Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea
of the ocean into the basin of the Mediterranean; and a lower
counter-current, which reasoning has now shown to exist. Indeed, the
volume of water in the Mediterranean, incessantly added to by the waves
of the Atlantic and by rivers falling into it, would each year raise
the level of this sea, for its evaporation is not sufficient to restore
the equilibrium. As it is not so, we must necessarily admit the
existence of an under-current, which empties into the basin of the
Atlantic through the Straits of Gibraltar the surplus waters of the
Mediterranean. A fact indeed; and it was this counter-current by which
the _Nautilus_ profited. It advanced rapidly by the narrow pass. For
one instant I caught a glimpse of the beautiful ruins of the temple of
Hercules, buried in the ground, according to Pliny, and with the low
island which supports it; and a few minutes later we were floating on
the Atlantic.
CHAPTER VIII
VIGO BAY
The Atlantic! a vast sheet of water whose superficial area covers
twenty-five millions of square miles, the length of which is nine
thousand miles, with a mean breadth of two thousand seven hundred—an
ocean whose parallel winding shores embrace an immense circumference,
watered by the largest rivers of the world, the St. Lawrence, the
Mississippi, the Amazon, the Plata, the Orinoco, the Niger, the
Senegal, the Elbe, the Loire, and the Rhine, which carry water from the
most civilised, as well as from the most savage, countries! Magnificent
field of water, incessantly ploughed by vessels of every nation,
sheltered by the flags of every nation, and which terminates in those
two terrible points so dreaded by mariners, Cape Horn and the Cape of
Tempests.
The _Nautilus_ was piercing the water with its sharp spur, after having
accomplished nearly ten thousand leagues in three months and a half, a
distance greater than the great circle of the earth. Where were we
going now, and what was reserved for the future? The _Nautilus_,
leaving the Straits of Gibraltar, had gone far out. It returned to the
surface of the waves, and our daily walks on the platform were restored
to us.
I mounted at once, accompanied by Ned Land and Conseil. At a distance
of about twelve miles, Cape St. Vincent was dimly to be seen, forming
the south-western point of the Spanish peninsula. A strong southerly
gale was blowing. The sea was swollen and billowy; it made the
_Nautilus_ rock violently. It was almost impossible to keep one’s foot
on the platform, which the heavy rolls of the sea beat over every
instant. So we descended after inhaling some mouthfuls of fresh air.
I returned to my room, Conseil to his cabin; but the Canadian, with a
preoccupied air, followed me. Our rapid passage across the
Mediterranean had not allowed him to put his project into execution,
and he could not help showing his disappointment. When the door of my
room was shut, he sat down and looked at me silently.
“Friend Ned,” said I, “I understand you; but you cannot reproach
yourself. To have attempted to leave the _Nautilus_ under the
circumstances would have been folly.”
Ned Land did not answer; his compressed lips and frowning brow showed
with him the violent possession this fixed idea had taken of his mind.
“Let us see,” I continued; “we need not despair yet. We are going up
the coast of Portugal again; France and England are not far off, where
we can easily find refuge. Now if the _Nautilus_, on leaving the
Straits of Gibraltar, had gone to the south, if it had carried us
towards regions where there were no continents, I should share your
uneasiness. But we know now that Captain Nemo does not fly from
civilised seas, and in some days I think you can act with security.”
Ned Land still looked at me fixedly; at length his fixed lips parted,
and he said, “It is for to-night.”
I drew myself up suddenly. I was, I admit, little prepared for this
communication. I wanted to answer the Canadian, but words would not
come.
“We agreed to wait for an opportunity,” continued Ned Land, “and the
opportunity has arrived. This night we shall be but a few miles from
the Spanish coast. It is cloudy. The wind blows freely. I have your
word, M. Aronnax, and I rely upon you.”
As I was silent, the Canadian approached me.
“To-night, at nine o’clock,” said he. “I have warned Conseil. At that
moment Captain Nemo will be shut up in his room, probably in bed.
Neither the engineers nor the ship’s crew can see us. Conseil and I
will gain the central staircase, and you, M. Aronnax, will remain in
the library, two steps from us, waiting my signal. The oars, the mast,
and the sail are in the canoe. I have even succeeded in getting some
provisions. I have procured an English wrench, to unfasten the bolts
which attach it to the shell of the _Nautilus_. So all is ready, till
to-night.”
“The sea is bad.”
“That I allow,” replied the Canadian; “but we must risk that. Liberty
is worth paying for; besides, the boat is strong, and a few miles with
a fair wind to carry us is no great thing. Who knows but by to-morrow
we may be a hundred leagues away? Let circumstances only favour us, and
by ten or eleven o’clock we shall have landed on some spot of terra
firma, alive or dead. But adieu now till to-night.”
With these words the Canadian withdrew, leaving me almost dumb. I had
imagined that, the chance gone, I should have time to reflect and
discuss the matter. My obstinate companion had given me no time; and,
after all, what could I have said to him? Ned Land was perfectly right.
There was almost the opportunity to profit by. Could I retract my word,
and take upon myself the responsibility of compromising the future of
my companions? To-morrow Captain Nemo might take us far from all land.
