Chapter 44
CHAPTER 44 In latitude 47°24 minutes, and longitude 17°28 minutes. In the aftermath of this storm we were thrown back to the east, away went any hope of escaping to the landing-places of New York or the St. Lawrence. In despair, poor Ned went into seclusion like Captain Nemo.
Conceal and I no longer left each other. As I said the Nautilus veered to the east. To be more accurate, I should have said to the north-east. Sometimes on the surface of the waves, sometimes beneath them, the ship wandered for days amid these mists so feared by navigators.
These are caused chiefly by melting ice, which keeps the air extremely damp. How many ships have perished in these waterways as they tried to get directions from the hazy lights on the coast? How many casualties have been caused by these opaque mists? How many collisions have occurred with these reefs?
How many vessels have rammed each other despite their running lights, despite the warnings given by their bosom's pipes and alarm bells? So the floor of this sea had the appearance of a battlefield where every ship defeated by the ocean still lay, some already old and encrusted, others newer in reflecting our beacon light on the ironwork and copper undersides.
Among these vessels, how many went down with all hands with their crews and hosts of immigrants at these trouble-spots so prominent in the statistics? Cape Race, St. Paul Island, the Strait of Belle Isle, the St. Lawrence Estuary, and in only a few years how many victims have been furnished to the obituary notices by the Royal Mail, Inman and Montreal Lines, by vessels named the Solway, the Isis, the
Peramata, the Hungarian, the Canadian, the Anglo-Saxon, the Humboldt, and the United States all run aground, by the Arctic and the Lyonaise sunk in collisions, by the President, the Pacific, and the City of Glasgow lost for reasons unknown in the midst of their gloomy rubble, the Nautilus navigated as if passing the dead in review. By May 15th we were off the southern tip of the Grand Banks of Newfoundland.
These banks are the result of marine sedimentation and extensive accumulation of organic waste brought either from the equator by the Gulf Stream's current, or from the North Pole by the countercurrent of cold water that skirts the American coast. Here too erratically drifting chunks collect from the ice break-up. Here a huge boneyard forms from fish mollusks and zoephites dying over it by the billions.
The sea is of no great depth at the Grand Banks, a few hundred fathoms at best, but to the south there is a deep, suddenly occurring depression, a 3,000 metre pit. Here the Gulf Stream widens. Its waters come to full bloom. It loses its speed and temperature, but it turns into a sea.
Among the fish that the Nautilus startled on its way, I'll mention a one metre lumpfish, blackish on top, with orange on the belly, and rare among its brethren in that it practises monogamy, a good-sized eel pout, a type of emerald moray whose flavour is excellent, wolf fish with big eyes and a head somewhat resembling a canine's, viviparous blennies whose eggs hatch inside their bodies like those of snakes, floated gobio or black gudgeon,
measuring 2 decimetres, grenadiers with long tails and gleaming with a silvery glow, speedy fish venturing far from their high arctic seas. Our nets also hold in a bow-daring, vigorous and muscular fish, armed with prickles on its head and stings on its fins, a real scorpion measuring 2 to 3 metres. The ruthless enemy of cod, blennies and salmon.
It was the bullhead of the northerly seas, a fish with red fins and a brown body covered with nodules. The Nautilus' fisherman had some trouble getting a grip on this animal, which, thanks to the formation of its gill covers, can protect its respiratory organs from any parching contact with the air, and can live out of water for a good while.
And I'll mention, for the record, some little banded blennies that follow ships into the northernmost seas, sharp-snouted carp exclusive to the North Atlantic, scorpion fish and lastly the gadoid family, chiefly the cod species, which I detected in their waters of choice over these inexhaustible grand banks. Because Newfoundland is simply an underwater peak, you could call these cod mountain fish,
While the Nautilus was clearing a path through their tight ranks, Conceal couldn't refrain from making this comment. Merci. Look at these cod, he said. Why, I thought cod were flat, like dab or sole.
Innocent boy, I exclaimed. Cod are flat only at the grocery store when they're cut open and spread out on display, but in the water they're like mullet, spindle-shaped and perfectly built for speed. I can easily believe master, Conceal replied. But what crowds of them, what swarms.
Bah, my friend, there'd be many more without their enemies, scorpion fish and human beings. Do you know how many eggs have been counted in a single female? I'll go all out, Conceal replied. Five hundred thousand. Eleven million, my friend.
