Captain Nemo_ The Fantastic History Of A Dark Genius Part 15

He'd seen her briefly several times since his return to France, but he hadn't yet grown accustomed to how much she had blossomed. Instead of the barely contained rebellion that had always shown in her blue eyes, Caroline now carried a hard business sense, a sharp intelligence, and a resolve that had not been there before. She had fought hard to reach her place here, and she would not let anything budge her from her position.

"I am so glad to see you." She came forward, stopping close to him.

"Bonjour, Madame Hatteras," he said, though it hurt him to remind her of her husband, who still hadn't returned from his polar voyage, even after four years. Nemo longed to kiss her, but instead forced himself to maintain his honor and his distance. After a brief, awkward pause, they shook hands like two business a.s.sociates.

After taking over her father's s.h.i.+pping offices, Caroline had dispensed with the flowery colors and frills she'd worn as a young woman. Now she wore a gray woolen suit and a broad hoop skirt; she had more important things to do than bow to social niceties and expectations. Since her marriage to Captain Hatteras, Caroline had used her time and her intelligence well, carving her world into the shape she she preferred, rather than the other way around. Nemo was proud of her. preferred, rather than the other way around. Nemo was proud of her.

"Shall we go, Andre?" She slid her arm through his and allowed him to escort her out of the merchant offices. He felt a cold sweat break out down his back. "I'm sure Jules is already at the cafe waiting for us." She turned a hard gaze to the clerks, who still seemed disconcerted at having a strong, independent woman as their boss. "The employees can do without me for a short while. They know who pays their salaries."

Caroline's father had died in 1849, mere weeks after a terrible altercation with his office manager. At the height of the argument, Monsieur Aronnax had fired the man on the spot; thereafter, indignant, he proceeded to work himself to the bone, refusing to hire a replacement.

Without revealing that she had secretly studied the workings of the s.h.i.+pping business for years, Caroline stepped in to a.s.sist her father as a surrogate office manager. Monsieur Aronnax brooded over how his supposed successor had betrayed him, while inadvertently continuing his daughter's training. When he'd died suddenly, the master merchant had appointed no official replacement, which left the business operations in turmoil.

Caroline, bearing the name and fortune of Captain Hatteras, stepped in to take over the business. The daughter of Monsieur Aronnax marched into the offices with a vengeance, sat at her father's big mahogany desk as if marking her territory, and began issuing orders. This had scandalized the conservative clerks, and she released two of them at once when they refused to follow her orders.

The former office manager, who had been discharged by her father, fought Caroline, insisting that a married daughter with an absent husband was not fit to run a great s.h.i.+pping company. He attempted to buy "Aronnax, Merchant" at a low price that would have devastated the family.

Caroline's bereaved mother understood nothing of the work, had never bothered even to know the names or trade routes of the Aronnax s.h.i.+ps. After a long, tear-filled evening Caroline had convinced her mother not to sell, and suggested that she herself should acquire the rights to the company, ostensibly in the name of Captain Hatteras. But there would still be a legal fight.

Because of her long friends.h.i.+p with Jules Verne, Caroline had gone to his father as an attorney to challenge the contested owners.h.i.+p. Instead, the dour man with bushy gray sideburns had shaken his head. "I'm afraid there's nothing you can do, Madame Hatteras. A woman cannot run a business. You must sell."

Frustrated, she realized that Monsieur Verne had only enough legal knowledge for filling out ordinary wills and property deeds, and very little fire in his belly. She had long ago learned from Nemo never to give up, and so she continued to press the issue on her own. Caroline had taken a train to Paris, where she found an ambitious and vociferous attorney, who handily won her case. So, for three years, she'd been the owner and manager of "Aronnax, Merchant" -- and she reveled in the challenge.

Now, Nemo and Caroline walked together under the suns.h.i.+ne toward their favorite bistro, and he looked at her, proud of what she'd accomplished. Her other options had been to sit at home or become a society lady -- neither of which fit Caroline at all. The gossips still talked about the scandal of the female merchant (but then, they always would), even though Caroline had been extraordinarily successful in rebuilding the family business according to her own instincts. She had uncanny luck in choosing paths and cargoes.

At home, alone, she wrote her own music as she had always dreamed of doing, maintaining the fiction of the non-existent composer "Pa.s.separtout," to whom she gave all the credit . . . though few people questioned her about it any more. Even her loyal maidservant Marie had married a tradesman and had left service.

