rudder, worked by a wheel and tackle. But I can also move the Nautilus by a vertical movement, by means of two inclined planes fastened to the sides and at the centre of flotation, planes that can move in every direction, and are worked from the interior by means of powerful levers. When these planes are kept parallel with the boat it moves horizontally; when slanted, the Nautilus, according to their inclination, and under the influence of the screw, either sinks according to an elongated diagonal, or rises diagonally as it suits me. And even when I wish to rise more quickly to the surface I engage the screw, and the pressure of the water causes the Nautilus to rise vertically like a balloon into the air.’
‘Bravo! captain,’ I cried. ‘But how can the helmsman follow the route you give him in the midst of the waters?’
‘The helmsman is placed in a glass cage jutting from the top of the Nautilus and furnished with lenses.’
‘Capable of resisting such pressure?’
‘Perfectly. Glass, which a blow can break, offers, nevertheless, considerable resistance. During some fishing experiments we made in 1864, by electric light, in the Northern Seas, we saw plates less than a third of an inch thick resist a pressure of sixteen atmospheres. Now the glass that I use is not less than thirty times thicker.’
‘I see now. But, after all, it is dark under water; how do you see where you are going?’
‘There is a powerful electric reflector placed behind the helmsman’s cage, the rays from which light up the sea for half a mile in front.’
‘Ah, now I can account for the phosphorescence in the supposed narwhal that puzzled me so. May I now ask you if the damage you did to the Scotia was due to an accident?’
‘Yes, it was quite accidental. I was sailing only one fathom below the surface when the shock came. Had it any bad result?’
‘None, sir. But how about the shock you gave the Abraham Lincoln?’
‘Professor, it was a great pity for one of the best ships in the American navy; but they attacked me and I had to defend myself! Besides, I contented myself with putting it out of the power of the frigate to harm me; there will be no difficulty in getting her repaired at the nearest port.’
‘Ah, commander!’ I cried, with conviction, ‘your Nautilus is certainly a marvellous boat.’
‘Yes, professor,’ answered Captain Nemo, with real emotion, ‘and I love it as if it were flesh of my flesh! Though all is danger on one of your ships in subjection to the hazards of the ocean, though on this sea the first impression is the sentiment of unfathomable depth, below and on board the Nautilus the heart of man has nothing to dread. There is no deformation to fear, for the double hull of this vessel is as rigid as iron; no rigging to be injured by rolling and pitching; no sails for the wind to carry away; no boilers for steam to blow up; no fire to dread, as the apparatus is made of iron and not of wood; no coal to get exhausted, as electricity is its mechanical agent; no collision to fear, as it is the only vessel in deep waters; no tempests to set at defiance, as there is perfect tranquillity at some yards below the surface of the sea! The Nautilus is the ship of ships, sir. And if it is true that the engineer has more confidence in the vessel than the constructor, and the constructor more than the captain himself, you will understand with what confidence I trust to my Nautilus, as I am at the same time captain, constructor, and engineer.’
Captain Nemo spoke with captivating eloquence. His fiery look and passionate gestures transfigured him. Yes! he did love his vessel like a father loves his child.
‘But how could you construct this admirable Nautilus in secret?’
‘I had each separate portion made in different parts of the globe, and it reached me through a disguised address. The keel was forged at Creuzot, the shaft of the screw at Penn and Co.’s, of London; the iron plates of the hull at Laird’s, of Liverpool; the screw itself at Scott’s, of Glasgow. Its reservoirs were made by Cail and Co., of Paris; the engine by the Prussian Krupp; the prow in Motala’s workshop in Sweden; the mathematical instruments by Hart Brothers, of New York, etc.; all of these people had my orders under different names.’
‘But how did you get all the parts put together?’
‘I set up a workshop upon a desert island in the ocean. There, my workmen – that is to say, my brave companions whom I instructed – and I put together our Nautilus. When the work was ended, fire destroyed all trace of our proceedings on the island, which I should have blown up if I could.’
‘It must have cost you a great deal.’
‘An iron vessel costs £45 a ton. The Nautilus weighs 1500 tons. It came, therefore, to £67,500, and £80,000 more for fitting up; altogether, with the works of art and collections it contains, it cost about £200,000.’
‘You must be rich?’
‘Immensely rich, sir; I could, without missing it, pay the English national debt.’
I stared at the singular person who spoke. Was he taking advantage of my credulity?
The Pacific Ocean extends from north to south between the two polar circles, and from west to east between Asia and America over an extent of 145° of longitude. It is the smoothest of all seas; its currents are wide and slow, its tides slight, its rains abundant. Such was the ocean that my destiny called upon me to go over under such strange conditions.
‘Now, professor,’ said Captain Nemo, ‘we will, if you please, take our bearings and fix the starting-point of this voyage. It wants a quarter to twelve. I am going up to the surface of the water.’
The captain pressed an electric bell three times. The pumps began to drive the water out of the reservoirs; the needle of the manometer marked by the different pressures the ascensional movement of the Nautilus, then it stopped.
‘We have arrived,’ said the captain.
We went to the central staircase which led up to the platform, climbed the iron steps, and found ourselves on the top of the Nautilus.
The platform was only three feet out of the water. The front and back of the Nautilus were of that spindle shape which caused it justly to be compared to a cigar. I noticed that its iron plates slightly overlaid each other, like the scales on the body of our large terrestrial reptiles. I well understood how, in spite of the best glasses, this boat should have been taken for a marine animal.
Towards the middle of the platform, the boat, half sunk in the vessel, formed a slight excrescence. Fore and aft rose two cages of medium height, with inclined sides, and partly enclosed by thick lenticular glasses. In the one was the helmsman who directed the Nautilus; and in the other a powerful electric lantern that lighted up his course.
The sea was beautiful, the sky pure. The long vessel could hardly feel the broad undulations of the ocean. A slight breeze from the east rippled the surface of the water. The horizon was quite clear, making observation easy. There was nothing in sight – not a rock nor an island, no Abraham Lincoln, nothing but a waste of waters.
Captain Nemo took the altitude of the sun with his sextant to get his latitude. He waited some minutes till the planet came on a level with the edge of the horizon. Whilst he was observing, not one of his muscles moved, and the instrument would not have been more motionless in a hand of marble.
‘It is noon. Professor, when you are ready –’
I cast a last look at the sea, slightly yellowed by the Japanese coast, and went down again to the saloon.
There the captain made his point, and calculated his longitude chronometrically, which he controlled by preceding observations of horary angles. Then he said to me, –
‘M. Aronnax, we are in west longitude