Eleven million? I refuse to accept that until I count them myself. So count them, Conceal. But it would be less work to believe me. Besides, Frenchmen, Englishmen, American, Danes and Norwegians catch these cods by the
thousands. They're eaten in prodigious quantities and without the astonishing fertility of these fish, seas would soon be depopulated of them. Accordingly, in England and America alone, five thousand ships manned by seventy-five thousand seamen go after cod.
Each ship brings back an average catch of four thousand four hundred fish, making twenty-two million. Off the coast of Norway, the total is the same. Fine, Conceal replied, I'll take master's word for it. I won't count them.
Count what? Those eleven million eggs. But I'll make one comment. What's that? If all their eggs hatched just for codfish, could feed England, America and Norway.
As we skimmed the depths of the Great Banks, I could see perfectly those long fishing lines, each armed with two hundred hooks, that every boat dangled by the dozens. The lower end of each line dragged the bottom by means of a small grappling iron, and at the surface it was secured to the bowy rope of a cork float. The Nautilus had to manoeuvre shrewdly in the midst of this underwater spiderweb.
But the ship didn't stay long in these heavily travelled waterways. It went up to about latitude forty-two degrees. This brought it abreast of St. John's in Newfoundland and Harpscontent, where the Atlantic Cable reaches its end point. Instead of continuing north, the Nautilus took an easterly heading, as if to go along
this plateau on which the telegraph cable rests, where multiple soundings have given the contours of the terrain with the utmost accuracy. It was on May 17th, about five hundred miles from Harpscontent and two thousand eight hundred metres down, that I spotted this cable lying on the sea floor. Conceal, whom I hadn't alerted, mistook it at first for a gigantic sea snake, and was
gearing up to classify it in his best manner. But I enlightened the fine lad and let him down gently by giving him various details on the laying of this cable. The first cable was put down during the years 1857 to 1858, but after transmitting about four hundred telegrams, it went dead.
In 1863, engineers built a new cable that measured three thousand four hundred kilometres, weighing four thousand five hundred metric tonnes, and was shipped aboard the Great Eastern. This attempt also failed. Now then, on May 25th, while submerged to a depth of three thousand eight hundred and thirty six metres, the Nortonis lay in precisely the locality where this second cable suffered
the rupture that ruined the undertaking. It happened six hundred and thirty eight miles from the coast of Ireland. At around two o'clock in the afternoon, all contact with Europe broke off. The electricians on board decided to cut the cable before fishing it up, and by eleven o'clock that evening they had retrieved the damaged part.
They repaired the joint and its splice. Then the cable was resubmerged, but a few days later it snapped again and couldn't be recovered from the ocean depths. These Americans refused to give up. The daring Cyrus Field, who had risked his whole fortune to promote this undertaking,
called for a new bond issue. It sold out immediately. Another cable was put down under better conditions. Its sheaves of conducting wire were insulated with a gutter-percher covering, which was protected by a padding of textile material enclosed in a metal sheath.
The Great Eastern put back to sea on July 13th, 1866. The operation proceeded apace, yet that was one hitch. As they gradually unrolled this third cable, the electricians observed, on several occasions, someone had recently driven nails into it, trying to damage its core. Lieutenant Anderson, his officers, and the engineers put their heads together, then posted
a warning that if the culprit were detected, he would be thrown overboard without a trial. After that, these villainous attempts were not repeated. By June 23rd, the Great Eastern was lying no farther than 800 kilometres from Newfoundland when it received telegraph news from Ireland of an armistice signed between Prussia and Austria after the Battle of Sadova.
Through the mists on the 27th, it sighted the port of heart's content. The undertaking had ended happily, and in its first dispatch, young America addressed old Europe with these wise words so rarely understood, Glory to God in the highest, and peace on earth to men of good will. I didn't expect to find this electric cable in mint condition, as it looked on leaving
its place of manufacture. The long snake was covered with seashell rubble and bristling with foraminifera. A crust of caked gravel protected it from any mollusks that might pour into it. It rested serenely, sheltered from the sea's motions, until a pressure favourable to the transmission of that electric spark that goes from America to Europe in 32 one hundredths
of a second. This cable will no doubt last indefinitely because, as observers noted, Guterperchic casing is improved by a stay in salt water. Besides, on this well-chosen plateau, the cable never lies at depths that could cause a break.
The Nautilus followed it to its lowest reaches, located 4,431 metres down, and even there it rested without any stress or strain. Then we returned to the locality where the 1863 accident had taken place. There the ocean floor formed a valley 120 kilometres wide, into which you could fit Mount Blanc without its summit poking above the surface of the waves.