Strolling along, he enjoyed Caroline's company. "I wish we could be alone," Nemo said. "It's so difficult, and I have so much I want to say."

Caroline shook her head. "We can't -- and you should not." Then she smiled. "But I know what you must be thinking, even after all this time."

The two of them arrived at the open-air coffee shop next to the flower stalls and pastry vendors. Jules Verne, still tall and thin but sporting a new beard, waved at them. He had already ordered pots of dark coffee and chocolat chaud and munched on a gooseberry tart while he waited, wiping sticky jam from his lips. During his visits home from the Paris Academy, Verne made every effort to replenish himself in preparation for his fourth and final year at law school.

A disappointed frown crossed his face when he saw Caroline on Nemo's arm. She released her light touch as they both walked toward Verne's table. He stood halfway up to greet her, and she kissed the young man on his red-bearded cheek. "Thank you for waiting, Jules."

Blus.h.i.+ng, Verne pushed one of the pastries toward the chair she had selected, then self-consciously wiped crumbs from his lips with a stained napkin. "I've ordered us some cheese, and I chose a currant pastry for you, Caroline. I know that's your favorite." It occurred to Nemo how much his friend looked like a wide-eyed puppy, eager to please.

Before Nemo could say anything, Verne turned to him, full of energy and news. "I've received a letter from one of the s.h.i.+ps that went searching for your island, Andre. There's been a volcanic eruption in the vicinity of the coordinates you gave. Maybe your island has sunk."

"Like Atlantis," Caroline said, her blue eyes s.h.i.+ning.

Nemo nodded sadly. "That could well be. The volcano was restless when I entered its caves."

"It's a good thing you left when you did." Verne scratched his curly hair, then took a bite of the nearest pastry, licking his fingers. Nemo poured a cup of chocolat chaud for Caroline and himself. Verne continued to watch them from across the table, as if keeping track of how often they looked at one another.

"And for you, Caroline, I've asked one of my lecturers at the Paris school." When Verne awkwardly cleared his throat, he looked very much like a lawyer. "I can draw up the papers if you like. In three more years, with no word from the Forward Forward, it --" He hesitated, then forced himself to go on in a somber voice. "It is possible to begin proceedings to have Monsieur Hatteras declared lost at sea, if . . . if you should wish to get on with your life, that is." He added in a rush.

Startled, Caroline unconsciously glanced over at Nemo. "Seven years . . ."

"You are still a young woman, Caroline," Verne pressed, "with a great deal to offer --"

Nemo took her hand. "Your suggestion is premature, Jules. Let's wait the proper amount of time first, then let Caroline make her decision. Remember, I was gone for more years than that -- and I am most certainly still alive." His voice was stern, alarmed at his friend's impropriety and at Caroline's obvious distress. "We've had enough on the subject for now."

"Running 'Aronnax, Merchant' requires all of my energy, Jules. I am quite content with my life and not anxious to take another husband just yet," Caroline said, but the troubled look on her face and the quick glance she sent Nemo suggested otherwise. "I never gave up hope on you, Andre."

Verne saw the look and tried to cover his frown, suddenly fl.u.s.tered. "There's no hurry."

Though he continued to dabble at writing plays and poetry, along with his stage-manager's job at the theatre, Jules Verne still had too little success to justify any career other than to follow in his father's footsteps. It looked as if it would be an attorney's grave for him. "I'll be required to return home in another year or two after I finish at the Academy. And Andre, you'll be here at Nantes working on your engineering projects." Verne forced a bittersweet smile. "It could be like old times for the three of us. A world of adventure is waiting."

Nemo heard a s.h.i.+p's bell clanging on the distant quays, sailors shouting to each other as they cast off mooring ropes. His heart felt heavy again, and he looked across at Verne. "I'm not sure we can ever go back to those days."

ii

The old stone bridge had been damaged by cannonfire during the Revolutions of 1848, but moss, water, and time had weakened the supports long before.

Intent on his work, Nemo stood in knee-deep slimy mud beneath the pilings, searching for cracks, rapping with a steel hammer to listen for soft spots. Waving his hand in front of his face to scatter biting flies, he waded deeper to a.s.sess which repairs might be needed.

