Captain Nemo_ The Fantastic History Of A Dark Genius Part 28

When Robur finally ceased his struggles, Nemo looked down to see that the warlord's helmet had filled with water, and his eyes and mouth were open. The fearsome caliph looked like nothing more than a dead fish. With a heart of stone, Nemo had no regrets for what they had been forced to do. He grasped Robur's body by the thick sleeve and dragged him to the Nautilus Nautilus airlock. airlock.

Liedenbrock did the same with the guard. The crew would have plenty of time now to repair the underwater suits. When Nemo emerged from the airlock into the sub-marine, dripping and exhausted, he saw that Cyrus Harding had done his part. They had succeeded in capturing the Nautilus Nautilus.

Nemo lifted the bra.s.s helmet from his shoulders as the ecstatic crewmen set up a loud cheer. He was their captain, and these men would follow him around the Earth, if he asked it. They had lived and worked and suffered together for years. They had built an unparalleled sub-marine vessel, they had slain a brutal warlord who wanted to be master of the world -- and now they were free again.

The Nautilus Nautilus remained submerged while the crew washed the blood off the deck and disposed of the bodies, feeding the caliph and his hated guards to the fishes. remained submerged while the crew washed the blood off the deck and disposed of the bodies, feeding the caliph and his hated guards to the fishes.

Nemo stood at the helm of his great sub-marine boat and studied his loyal and devoted men. They were now in command of their own destinies. According to Auda's note, it would not be safe to go back to the Ottoman Empire for some time. Instead, he would take the Nautilus Nautilus and head out of the Mediterranean. and head out of the Mediterranean.

"Captain . . ." Cyrus Harding said, looking at the other men as if they had elected him to speak for them. "We've all been away for six or seven years. The things we've done, and the things we've seen since then -- well, sir, our homelands are just memories now. They ain't n.o.body's home home anymore." anymore."

Liedenbrock stomped his foot on the metal deckplate of the Nautilus Nautilus. "Ach! If we were having anything to return to, why would we join the war in the first place? I want to stay aboard this s.h.i.+p that we built, with these men who are closer comrades than anyone I knew back in Europe."

A Sardinian gla.s.smaker with long hair said, "If it's all the same to you, Captain, I'd rather wait out the year and go back for my family in Rurapente. I want to take them away from there. When it's time."

Hearing his men, Nemo nodded. He longed to go back to France and see Caroline again, and Jules Verne -- but he had traveled so far along life's path since he'd last spoken to them. He was married to Auda now, and he loved her. Thanks to the vile deception Caliph Robur had perpetrated, Nemo knew that Caroline had believed him dead for years . . . lost to her. By now, she would have gone on with her life, perhaps even married again. He could not bear to torment Caroline -- or himself -- with things that now could never be. Better to let her keep thinking him lost than to suffer more regrets. . . .

The Nautilus Nautilus headed out into the depths of the Mediterranean Sea, setting a course eastward. Nemo would not forget what lay behind him. He vowed someday to return to his wife and son. headed out into the depths of the Mediterranean Sea, setting a course eastward. Nemo would not forget what lay behind him. He vowed someday to return to his wife and son.

"For now," Nemo said, "perhaps we will simply enjoy our freedom."

Part IX

20,000 leagues

i

Paris, 1862.

At the age of thirty-four and bored, Jules Verne considered his life a failure.

When a brown-wrapped package arrived with the afternoon post, Verne took it from the delivery man himself, trying not to let Honorine see -- knowing, dreading, what it was.

The sky outside was a robin's-egg blue, the air sharp and autumn cool, pleasant enough to make pedestrians smile as they walked the streets. The delivery man tipped his hat to the bearded writer and strode away, whistling. Verne envied the man's optimism.

With a growing sense of resignation, he shuffled over to the low writing desk and used a pocketknife to snap the twine on the packet. Honorine watched from the other side of the room as she gathered her hoops and threads to begin a new needlework pattern for a pillowcase. She smiled encouragement to him, but Verne turned his back on her. He already feared what the parcel contained.

Year after year, he had continued to strive at his writing career, and achieved just enough success to keep him doggedly trying. No one would sing his praises in the halls of literary fame because of the few minor plays he'd had produced. No one would remember his clever verse or his magazine articles. Still, he tried . . . and tried.

He had spent a full year on an ambitious new ma.n.u.script, burying himself in clippings and books and journals. He had devoted his research attentions to a ma.s.sive scientific study based on the uses of balloons in travel and exploration. He himself had never been up in a balloon or explored distant lands . . . but he had talked with Nemo and Caroline, and had read Dr. Fergusson's published account of the voyage across Africa. That should have been sufficient.