This valley is closed off to the east by a sheer wall 2,000 metres high. We arrived there on May 28th, and the Nautilus lay no farther than 150 kilometres from Ireland. Would Captain Nemo head north and be just on the British Isles? No, much to my surprise, he went back down south and returned to European seas. As we swung around the emerald isle, I spotted clear for an instant, plus the lighthouse
in fast-net rock that guides all those thousands of ships setting out from Glasgow, Liverpool. An important question then popped into my head. Would the Nautilus dare to tackle the English Channel? The land, who promptly reappeared after we had helped shore, never stopped questioning me. What could I answer him?
Captain Nemo remained invisible. After giving the Canadian a glimpse of American shores, was he about to show me the coast of France? But the Nautilus kept gravitating southward. On May 30th, in sight of land's end, it passed between the lowermost tip of England and the
city islands, which it left behind to starboard. If it was going to enter the English Channel, it clearly needed to head east. It did not. All day long, on May 31st, the Nautilus swept around the sea in a series of circles that had me deeply puzzled.
It seemed to be searching for a locality that it had some trouble finding. At noon, Captain Nemo himself came to take our bearings. He didn't address a word to me. He looked gloomier than ever. What was filling him with such sadness?
Was it our proximity to these European shores? Was he reliving his memories of that country he had left behind? If so, what did he feel? Remorse or regret? For a good while these thoughts occupied my mind, and I had a hunch that fate would soon
give away the Captain secrets. The next day, June 1st, the Nautilus kept the same tack. He was obviously trying to locate some precise spot in the ocean. Just as on the day before, Captain Nemo came to take the altitude of the sun. The sea was smooth and the skies clear.
Eight miles to the east a big steamship was visible on the horizon line. No flag was flagging from the gap of its for and after sail, and I couldn't tell its nationality. A few minutes before the sun passed at Zenith, Captain Nemo raised his sextant and took his sights with the utmost precision. His absolute calm of the waves facilitated this operation.
The Nautilus lay motionless, neither rolling nor pitching. I was on the platform just then. After determining our position, the Captain pronounced only these words, It's right here. He went down the hatch.
Had he seen the vessel change course and seemingly head toward us? I am unable to say. I returned to the lounge. The hatch closed and I heard water hissing in the ballast tanks. The Nautilus began to sink on a vertical line because its propeller was in check and no
longer furnished any forward motion. Some minutes later it stopped at a depth of 833 meters and came to rest on the sea floor. The ceiling lights in the lounge then went out, the panels opened, and through the windows I saw for a half mile radius the sea brightly lit by the beacon's rays. I looked to port and saw nothing but the immenseness of these tranquil waters.
The starboard, a prominent bulge on the sea bottom caught my attention. You would have thought it was some ruin enshrouded in a crust of whitened seashells, as if under a mantle of snow. Carefully examining this mass I could identify the swirling outlines of a ship shorn of its masts which must have sunk bow first.
This casualty certainly dated from some far off time. To be so caked with the limestone of these waters, this wreckage must have spent many a year on the ocean floor. What ship was this? Why had the Nautilus come to visit its grave?
Was it something other than a maritime accident that had dragged this craft under the waters? I wasn't sure what to think, but next to me I heard Captain Lima's voice slowly say, originally the ship was christened the Marseille. It carried 74 cannons and was launched in 1762. On August 13, 1778, commanded by La Poipée Vertriot, it fought valiantly against the
Preston. On July 4, 1779, as a member of the squadron under Admiral Destin, it assisted in the capture of the island of Grenada. On September 5, 1781, under the Count de Grasse, it took part in the Battle of Chesapeake Bay. In 1794, the new Republic of France changed the name of the ship.
On April 16 of that same year, it joined the squadron at Brest under Rear Admiral Villere de Giroux, who was entrusted with escorting a convoy of wheat coming from America under the command of Admiral Van Stable. In this second year of the French Revolutionary calendar, on the 11th and 12th days of the month of Pasteur, the squadron fought an encounter with the English vessels.
Sir, today is June 1, 1868, or the 13th day in the month of Pasteur. 74 years ago to this day, at this very spot, in latitude 47°24' and longitude 17°28' This ship sank after her heroic battle. Its three masts gone, water in its hold, a third of its crew out of action. It preferred to go to the bottom with its 356 seamen rather than surrender, and with
its flag nailed up on the after deck, it disappeared between the waves to shouts of Long Live the Republic. This is the Avenger! I exclaimed. Yes, sir, the Avenger.
A splendid name. Captain Nemo murmured, crossing his arms.