On the shady bank sat his designated work party, chewing on gra.s.s blades. Pieces of wooden scaffolding lay all around them, una.s.sembled; a stonemason mixed a new batch of mortar, though it would probably dry before Nemo came back and told the laborers what to do. . . .

While his plans to modernize the Nantes s.h.i.+pyards ground through the endless bureaucracy, he had been recalled to Paris. His sketches and ideas fought for notice among hundreds of worthy projects while the Prefect of the Seine, Baron Haussmann, juggled proposals to make Paris the most magnificent capital in Europe.

In the interim, Nemo dutifully designed reinforcements to weakening bridges or church steeples, and even outlined improvements to the expanding railway network. Though many of his innovative ideas were too strange to be accepted by formally trained engineers, Nemo did his best to find the most efficient way to accomplish each task. He recalled the inspirational words of Napoleon III: "March at the head of the ideas of your century, and those ideas will strengthen and sustain you; march behind them, and they will drag you after them; march against them, and they will overthrow you."

Nemo marched to the rhythm of his own imagination, though often his work crews didn't want to march at all. He slogged dripping out of the water and began to issue orders, already eager to face the challenge of the next job.

Nemo lived alone in a small room at the heart of Paris and often went to operas and the theatre, including several entertaining little farces that Jules Verne had written or staged. Sometimes, he made a point of meeting his redheaded friend, but their lives had diverged enough that the lost years became a gulf between them.

Verne himself had never yet managed to set foot outside of France. The struggling writer was enthralled by parties and literati, but Nemo preferred the silence of his own company to the posturing and naive "intelligentsia" who spouted opinions as if they were facts. The challenge of complex engineering projects was a better fuel to Nemo's imagination. Though the Emperor's architectural repairs did not make use of his full abilities, the work kept him busy -- and this left his mind free to absorb anything else that interested him.

Nemo wandered through the palatial halls of the Louvre, studying magnificent works of art -- most particularly the Mona Lisa, an exquisite portrait by Leonardo da Vinci, whose drawings and notebooks had so captivated him aboard the Coralie Coralie. He also loved to travel to Versailles to admire the architecture of the "palace that was a city" built by Louis XIV.

A single man with no social aspirations, Nemo's tastes did not run to the extravagant. His greatest indulgence was to subscribe to the Parisian science magazines that young Jules Verne had shared with him so many years before. Nemo read voraciously to keep up with new scientific developments, reveling in the tales of explorers seeking wild paths across the globe. With only his memories of distant lands, he traveled in his mind, living vicariously through the other great men of the century.

He thought often of Caroline, though he didn't dare see her more than once every month or two, when business took him back to Nantes. He longed for her and mourned the circ.u.mstances that had built a barrier between them. The two of them did, however, exchange a regular correspondence, and he read and reread every note she sent. He would smell the faint scent of her stationery, look at her brisk but delicate handwriting, and imagine her slender fingers holding the pen as she gathered her thoughts.

By now, her husband Captain Hatteras was almost certainly lost at sea . . . but Nemo would not pressure her to file for a death certificate, as Verne had suggested. He would wait and think about her, and when his longing grew too intense, Nemo plunged with greater vigor into his daily work.

After the interminable seven years had pa.s.sed, things might change for the two of them. He and Caroline had waited for each other so long. . . .

One gloomy day in the Paris civil engineering offices, Baron Haussmann presented Nemo with a new a.s.signment. The short-statured man had a cherubic face, and harried, bloodshot eyes. He spoke with a thick German accent. "I now require of you a supreme effort, Monsieur Nemo. It is my intention that you develop a plan for expanding the ancient, overburdened system of storm drains and sewers in Paris." He handed the young engineer a thick roll of oversized papers. "These are the blueprints. Please study them meticulously."

Nemo found it difficult to tap into his reservoir of enthusiasm for such a dreary job. But he took the blueprints, gave a formal nod to the powerful baron, and marched out of the government offices.

That evening, with the dizzying labyrinth of Parisian sewers hammering at his brain, Nemo sank into his reading chair with a cold meal of roast mutton at his side. He buried himself in his scientific magazines. A new issue of the proceedings from Britain's Royal Geographic Society had arrived. Since the articles were all written in English, Nemo kept up his proficiency in the language.

For more than a century, the exploration of darkest Africa had been an obsession of European explorers. Nemo had read with great interest the memoirs of James Bruce, a big-shouldered and tempestuous Scotsman who had traveled through Ethiopia and discovered the source of the Blue Nile in 1771. He also studied the 1799 journals of Mungo Park, who explored the interior of Africa and perished under a native attack on the Niger River.