At that moment a rather loud hissing noise told me that the reservoirs
were filling, and that the _Nautilus_ was sinking under the waves of
the Atlantic.
A sad day I passed, between the desire of regaining my liberty of
action and of abandoning the wonderful _Nautilus_, and leaving my
submarine studies incomplete.
What dreadful hours I passed thus! Sometimes seeing myself and
companions safely landed, sometimes wishing, in spite of my reason,
that some unforeseen circumstance, would prevent the realisation of Ned
Land’s project.
Twice I went to the saloon. I wished to consult the compass. I wished
to see if the direction the _Nautilus_ was taking was bringing us
nearer or taking us farther from the coast. But no; the _Nautilus_ kept
in Portuguese waters.
I must therefore take my part and prepare for flight. My luggage was
not heavy; my notes, nothing more.
As to Captain Nemo, I asked myself what he would think of our escape;
what trouble, what wrong it might cause him and what he might do in
case of its discovery or failure. Certainly I had no cause to complain
of him; on the contrary, never was hospitality freer than his. In
leaving him I could not be taxed with ingratitude. No oath bound us to
him. It was on the strength of circumstances he relied, and not upon
our word, to fix us for ever.
I had not seen the Captain since our visit to the Island of Santorin.
Would chance bring me to his presence before our departure? I wished
it, and I feared it at the same time. I listened if I could hear him
walking the room contiguous to mine. No sound reached my ear. I felt an
unbearable uneasiness. This day of waiting seemed eternal. Hours struck
too slowly to keep pace with my impatience.
My dinner was served in my room as usual. I ate but little; I was too
preoccupied. I left the table at seven o’clock. A hundred and twenty
minutes (I counted them) still separated me from the moment in which I
was to join Ned Land. My agitation redoubled. My pulse beat violently.
I could not remain quiet. I went and came, hoping to calm my troubled
spirit by constant movement. The idea of failure in our bold enterprise
was the least painful of my anxieties; but the thought of seeing our
project discovered before leaving the _Nautilus_, of being brought
before Captain Nemo, irritated, or (what was worse) saddened, at my
desertion, made my heart beat.
I wanted to see the saloon for the last time. I descended the stairs
and arrived in the museum, where I had passed so many useful and
agreeable hours. I looked at all its riches, all its treasures, like a
man on the eve of an eternal exile, who was leaving never to return.
These wonders of Nature, these masterpieces of art, amongst which for
so many days my life had been concentrated, I was going to abandon them
for ever! I should like to have taken a last look through the windows
of the saloon into the waters of the Atlantic: but the panels were
hermetically closed, and a cloak of steel separated me from that ocean
which I had not yet explored.
In passing through the saloon, I came near the door let into the angle
which opened into the Captain’s room. To my great surprise, this door
was ajar. I drew back involuntarily. If Captain Nemo should be in his
room, he could see me. But, hearing no sound, I drew nearer. The room
was deserted. I pushed open the door and took some steps forward. Still
the same monklike severity of aspect.
Suddenly the clock struck eight. The first beat of the hammer on the
bell awoke me from my dreams. I trembled as if an invisible eye had
plunged into my most secret thoughts, and I hurried from the room.
There my eye fell upon the compass. Our course was still north. The log
indicated moderate speed, the manometer a depth of about sixty feet.
I returned to my room, clothed myself warmly—sea boots, an otterskin
cap, a great coat of byssus, lined with sealskin; I was ready, I was
waiting. The vibration of the screw alone broke the deep silence which
reigned on board. I listened attentively. Would no loud voice suddenly
inform me that Ned Land had been surprised in his projected flight. A
mortal dread hung over me, and I vainly tried to regain my accustomed
coolness.
At a few minutes to nine, I put my ear to the Captain’s door. No noise.
I left my room and returned to the saloon, which was half in obscurity,
but deserted.
I opened the door communicating with the library. The same insufficient
light, the same solitude. I placed myself near the door leading to the
central staircase, and there waited for Ned Land’s signal.
At that moment the trembling of the screw sensibly diminished, then it
stopped entirely. The silence was now only disturbed by the beatings of
my own heart. Suddenly a slight shock was felt; and I knew that the
_Nautilus_ had stopped at the bottom of the ocean. My uneasiness
increased. The Canadian’s signal did not come. I felt inclined to join
Ned Land and beg of him to put off his attempt. I felt that we were not
sailing under our usual conditions.
At this moment the door of the large saloon opened, and Captain Nemo
appeared. He saw me, and without further preamble began in an amiable
tone of voice:
“Ah, sir! I have been looking for you. Do you know the history of
Spain?”
Now, one might know the history of one’s own country by heart; but in
the condition I was at the time, with troubled mind and head quite
lost, I could not have said a word of it.
“Well,” continued Captain Nemo, “you heard my question! Do you know the
history of Spain?”
“Very slightly,” I answered.
“Well, here are learned men having to learn,” said the Captain. “Come,
sit down, and I will tell you a curious episode in this history. Sir,
listen well,” said he; “this history will interest you on one side, for
it will answer a question which doubtless you have not been able to
solve.”
“I listen, Captain,” said I, not knowing what my interlocutor was
driving at, and asking myself if this incident was bearing on our
projected flight.