Now, if only someone would publish Verne's tome. It had begun to seem hopeless. . .

After five uneventful years, his marriage to Honorine had settled into a quiet numbness. He paid scant attention to his wife, spending but a few minutes with her at meals, during which he spoke little before das.h.i.+ng back to his writing study. This wasn't how he had fancied his life as an author. Perhaps Alexandre Dumas had been kind in trying to discourage him, or at least make him face the realities of the career.

His tedious job at the stock market provided enough money for them to live in reasonable comfort, though without extravagances. Verne had managed to represent every member of his extended family who had any money at all to invest. Sometimes his advice was good, sometimes it failed, but he did nothing so rash as to make his relatives consider his performance disastrous. Jules Verne made no waves, no ripples in life whatsoever.

He and Honorine became the parents of a baby son, Michel, more through a fortuitous accident rather than any ambitious effort on Verne's part. A colicky baby, Michel spent most of his time fussing and causing disturbances. Dreading the future, Verne a.s.sumed the baby would grow up to be a difficult youngster as well. In stories, life never seemed to happen this way.

In the household, with her daughters visiting their grandparents again, Honorine's task was to keep the infant as quiet as possible so her husband could concentrate on his writing. Later, after he had trudged off to the dreary stock exchange, Michel could wail to his lungs' content.

As his creative frustration built, Verne became a more impatient person, sharper tempered. The stamina he needed to continue his unflagging (and unrewarded) writing efforts began to wane. The noise and disruptions at home made concentration even more difficult. Even the plots of his own adventures gave him diminished enjoyment.

Still, Verne had been proud to complete his exhaustive balloon ma.n.u.script, convinced that he had found his path to success. Honorine could sense her husband's excitement about the project, and she smiled at him whenever he bothered to give her a glance.

Full of optimism, he had selected the best Parisian publisher and submitted the completed ma.n.u.script. Surely, the hungry minds in France would want to read everything there was to know about lighter-than-air travel. And the book came back -- rejected.

Undaunted, silently dubbing the editor a blind fool who could not recognize talent, Verne sent the balloon treatise to his second choice, an equally reputable and impressive publisher. Again the book was returned to him.

Angry, but still determined, he submitted the ma.n.u.script over and over . . . and waited for the return post. Each morning, like a sleepwalker, he went to the Bourse, uninterested in the endless routine of selling and buying shares. Days, sometimes weeks, pa.s.sed -- but always his ma.n.u.script came back with similar verdicts. "Too long." "Too dull." "Too unfocused."

Verne's coworkers knew of his ambitions and joked about him being a lightheaded dreamer. While they thought he wasted his time at writing, they themselves spent extra hours in the stock exchange, making (and losing) fortunes.

As the balloon book repeatedly failed to find a home, Verne's mood soured, and coworkers stopped teasing him. In fact, they stopped conversing much with him at all. . . .

Now, with his palms sweating, he unwrapped the parcel and closed his eyes. He drew a deep breath and removed the handwritten note on top of his fastidiously produced ma.n.u.script. Deemed unpublishable.

Again.

Verne had lost a substantial sum in the stock market that day, and the baby's loud crying exacerbated his headache. The letter from yet another ignorant publisher only reinforced his doubts and his foul mood. Rejected seventeen times. How could an 800-page ma.n.u.script about the history and engineering of ballooning possibly be boring boring? It went beyond all reason.

Giving in to frustration, Verne strode across the room with the heavy ma.n.u.script in hand, his only copy of the work that had taken him a year to complete. He threw open the iron door of the stove where a fire burned, warming the house against the autumn chill. With a wordless gesture of disgust and a dramatic flair, he tossed the thick ma.n.u.script into the fire and slammed the door with a nod of petulant satisfaction.

Honorine froze in place, and her dark brows furrowed with concern. "Jules?" She looked from him to the torn brown postal wrapping, to the letter from the returned ma.n.u.script. Then she noticed his smug expression directed at the stove. "Jules, don't you dare!"

Stern and uncompromising, she shouldered her husband aside and flung open the stove door. Without a moment's hesitation, she reached into the fire, burning her own fingertips, and yanked out the stack of ma.n.u.script pages. She dropped it onto the floor and stamped on the edges to extinguish the flames.