Now, Nemo read a speech given at the Royal Geographical Society by an eccentric and vociferous -- and possibly learned -- doctor of biology named Samuel Fergusson. In an uproarious lecture to the Society, Dr. Fergusson had proposed the preposterous yet intriguing scheme of taking a hydrogen balloon from the east coast of Africa across the unexplored continent all the way to its western sh.o.r.es. Other travelers tramped through clogged jungles and fever-ridden swamps, tried to navigate crocodile-infested rivers or negotiate foaming cataracts. Fergusson's idea, on the other hand, was to drift calmly over over the African landscape, as if taking a quiet carriage ride. the African landscape, as if taking a quiet carriage ride.

The Royal Society had sponsored other expeditions, with the British government adding supplemental funding. Unfortunately, Fergusson's ideas seemed just a bit too unorthodox for the conservative members of the club, and they refused to finance the doctor's proposal. They allowed quite generous grants to numerous other expeditions, making certain that the world was explored and investigated to the fullest extent possible. The Society sent out veritable armies of scientists and collectors to the four corners of the globe.

But not Samuel Fergusson.

Not in the doctor's favor, was the evidence that two of his other "innovative" (or "crackpot") designs had failed to get off the ground, after the Society had funded them, and the members in control of the treasury did not want to waste further money on Fergusson's ideas. His remarkable double-balloon design would not likely progress beyond a scheme on paper.

While sitting in his room, ignoring the dull blueprints of Paris sewers and storm drains, Nemo thought the explorer's idea had merit, despite his apparent arrogance and bl.u.s.tery personality. As he reread the article, excitement grew within him. But when he studied the diagram for Fergusson's balloon, he realized it would never work.

As planned, the balloon would not have enough carrying capacity for supplies, scientific instruments, and pa.s.sengers. The vessel would never make it across the continent, but would instead sink into uncharted areas. Nemo had no doubt that if Fergusson persisted in this plan, he would never be heard of again.

Unless the balloon could be modified. . .

Nemo shrugged off all thoughts of Parisian sewers and set to work with pen and paper, making calculations, incorporating his own ideas. He did not sleep, but still felt more refreshed and alive than he had in many months.

iii

Standing in front of an imposing door covered with peeling black paint, Nemo rang the English explorer's bell in the middle of the afternoon. He was still breathless but filled with ideas. He had never been to London before.

"I request an audience with Dr. Samuel Fergusson, please." Nemo stood straight-backed and unwavering on the doorstep. He had spent his savings on a pa.s.sage across the English Channel, then took a train into London, where he'd had no difficulty finding the doctor's address.

The gaunt manservant scowled, a.s.sessing the young man. He had a high forehead and drooping eyes as gray as winter clouds. His mouth drew together in a pinched frown like a flowerbud shriveling in the sun. "And might I inquire as to your business, sir? You sound . . . French."

Nemo blurted out the sentence he had rehea.r.s.ed, though his English was still a bit rough. "The doctor's proposed balloon design will not work. I have a better idea to share with him."

Skeptical, the manservant stepped back into the foyer and closed the door, leaving the young man to stand on the street. While he waited, Nemo checked his clothes and smoothed his dark hair, making certain he did not appear to be a wild-eyed madman. He tucked his rolled drawings neatly under one arm, as if they were weapons.

When the door was flung open again, Nemo looked up to see a long-legged man with hazel eyes, bushy dark eyebrows, and a ridiculously huge black mustache that balanced like a canoe upon his lip.

"Whatever is the meaning of this, eh?" Fergusson said, like a roaring lion. "How could you possibly know whether or not my balloon will work? Indeed, I have spent hours on the design, and I missed nothing."

Nemo held up his rolls of sketches and designs. "Allow me to show you why, Monsieur." Without waiting for permission, he pushed past the doctor and marched down the corridor, following daylight to the large windows in a drawing room. There, he found a writing desk at which Fergusson had been compiling notes and a list. Nemo unrolled his blueprint on the flat surface.

"Why, I don't even know you, sir!" Fergusson hovered behind him. "This is highly irregular."

"Your idea to cross Africa in a balloon is also highly irregular," Nemo pointed out. "And it is brilliant."

