

Yes, Professor. But I was luckier than you, and right away I was able to set foot on this floating islet. Islet? Or, in other words, on our gigantic narwhal. Explain yourself, Ned.

It's just that I soon realized why my harpoon got blunted and couldn't puncture its hide. Why, Ned? Why? Because, Professor, this beast is made of boiler-plaked steel. At this point in my story I need to get a grip on myself, reconstruct exactly what I experienced, and make doubly sure of everything I write.

The Canadian's last words caused a sudden upheaval in my brain. I swiftly hoisted myself to the summit of this half-submerged creature or object that was serving as our refuge. I tested it with my foot. Obviously it was some hard, impenetrable substance, not the soft matter that makes up the bodies

of our big marine mammals. But this hard substance could have been a bony carapace, like those that covered some prehistoric animals. And I might have left it at that and classified this monster among such amphibious reptiles as turtles or alligators.

Well, no. The blackish back supporting me was smooth and polished, with no overlapping scales. On impact it gave off a metallic sonority, and as incredible as this sounds, it seemed, I swear, to be made of riveted plates. No doubts were possible.

This animal, this monster, this natural phenomenon that had puzzled the whole scientific world, that had muddled and misled the minds of seamen on both hemispheres, was, there could be no escaping it, an even more astonishing phenomenon, a phenomenon made by the hand of man. Even if I had discovered that some fabulous mythological creature really existed, it wouldn't have given me such a terrific mental jolt.

It's easy enough to accept that prodigious things can come from our Creator. But to find all at once, right before your eyes, that the impossible has been mysteriously achieved by man himself, this staggers the mind. But there was no question now. We were stretched out on the back of some kind of underwater boat that, as far as I could

judge, boasted the shape of an immense steelfish. Ned Land had clear views on the issue. Kinsale and I could only line up behind him. But then, I said, does this contraption contain some sort of locomotive mechanism and a crew to run it?

Apparently, the harpooner replied. And yet, for the three hours I've lived on this floating island, it hasn't shown a sign of life. This boat hasn't moved at all? No, Professor Aranax.

It just rides with the waves. But otherwise it hasn't stirred. But we know that it's certainly gifted with great speed. Now then, since an engine is needed to generate that speed, and a mechanic to run that engine, I conclude, we are saved.

Humph! Ned Land put in, his tone denoting reservations. Just then, as if to take my side in the argument, a bubbling began astern of this strange submersible, whose drive mechanism was obviously a propeller, and the boat started to move. We barely had time to hang on to its topside, which emerged about eighty centimetres above

water. Fortunately, its speed was not excessive. So long as it navigates horizontally, Ned Land muttered. I've no complaints, but if it gets the urge to dive, I wouldn't give two dollars for my hide.

The Canadian might have quoted a much lower price, so it was imperative to make contact with whatever beings were confined inside the plating of this machine. I searched at its surface for an opening or hatchet, a manhole, to use the official term, that the lines of rivets had been firmly driven into the sheet iron joins, and were straight and uniform.

Moreover, the moon then disappeared and left us in profound darkness. We had to wait for daylight to find some way of getting inside this underwater boat. So our salvation lay totally in the hands of the mysterious helmsman, steering this submersible, and if it made a dive, we were done for. But aside from this occurring, I didn't doubt the possibility of our making contact with them.

In fact, if they didn't produce their own air, they inevitably had to make periodic visits to the surface of the ocean to replenish their oxygen supply. Hence the need for some opening that put the boat's interior in contact with the atmosphere. As for any hope of being rescued by Commander Farragut, that had to be renounced completely. We were being swept westward, and I estimate that our comparatively moderate speed reached

twelve miles per hour. The propeller churned the waves with mathematical regularity, sometimes emerging above the surface and throwing phosphorescent spray to great heights. Nearly four o'clock in the morning the submersible picked up speed. We could barely cope with this dizzying rush, and the waves battered us at close range.

Fortunately, Ned's hands came across a big mooring ring, fastened to the top side of this sheet iron back, and we all held on for dear life. Finally, this long night was over. My imperfect memories won't let me recall my every impression of it. A single detail comes back to me.

Several times, during various lulls of wind and sea, I thought I heard indistinct sounds, a sort of elusive harmony produced by distant musical chords. What was the secret behind this underwater navigating, whose explanation the whole world had sought in vain? What beings lived inside this strange boat?

What mechanical force allowed it to move about with such prodigious speed? Daylight appeared. The morning mists surrounded us, but they soon broke up. I was about to proceed with a careful examination of the hull, whose top side formed a sort of horizontal platform, when I felt it sinking little by little.

Oh, damnation! Ned Lann shouted, stabbing his foot on the resident sheet iron. Open up there, you anti-social navigators! But it was difficult to make yourself heard above the deafening beats of the propeller. Fortunately, this submerging movement stopped.

From inside the boat, there suddenly came noises of iron fastenings pushed roughly aside. One of the steel plates flew up. A man appeared, gave a bizarre yell, and instantly disappeared. A few moments later, eight strapping fellows appeared silently, their faces like masks, and dragged us down into their fearsome machine.

End of chapter 7