"You are even more a child than Michel," she said. When he reached for the ma.n.u.script, confused and guilty but still full of rage, Honorine s.n.a.t.c.hed it up and turned away from him. "No. I see that I must keep this safe until you come to your senses."

Marching over to the desk, she opened a wooden file drawer and dropped the stack of papers inside. She locked the drawer and then placed the only key in a pocket of her dark skirts. "You worked far too hard on that book, Jules. It took you away from me for a year. You have been obsessed by it. I will not let you throw it all away. I will not let you throw it all away."

"But I have tried every publisher," he said, cowed. "It will never see print."

"It will never see print if you give up and burn the ma.n.u.script, foolish man," she said, wagging a finger at him. "You have friends who are writers. I hear that Dumas has returned to Paris. Ask him him for advice . . . but don't you dare give up now." for advice . . . but don't you dare give up now."

Though Honorine had never shown an interest in his writing, she did have a concern for her husband and knew how the pa.s.sion drove him. He looked at the locked desk drawer and fumed.

Verne didn't speak to Honorine for the rest of that evening -- didn't thank her, did not apologize -- but the wheels began turning in his head, and he considered other options he might pursue. He went to a bra.s.serie and read his newspapers, keeping an eye out for old writer acquaintances. He found none. He did, however, spot an article about a b.l.o.o.d.y civil war sweeping across the Turkish peninsula -- rumors that had been denied by Ottoman officials. He considered clipping out the article for possible use in a fiction piece, but decided he had no interest in a struggle among the barbarous Turks.

The next day he went to see the great Dumas. The enormous writer had returned to Paris, pretending that his financial troubles had never occurred. Once again the big man indulged in the extravagant lifestyle that had caused him so much misery before. Verne just wanted to hear some of the famous author's advice before Dumas went bankrupt again.

He welcomed Verne, patted his young friend on the back, and insisted that the younger man join him for a gla.s.s of wine. He seemed unsurprised that Verne had achieved minimal success in an entire decade of struggles as a writer.

"Oh, ho! Don't worry about it, Jules," Dumas said. "Most of those who come to me for help never succeed. Most never really try -- they just want it given given to them." His generous lips curved into a smile, then Dumas burst out laughing, his cheeks and jowls vibrating like a bullfrog's. "You, however, have an actual ma.n.u.script, a completed book. You don't understand that this already puts you far closer to success than most of your peers." to them." His generous lips curved into a smile, then Dumas burst out laughing, his cheeks and jowls vibrating like a bullfrog's. "You, however, have an actual ma.n.u.script, a completed book. You don't understand that this already puts you far closer to success than most of your peers."

"But no one will publish my ma.n.u.script. I've tried everyone."

Dumas raised a pudgy, ringed finger. "We shall see what we can do about that, mmm?" Already the big man looked distracted, as if he needed to be about some other business.

He gave Verne the name of another new author who had succeeded in getting a few pamphlets printed. That author then forwarded Verne to his own publisher, Pierre-Jules Hetzel. Hetzel had launched a children's science magazine, the Magasin d'Education et de Recreation Magasin d'Education et de Recreation, and claimed to be in search of new writers for his fledgling publis.h.i.+ng house.

a.s.suring Honorine that he would not harm the book, Verne coaxed her to unlock the desk drawer and remove the singed ma.n.u.script. Before giving it to him, she brushed away the burnt edges, restacked the pages, and carefully wrapped them. Verne took the precious package and, without much hope, hand-delivered it to the offices of Hetzel & Cie.

A consumptive clerk took the package. Although Verne made certain to drop the name of Alexandre Dumas -- several times, in fact -- the clerk seemed unimpressed. He merely a.s.sured Verne that Monsieur Hetzel would respond as soon as possible.

Within a week, in mid-October of 1862, Verne received a card inviting him to meet with Monsieur Hetzel at his earliest convenience. Excited, Verne gave up his morning's routine of writing, dressed in his finest clothes, and nervously ate a croissant for breakfast. He waited and waited for an appropriate hour.

When at last he strode up to the rue Jacob offices at mid-morning, he learned that Hetzel -- a night owl -- entertained morning visitors only in his bedchambers in an apartment to the rear of the publis.h.i.+ng offices. Though he was not ill, Hetzel liked to remain in bed for most of the morning. Horribly embarra.s.sed, Verne turned to go, but the coughing clerk ushered him around back through a small garden courtyard and up a flight of creaking stairs to meet the publisher in person.