"Brilliant, eh? Yes, yes it is. But because of my, er, unfortunate track record with similar balloon designs, the Society chooses to fund more conventional expeditions. I shall never get the chance."

"Your balloon designs are flawed, as I will demonstrate. You, of all people, Dr. Fergusson, should listen to an unorthodox concept. I would hate to see your expedition fail because of several miscalculations that could have been avoided. I suspect that your earlier test flights failed for the same reasons."

"But what sort of . . . miscalculations can you mean?" He stroked his thick mustache like a man petting an unlucky cat. "Indeed, I cannot deny that my earlier balloons were disasters, eh?"

Nemo pointed to the columns of numbers, and the fl.u.s.tered doctor scanned them, pretending to redo the math in his head. "You'll need five weeks in a balloon to traverse Africa, Monsieur. As is apparent here" -- he jabbed a finger at his calculations -- "even under favorable winds, you will not have enough flotation for three weeks. Your hydrogen gas will not last for the duration necessary to cross such a distance. Even if the Society had seen fit to fund your expedition, you would have crashed in the middle of the continent."

"Yes, yes, I see now. Perhaps they were wiser to fund traditional overland treks instead, considering. . . ." Fergusson nodded, intent. His indignation forgotten, he stared at Nemo's drawing instead. "Indeed."

"My new balloon design will will, on the other hand, succeed." Nemo squared his shoulders. "I am confident of it."

Fergusson tapped the sketch with his forefinger. "You appear to have two balloons?"

Nemo nodded. "One inside the other, with a valve so that gases communicate from the inner sphere to the outer sphere. I have also developed a mechanism that can heat and recondense the hydrogen gas to increase our buoyancy."

"And the purpose for that is?" Fergusson raised his bushy black eyebrows. He sounded testy now, but Nemo could tell it was only an act. The man was intrigued by the innovative design, and somewhat abashed at the clear mistakes he had made with his own proposal.

"For maneuverability," Nemo said. "In previous travel by balloon, one has been at the mercy of the winds. However, aeronautical studies have proven that the winds blow in different directions at different alt.i.tudes. Therefore, we must simply seek a height at which the winds will blow us on our westward course."

"Our course? course? We We? What do you mean, we we?"

"I intend to come along, Doctor, since the design is mine." Nemo's gaze was calm and unshakeable. "Is that so much to ask?"

"An international expedition, you say? English and and French? My, that would cause quite a scandal." Then Fergusson's excitement deflated. The long-legged man stepped away from the writing desk. He shook his head. "Alas, it is a moot point now, my friend." French? My, that would cause quite a scandal." Then Fergusson's excitement deflated. The long-legged man stepped away from the writing desk. He shook his head. "Alas, it is a moot point now, my friend."

"Why? The design is quite practicable," Nemo insisted. "I know it can take us across Africa."

Fergusson tugged on his enormous mustache, as if trying to remove it from his lip. "No, young man. The problem is with the Royal Geographical Society. They have sent out their quota of explorers already for the coming year. This afternoon they denied my second appeal for expedition funding, and therefore there will be no balloon trip. Unless you have a private fortune of your own, eh?" The doctor chuckled. "And that much I doubt, from your appearance."

Flushed with embarra.s.sment and disappointment, Nemo realized the brashness of his scheme to come here. He should not have bothered the scientist. His new balloon design must have thrown salt on the would-be explorer's wounds.

"I apologize for taking your time, Monsieur." Nemo gathered his drawings and backed out of the drawing room. "If circ.u.mstances should change, allow me to give you my name and address so that you can contact me."

Fergusson nodded, his thick brows knitting together. "Most certainly, my friend. I admire your verve -- and audacity. Reminds me of your Napoleon Bonaparte, eh? Of course, he was defeated in the end, as well."

Nemo took his leave of the Fergusson residence and of London, and returned to his dreary job reconfiguring the sewers of Paris.

Two months later, when the post delivered an exuberant letter from Dr. Samuel Fergusson, Nemo read it in his open doorway with great perplexity.

"Yes, my friend! Indeed, this is a most exciting time for us," the Englishman wrote. "I admit that your proposed terms took me by surprise. They are unorthodox, to say the least, and I needed to adjust my mental state to accept them. But why not, eh? The spirit of exploration requires us to open our minds to all things. Very well, young Nemo -- as soon as arrangements can be made, we shall all be off to Africa."