Years ago, Pierre-Jules Hetzel had made his mark in the publis.h.i.+ng world, though he was a Protestant and had thus suffered many difficulties during the turmoil in France. An outspoken supporter of the Second Republic after the Revolutions of 1848, he had managed to escape arrest when Napoleon III proclaimed himself Emperor. While hiding in Brussels for eight years, Hetzel published the work of fellow exile Victor Hugo until an amnesty in 1859 allowed him to return to Paris. Back again, Hetzel had rapidly become very successful, and now was ready to expand his publis.h.i.+ng endeavors.

The man remained in bed, sitting up in his blankets and pillows to greet his visitor. Despite the fact that he was about fifteen years older than Verne, Hetzel had an energetic intensity that shaved years from his age. His pale hair was not entirely gray, and he appeared healthy as an ox.

Both men had full, stylish beards, but the publisher's face had sharper angles, a hawkish nose, and close-set eyes that brightened when he saw the young writer enter his bedchamber. Without a word, the consumptive clerk disappeared. Verne remained standing, looking down at the important man sitting in his nights.h.i.+rt on the canopied bed.

Beside him, on the blankets, lay the ma.n.u.script of Verne's balloon book.

Jules Verne's heart pounded. He smelled the beeswax candles in the enclosed room, noted the publisher's picked-over dinner tray lying on the floor on the opposite side of the bed. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn, and only dim morning light intruded. He felt like an intruder here, but he didn't dare leave -- not until he had heard what Hetzel had to say.

The publisher looked at him for a few moments. Verne wondered desperately what to say. None of the other publishers had bothered to call him in person; they'd merely sent declining letters. His hopes ran high. The other man picked up the thick stack of papers, and Verne held his breath.

"I am sorry, Monsieur, but I cannot publish this ma.n.u.script," Hetzel said.

Verne felt as if the building had crashed down upon him. Already lacking confidence, he felt that this man had made a fool of him. His face reddened, and cold sweat trickled beneath his collar. "I apologize for wasting your time, Monsieur," Verne choked out the words. He reached for the ma.n.u.script to s.n.a.t.c.h it away. This time he would burn it far from where Honorine could see and stop him.

"On the contrary," Hetzel added, raising a scolding finger. His thin, businesslike voice held no anger. "I cannot publish this book as it is as it is. I do believe, however, it can be made made publishable . . . if you are willing to do the work. I want authors who are hard workers. Are you a hard worker and persistent -- or will I never see you again?" publishable . . . if you are willing to do the work. I want authors who are hard workers. Are you a hard worker and persistent -- or will I never see you again?"

Verne didn't comprehend what the publisher was saying and wondered if the man were taunting him. Hetzel tapped the thick ma.n.u.script. "What you have written, Monsieur Verne, is nothing but a dry lecture about balloons and their potential. I am convinced that you have apprehended the facts, but you have not presented them in an interesting manner."

Verne drew a deep, cold breath. "My book is about science, sir. It is not meant to be a comedy or a farce."

"But why not an adventure?" Hetzel locked his gaze with the young writer's. "It must be a story story with a scientific basis, not a treatise about scientific fact. To captivate your readers, you must wrap your research within a tale so exciting that the people will cry out for more." His eyes sparkled. "You will become a teacher, introducing the public to new concepts without their realizing it." He chuckled. with a scientific basis, not a treatise about scientific fact. To captivate your readers, you must wrap your research within a tale so exciting that the people will cry out for more." His eyes sparkled. "You will become a teacher, introducing the public to new concepts without their realizing it." He chuckled.

Verne stopped, allowing the words to penetrate. What was this man saying? What did he truly mean?

Now Hetzel lifted the ma.n.u.script and extended it toward Verne. "I believe you can salvage much of this, my friend, but you must give me an entirely different work with the balloon information in a novel form. Write a new kind of book, a fiction that depends upon scientific knowledge and exploration -- but you must engage us with characters characters who learn these things in the course of a story, rather than simply recounting bald facts as a lecturer." who learn these things in the course of a story, rather than simply recounting bald facts as a lecturer."

When Verne took the ma.n.u.script, his hands were trembling. Hetzel sat up straighter in bed and yawned, plumping the pillows behind his back. "Buried in your paragraphs, you mentioned offhandedly some travels your friend made in a balloon across unexplored Africa. I suggest you use that that as your framework, create an epic quest with brave explorers traveling in the fabulous balloon you have postulated. Certainly that would make for more interesting reading?" He raised his eyebrows. as your framework, create an epic quest with brave explorers traveling in the fabulous balloon you have postulated. Certainly that would make for more interesting reading?" He raised his eyebrows.

Shaken, Verne nodded and backed away. "Yes, Monsieur Hetzel. I understand. I . . . I will work without pause, and present you with a new ma.n.u.script within two weeks' time."

Hetzel smiled. "If you can perform that miracle, Jules Verne, we can publish your book in time for the Christmas holiday season."

Verne emerged from the back apartment, his mind spinning as he stumbled across the garden. He did not yet allow himself to accept the joy of what had just occurred. He still had a great deal of work ahead of him, so he wasted no energy in dancing with excitement. He thought of his long-dead friend, Andre Nemo, and his escapades with Fergusson across Africa.

He would change the names of Nemo and Caroline, of course, and create new, fictional characters to accompany the good doctor. Even so, Verne had a wonderful story to tell. . . .

ii

The following spring, Jules Verne found a mysterious message slipped under his door during the dark of night. Standing in his robe the following morning, he picked up the sc.r.a.p of paper; his brows furrowed in curiosity.

"Jules, old friend, come to Paimboeuf on April 2nd and prepare to be gone for a week. One mile up the coast, you will find a sheltered cove. Meet me there at midnight. I promise you an extraordinary voyage you shall never forget -- a journey you have always wanted to take."

The note was unsigned, and extremely intriguing.

Scratching his full beard, Verne stepped back into his flat and closed the door with a click. Honorine had already spent an hour in the everyday battle of was.h.i.+ng, dressing, and feeding young Michel, but Verne decided not to show her the note . . . not yet. His pulse raced as he thought of the mystery.

Who might have sent such a message? Was it a hoax, or some sort of treachery? Should he be concerned for his safety? Despite his longings and his dreams, Verne rarely had cause to seek out "adventures." Not real ones, anyway. He actually preferred to travel in his imagination, as his father had made him promise to do.

But few people knew that. They expected a different sort of person after reading his novel. . . .

In early 1863, Verne's Five Weeks in a Balloon Five Weeks in a Balloon had been published to wide acclaim. Readers all across France had snapped up the adventures of Dr. Samuel Fergusson and his intrepid companions (vastly different from Nemo and Caroline) crossing Africa in his remarkable balloon. Foreign publishers had translated the book into diverse languages. had been published to wide acclaim. Readers all across France had snapped up the adventures of Dr. Samuel Fergusson and his intrepid companions (vastly different from Nemo and Caroline) crossing Africa in his remarkable balloon. Foreign publishers had translated the book into diverse languages.

Seeing the success, Pierre-Jules Hetzel had offered his young author a lucrative publis.h.i.+ng contract to write additional novels in the same vein -- books grounded in science, combined with extraordinary journeys to fascinate the reading public. Verne was to write three novels a year, for which he would be paid 3000 francs -- not a fortune, but more than he made in the stock market. And certainly more than he had ever made from his theater work. He was an unqualified success as a writer after so many long years.

After breathlessly signing the contract that bound him to Hetzel, Verne had rushed home elated. In the foyer of their flat, he danced with a stiff and surprised Honorine and kissed her on the cheek before trotting off to the Bourse.

Crowing like a proud rooster, he had stood in the middle of the trading floor surrounded by paper-laden work tables to attract his coworkers' attention. "Well, boys, I am off to another career. I will now make my living as a writer while you stay here among your dreary numbers and stocks."

Although the others congratulated him, it was clear from their expressions that they thought him a fool for giving up a stable career. Verne didn't care. . . .

Now, as a successful writer, Jules Verne had the freedom to do as he wished -- and this strange note promised him an "extraordinary voyage" of his own. How could he pa.s.s up such an opportunity? It might even turn into the basis for a new novel, whatever this adventure might be. He tried to place the tantalizing yet familiar handwriting, the tone of the sentences.

Chewing his lip, Verne paced in the foyer, scuffing the rug. He knew he should travel more, experience more. He had always longed for such things, theoretically. But somehow he never got around to doing so. He had a secure income -- so, why should he not take advantage of his success?

Impulsively jamming the note into the pocket of his robe, Verne decided to take a chance -- for once. He raised his chin in the air in a show of bravery. He would tell Honorine he needed time alone to concentrate on a new book. While he adored the bustling civilization of Paris, he longed to see the ocean again. He liked the cool, damp weather, and the lullaby of the Atlantic.

Even if this message were merely a practical joke, Verne could still relax by the ocean, all alone. It would be a holiday, and he didn't have to tell anyone. Either way, he had nothing to lose.